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In Nigeria, every new headline about femicide sends a wave of fear through women who see themselves in the victims. Beyond the immediate cases, this violence influences how women live, move, and think.
When Sonia Robert (a pseudo) sees a commercial bus with only male passengers, she keeps walking. The 23-year-old undergraduate at a Nigerian university has learned to calculate risk in split seconds: the gender composition of a vehicle, the time of day, the proximity of witnesses. It’s not paranoia, it’s a survival skill.
“When I’m about to enter a public transport, and there are only men, I don’t enter,” she explains. “Because who knows what is going through their minds?”
This is what femicide looks like for women who survive it. Not just the bodies found in hotels and dumped in bushes, but the invisible architecture of fear that restructures everyday life, the routes not taken, the forced smiles, the phone numbers given to men whose attention feels threatening, because saying no might be more dangerous than saying yes.
In January 2025 alone, Nigeria recorded 17 femicide cases, a 240% increase from the same period in 2024. But the death toll tells only part of the story, for every woman killed, millions more carry the weight of knowing they could be next.
The News that Never Stops
Scroll through Nigerian social media on any given day, and the pattern repeats: another woman dead, another man arrested, another family demanding justice. Salome Eleojo Adaidu, beheaded by gospel singer Oluwatimileyin Ajayi. Christianah Idowu, a FUNAAB student, killed by a fellow student. Augusta Osedion murdered by Benjamin Best. Emrich Effanga strangled by her boyfriend. Mutiat Sholola stabbed by her husband.
The names pile up faster than the justice system can process them. Between 2022 and 2024, Nigeria documented at least 401 women who died from sexual and gender-based violence. In Lagos alone, 70 femicide cases were recorded from 2020 to 2024, with Eti-Osa leading at 19%. Globally, a woman is killed every 10 minutes by an intimate partner or family member.
But it’s not just the frequency of the violence that haunts women like Sonia. It’s the familiarity of it.
“My first feeling is anger, first thought is always ‘again,'” she says. “The frequency just leaves you too stunned to think about anything other than asking yourself why this is happening again.”
I understand that feeling intimately. When I see femicide news, the first thing I feel is a mix of sadness and fear. It’s that sinking thought of “it could be anyone,” and sometimes, “it could be me.” It’s scary how familiar the victims often feel: young women just going about their day.
Social media amplifies this recognition. The details scroll past, unavoidable. Photos of smiling women who didn’t know they were living their last weeks. Screenshots of final conversations. Videos from crime scenes. Hashtags demanding justice that will likely never come.
“Sometimes yes, social media makes the fear worse, especially because I imagine those scenarios with me in it, wondering how I might also be a victim,” Sonia admits.
For me, the constant stream of stories makes it feel never-ending. Even when you try to avoid the news, the posts, hashtags, and videos keep popping up. Seeing the details and photos makes it more personal, like it’s happening next door.
The Hidden Curriculum of Violence
Fear doesn’t just exist in women’s minds. It transforms their bodies, their movements, their daily calculations of risk versus necessity.
Sonia has learned to never argue unnecessarily with men. “Because who knows what he might do if he gets angry at a woman?” She gives out her phone number even when she doesn’t want to, remembering instances where refusal triggered aggression. She speaks carefully, politely, strategically, even to men whose attention makes her uncomfortable.
“I make it a thing never to speak to men rudely, even if I’m having a bad day when they ask me out,” she explains. “I’ve had instances where someone was being aggressive to me because I refused to give him my number.”
I’ve adopted similar strategies. I think more carefully about my movements now. I avoid going out late, I share my live location more often, and I’m more cautious even with people I know. It has made me hyperaware in ways I wasn’t before.
The restrictions multiply: no going out at night, no meeting people in their houses, no isolated places or quiet streets. Bus stops after dark become danger zones. Ride-hailing pickups require reconnaissance. Even neighbourhoods acquire reputations that determine whether you’ll risk passing through.
My own list of avoidances has grown longer; I avoid isolated places, especially at night: bus stops, quiet streets, ride-hailing pickups when it’s dark, and neighbourhoods with bad reputations. I’m also more cautious around men I’m not familiar with, second-guessing invitations or situations that would leave me alone with someone.
The small daily changes accumulate. I always pretend to be on a call or send a voice note when I’m in a taxi or walking alone, ensuring someone knows where I am. I drop descriptions of drivers or locations to friends more often. It’s something I never used to think about.
These are survival strategies women develop in the absence of systemic protection, teaching themselves to be smaller, quieter, more accommodating, because the alternative might be fatal.
When History Refuses to Stay Buried
In October 2025, seven years after her death, the name Ochanya Ogbanje exploded across Nigerian social media again. The 13-year-old had died in 2018 from complications of Vesicovaginal Fistula after years of alleged sexual abuse by her uncle, Dr Andrew Ogbuja, a lecturer at Benue State Polytechnic, and his son Victor.
The details remain unbearable. Ochanya was sent to live with her aunt, Felicia Ogbuja, in Makurdi at the age of five to attend school after the only government school in her rural community of Ogene-Amejo shut down. From age eight to thirteen, she endured systematic rape. The abuse was so brutal that it destroyed her body, leaving her incontinent, wearing diapers, barely able to stand. Before she died, she recorded a video narrating her ordeal.
In April 2022, Nigeria’s judicial system delivered a verdict that captured everything broken about the country’s response to sexual violence. On the same day, two courts issued contradictory judgments. The Federal High Court found Felicia Ogbuja guilty of negligence and sentenced her to five months in prison for failing to protect Ochanya. Meanwhile, the Benue State High Court acquitted Andrew Ogbuja of all charges, citing technical failures and contradictory autopsy reports, one saying Ochanya died of “natural causes,” the other saying her death was related to sexual abuse.
Despite video evidence of Ochanya narrating her experience, Justice Augustine Ityonyiman lamented that “it is regrettable that the deceased could not tell her story before she died.”
She did tell her story. Nigeria’s justice system just chose not to listen.
Victor Ogbuja, the son, was declared wanted by police in 2018 but has remained at large for seven years. Reports suggest he is now in Lagos pursuing a music career.
The case resurfaced in October 2025 during Ochanya’s seventh death anniversary memorial in Abuja. Nigerians across social media platforms, including X, Facebook, and TikTok, reignited calls for justice. A Change.org petition gathered thousands of signatures. Child rights activist Betty Abah has demanded that the authorities reopen the case. Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan vowed to bring the matter to the attention of the National Assembly. Chef and influencer Hilda Baci donated to a GoFundMe supporting the pursuit of justice.
Ochanya’s brother, John Ameh, told the media that the renewed attention has been “quite traumatising; we’ve been re-traumatised by the renewed call for justice.” Yet he acknowledged that support from Nigerians has been “somewhat comforting.”
For women watching this unfold, Ochanya’s case confirms what they already know: the system will not save them. A 13-year-old girl recorded evidence of her abuse. Medical reports documented the physical destruction of her body. She died from complications directly linked to rape. And still, her rapists walked free.
If that’s what happens when everything is documented, when the evidence is undeniable, when the victim is a child, what hope exists for adult women whose cases involve fewer witnesses, less physical evidence, more plausible deniability?
The Numbers Behind the Fear
The statistics paint a damning picture of systematic failure. One in four Nigerian girls experiences sexual violence before age 18. In a 2014 national survey, 70% of female victims reported multiple incidents, yet only 5% sought help. Between 2019 and 2020, Nigeria recorded just 32 rape convictions. In Lagos State, out of 283 child sexual assault cases reported in 2011, only 10 resulted in convictions.
Nigeria has no specific femicide law. The Violence Against Persons Prohibition Act exists, but as of 2021, only 27 of Nigeria’s 36 states had domesticated it. Enforcement remains weak. Investigations are delayed or superficial, survivors face stigma and victim-blaming, and cultural and institutional barriers multiply. In some jurisdictions, sharia or customary courts handle rape cases in ways that disadvantage survivors, requiring witnesses, pressuring for settlement, or even marriage to the perpetrator.
The infrastructure for supporting survivors barely exists. Nigeria has approximately 50 Sexual Assault Referral Centres for a population of over 200 million people. Access to forensic support, DNA testing, counselling, and legal aid remains severely limited.
Child marriage complicates everything further. Approximately 44% of Nigerian girls are married before age 18, with 22 million child brides in total. In states like Bauchi, that figure rises to 73.8%. While the law sets the age of consent at 18 for rape cases, this doesn’t apply within marriage, where 56% of married women feel they cannot say no to sex with their husbands.
These aren’t only numbers; they’re human beings, they’re “Ochanya,” multiplied by millions, their screams absorbed into a culture that would rather silence them than confront its collective sickness.
What the Government Doesn’t Do
When asked if the government or society takes femicide seriously enough, Sonia doesn’t hesitate. “The government doesn’t take it seriously, and the society makes it worse because most times they end up blaming the victim when in reality it’s not their fault.”
Her solution is straightforward: “If the government puts serious punishments for those perpetrating these crimes and also strictly enforces them, then we will experience a great decline in these cases.”
I share her assessment. Most cases fade away without justice. The reactions feel performative: noise at the beginning, then silence. There’s no strong system in place to protect women or consistently punish offenders. It makes you feel like you’re on your own.
The pattern repeats with depressing consistency. A woman is killed. Social media erupts. Activists demand justice. Police make arrests. The media covers the story for a few days. Then nothing. The case stalls in court, or the accused is acquitted on technical grounds, or the victim’s character is put on trial, or the family is pressured to settle privately.
Meanwhile, women continue developing their own systems of protection because institutional protection doesn’t exist. They share information about dangerous men in WhatsApp groups. They create networks to verify potential dates. They develop codes for signalling distress. They teach each other which police stations might actually take reports seriously and which will blame them for whatever happened.
This is what happens when a government abandons its responsibility to protect its citizens. Women become their own security forces, their own justice systems, their own support networks, because depending on the state means depending on nothing.
How Some Men React to the Reality
For Toyosi Benjamin, a Nigerian filmmaker who grew up with a younger sister, female cousins, and nieces, femicide news triggers a different kind of pain.
“Sad. I mostly can’t comprehend why you would want to hurt a woman or girl as a man or anyone,” he says.
But comprehension isn’t the only challenge. So is perception.
“Sometimes, yes,” he admits when asked if he feels judged or grouped with violent men because of his gender. “It can be uncomfortable when people assume all men are the same, but I also understand where the fear comes from. I just try to make sure my own actions speak for me.”
That discomfort, that defensiveness, surfaces often when men encounter women’s fear. The instinct to say “not all men,” to distance themselves from perpetrators, to insist on their individual innocence. But Benjamin doesn’t stop at defensiveness. He’s adjusted his behaviour in response to women’s legitimate concerns.
“I haven’t changed who I am, but I’m more intentional,” he explains. “I’m aware of boundaries, body language, and tone. To me, it’s more about being respectful than changing my personality. Like I’m mindful of things like walking behind women at night, physical proximity, or how certain jokes may land. It’s not about guilt, just understanding the world we’re in.”
This awareness represents what feminist discourse calls consciousness-raising, recognising how gender dynamics operate and adjusting behaviour accordingly. It’s not performative allyship but practical acknowledgement that women navigate legitimate threats that men don’t face.
Nurudeen Salako, a communication and media expert, shares Benjamin’s sadness about femicide. “Reading news about femicide makes me unhappy and worried for the innocent souls and the future of the country.”
Unlike Benjamin, Salako doesn’t feel grouped with violent men. “With my personality, I haven’t been grouped as one of the violent men because of my gender. It’s two different things.” His personality, he insists, is “the opposite of violent. I’m a peace lover, and it reflects in every one of my actions.”
But both men acknowledge a gap in male discourse about gender-based violence.
“When you say men, do you mean all men?” Benjamin asks. “Because the reality is we actually do, and you get some takes and opinions that sometimes leave you shocked.”
Salako is blunter: “I’ll say to a little extent, perhaps discussing it with their only ‘trusted allies’, not to be seen as a weaker man and hiding the ‘shame’. It is not something openly discussed enough.”
The silence among men, even nonviolent men, becomes part of the problem. When discussions about femicide happen primarily among women and a handful of male allies, the majority of men remain insulated from accountability, from reflection, from the urgent need to examine and challenge the masculinity that produces these killings.
What Nonviolent Men Don’t Say
When asked what he wishes women understood about how nonviolent men process femicide stories, Benjamin offers insight that complicates simplistic narratives.
“I think what many women don’t see is that nonviolent men also feel heavy hearing these stories. Not because we’re being blamed, but because we hate that some men make others unsafe. Most of us just want to be part of the solution without overstepping.”
Salako echoes this: “It makes them (non-violent men) feel bad with the femicide cases because, as peace-loving individuals who also have women around them, it disturbs them mentally.”
Men who care about the women in their lives do feel grief, anger, and helplessness when confronted with femicide statistics. But feeling bad isn’t enough. Emotional disturbance without action simply adds male suffering to the conversation without addressing female deaths.
Both men recognise this. When asked what responsibility ordinary men should take in reducing women’s fear, their answers converge on active intervention rather than passive sympathy.
Benjamin quotes Spider-Man: “With great power comes great responsibility. As men, we should take responsibility for creating safer environments even if we’re not perpetrators. We can still help reduce fear by holding other men accountable, calling out bad behaviour, and not staying silent. Silence is part of the problem, and as the saying goes, a closed mouth is a closed destiny, but in this case, a closed mouth is another woman being killed.”
Salako advocates for both protection and preparation: “They should extend the hand of love, support, protection to the women around them, portraying themselves as their guardian, protector and go-to person. I’ll also recommend that basic security and self-defence skills should be taught and shared with the women. With this, they can also be on alert to avert femicide from happening.”
The self-defence recommendation is complicated. On one hand, equipping women with skills to resist violence seems practical. On the other hand, it places responsibility for avoiding murder on potential victims rather than potential perpetrators. It suggests that if women just trained harder, fought better, screamed louder, they could prevent their own deaths, ignoring that femicide is fundamentally about men choosing violence, not women failing to prevent it.
Still, both men point toward the same essential truth: nonviolent men must do more than not commit violence themselves. They must actively work to create conditions where violence becomes less possible, less acceptable, and less likely to go unpunished.
The Tension Between Safety and Freedom
There’s a bitter irony in how femicide reconstructs women’s lives. The very precautions that might increase safety simultaneously decrease freedom. Every route not taken, every invitation declined, every smile forced, every genuine “no” swallowed and replaced with strategic compliance represents a small death of autonomy.
Sonia articulates this tension when she describes always giving out her phone number even when she doesn’t want to, because refusing has previously triggered male aggression. She’s protecting herself, yes. But she’s also training herself to surrender boundaries, to prioritise men’s comfort over her own desires, to calculate that saying yes when she means no is safer than defending her right to refuse.
This is what rape culture looks like in practice. Not just the rapes themselves, but the entire ecosystem of fear and accommodation that makes women responsible for managing men’s potential violence. The unspoken curriculum that teaches girls to smile at catcalling, to laugh at inappropriate jokes, to accept unwanted attention graciously, because any other response might escalate into danger.
I’ve learned this curriculum too. I always pretend to be on a call or send a voice note when I’m in a taxi or walking alone. I drop descriptions of drivers or locations to friends. These strategies might help someone find my body if something happens, but they won’t prevent something from happening. They’re documentation for the aftermath, not shields for now.
The question becomes: at what point does a survival strategy become its own form of violence? When does teaching women to restrict their movements, police their responses, and accommodate potential threats amount to collective punishment for crimes they didn’t commit?
What Justice Looks Like From Here
Seven years after Ochanya’s death, her rapists still walk free. Benjamin Best, who killed Augusta Osedion, has not faced justice. Ayomide Adeleye, who murdered Christianah Idowu, awaits trial. Victor Ogbuja allegedly pursues a music career in Lagos. The list of unpunished killers grows longer while women’s freedom shrinks.
This is the cost of systemic failure. Not just the individual deaths, though those are devastating enough. But the collective restriction of women’s lives, the perpetual hypervigilance, the energy spent calculating risk that could go toward ambition, creativity, joy, rest.
Nigeria needs comprehensive systemic change. A specific femicide law with mandatory minimum sentences. A national sex offender registry accessible across all states. Specialised sexual assault courts with judges trained in trauma-informed approaches. Mandatory consent education in schools. Expanded funding for Sexual Assault Referral Centres. Investment in DNA forensic capacity. Protection for women who report violence rather than the current reality, where many face defamation suits and retaliatory police investigations.
The culture must shift, too. Every time child marriage gets excused as “tradition,” we’re complicit. Every time we question what a rape victim was wearing instead of why her rapist felt entitled to her body, we choose violence. Every time we treat femicide as isolated incidents rather than systematic targeting of women, we guarantee it will continue.
Sonia’s solution is direct: “If the government puts serious punishments for those perpetrating these crimes and also strictly enforces them, then we will experience a great decline in these cases.”
She’s right, but implementation requires political will that currently doesn’t exist. It requires believing women’s lives matter enough to disrupt systems built on their subordination. It requires men in power to care more about preventing women’s deaths than protecting other men’s freedom to threaten them.
Until that happens, women will continue carrying the fear. We’ll keep calculating which bus to board, which street to avoid, which man’s number to give, even when we don’t want to, which smile to force, even when we’re angry, which route offers enough witnesses, and which lie makes us safest.
We’ll keep watching the news cycle through another name, another hashtag, another brief moment of collective outrage before attention moves elsewhere. We’ll keep recognising ourselves in the victims, keep imagining those scenarios with us in them, keep knowing that the difference between being alive and being a headline might just be luck.
Ochanya should be 20 years old today. She should be in university, dreaming dreams, becoming who she was meant to be. Instead, she’s dead, killed by those entrusted with her care, failed by every institution that should have saved her, denied justice even in death.
Her case resurfaced because Nigerians refused to forget, activists kept demanding accountability, her family kept fighting despite being re-traumatised by renewed attention, and because enough people believed that silence is complicity.
That’s what it takes now. Not hoping the system will protect us, but building pressure until it has no choice, not waiting for justice, but demanding it so loudly and so persistently that ignoring us becomes impossible.
Somewhere in Nigeria right now, another young woman is calculating risk. She’s checking the time, counting male passengers, sharing her location, pretending to be on a call. She’s doing everything she’s been taught to do to keep herself safe in a society that won’t do it for her.
She shouldn’t have to, but until this country decides women’s lives matter as much as men’s comfort, she will.
We all will.
