Ochanya and others: Time to act justly
Rape is one of the deepest wounds a human being can suffer; a kind of violence that goes beyond the body and tears into the soul. It steals something that can never be fully returned: a person’s sense of safety, dignity, and control over their own life. Across the world, rape has become an unspoken epidemic. From conflict zones to university campuses, from rural villages to bustling cities, countless people, primarily women and children, have been victims of an act that society still struggles to confront with honesty and justice.
What makes rape so devastating is not just the physical violation, but the silence that follows it. For many survivors, the real pain begins after the act; when they are forced to live in a world that doubts their truth, blames their choices, or tells them to “move on.” In many societies, including Nigeria, victims are often treated as if they did something wrong. They are told, “Why were you there?” or “What were you wearing?” as though the blame for the violence lies with them. This cruelty from society adds another layer of trauma; one that drives many survivors into silence.
Globally, statistics are staggering, though they only tell part of the story. The United Nations estimates that one in three women worldwide will experience physical or sexual violence in their lifetime. In some countries, victims are punished for reporting their assault. In others, rapists walk free because of weak justice systems or powerful social connections. But numbers can never capture the human cost: the child who cries through the night, the young girl who never feels safe again, the mother who watches her daughter’s light fade after being assaulted, or the man who suffers in silence because society refuses to believe men can be victims too.
In Nigeria, the issue of rape is both heartbreaking and infuriating. Cases emerge daily in schools, homes, workplaces, and even religious institutions. The victims range from toddlers to grandmothers. Yet, time and again, perpetrators walk away unpunished, protected by corruption, weak laws, or cultural silence. When justice fails, society teaches the wrong lesson that power and privilege can buy impunity, and that the pain of the powerless does not matter.
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Few cases have shaken the nation’s conscience as much as that of 13-year-old Elizabeth Ochanya Ogbanje. She was a bright, innocent girl from Benue State who endured years of sexual abuse from her guardian, a university lecturer, and his son. The abuse destroyed her health; she developed a fistula that left her incontinent and in constant pain. She died in 2018; a child robbed of her future by the very people who were supposed to protect her. When the court later acquitted one of the main accused on a technicality, Nigerians were outraged. Hashtags like #JusticeForOchanya filled social media, but outrage alone could not fill the hole left in her family’s life. Her case exposed the rot in the justice system; how slow investigations, weak evidence collection, and legal loopholes can turn even the most obvious crime into a contest of procedure.
Another case that left many speechless was that of a two-year-old girl in Lagos, raped by her teacher in 2016. She was barely old enough to speak, yet she became a victim of one of the vilest forms of abuse. After a long and emotional trial, the perpetrator was finally sentenced to 60 years in prison. That judgment was a rare victory, a glimmer of hope showing that justice though slow, can still prevail when society refuses to stay silent.
But for every case that makes it to court, hundreds never see the light of day. Survivors are shamed into silence, families are pressured to “settle” privately, and police officers discourage victims from pursuing justice. In some rural areas, rape is seen as a family matter, not a crime. The stigma attached to survivors can be unbearable; young women are told they are “damaged,” children are blamed for “seducing” adults, and men who speak out are mocked or ignored. The result is a society that allows predators to thrive while victims carry the weight of their trauma alone.
Nigeria does have laws against rape. The Violence Against Persons (Prohibition) Act of 2015, known as the VAPP Act, is one of the strongest pieces of legislation yet, defining rape broadly and prescribing severe punishment. It even covers marital rape, a breakthrough in a society where many still believe a husband cannot rape his wife. But the law is only effective in states that have domesticated it, and many have not. Even where it exists, enforcement is another story. Police often lack training to handle such sensitive cases, medical facilities rarely conduct proper forensic examinations, and trials drag on for years. For a rape victim, reliving the trauma over and over in court can feel worse than the crime itself.
Making perpetrators truly pay for their crimes requires more than just laws — it requires willpower. It means ensuring that investigations are prompt and thorough, that judges and prosecutors are trained to handle sexual violence cases sensitively, and that survivors receive medical, psychological, and financial support. It means creating specialised courts or units that handle sexual offenses, so that cases are not lost in bureaucracy. It also means protecting whistleblowers, witnesses, and survivors from intimidation. Above all, it means shifting the focus from doubting victims to believing and protecting them.
But beyond the courts, there is a deeper fight; the one within our communities. Every parent who blames a child for being assaulted, every neighbour who tells a survivor to “keep quiet to avoid shame,” every institution that hides abuse to protect its reputation — they are part of the problem. Until we change the way we think about rape, no amount of law will be enough. The culture that allows men to see women and children as property must be dismantled. Boys must be raised to understand consent, empathy, and respect. Girls must be taught that their voices matter and that silence is not strength.
As a society, we also need to confront the language we use. We often say a woman was “defiled” or “spoilt,” as if someone else’s crime has reduced her worth. We must stop attaching shame to the victim and start attaching it where it belongs -to the perpetrator. Shame must no longer belong to the survivor but to the rapist, the abuser, and to the system that protects them.
Rape is not just a women’s issue; it is a human issue. It reflects the level of our collective morality. A society that cannot protect its most vulnerable -children, women, people with disabilities, has lost its moral compass. The tears of a single survivor should be enough to awaken us to action, but we have ignored too many cries for too long.
The stories of Ochanya and the little girl in Lagos are not isolated; they are symbols of a global struggle. In every continent, there are victims whose pain has been buried by systems of power, shame, or indifference. Yet every story told, every survivor who speaks up, every conviction that occurs, they light a candle in the darkness.
Justice for rape victims must not depend on social media trends or public outrage. It must be a constant, unrelenting duty of the state and its people. Governments must strengthen institutions; schools, churches, and communities must become safe spaces; and individuals must learn to listen, support, and protect those who have been violated.
We owe it to every survivor, to Ochanya, to the little girl in Lagos, and to the countless unnamed victims whose stories may never be told, to ensure that their suffering was not in vain. Justice should not be a privilege for the lucky few; it must be a guarantee for all. Because until the day when every rapist fears the law more than their victim fears speaking out, our work as a society remains unfinished.
The fight against rape is not just a legal battle, it is a moral one. And it begins with a simple truth: no one, under any circumstance, has the right to take another person’s dignity away.
