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Editor’s Note: This piece was first published on Facebook
Nothing has shocked me more in Nigeria than what I have seen in recent days.
Over the years, I have watched this country surprise me in ways that made me repeatedly say, “Nothing can shock me anymore.” Yet somehow, I was wrong.
But before I talk about Baba Ijesha, let me tell you why this issue strikes so deeply.
Yaba Market
Many years ago, I was working at a computer training school in Lagos. Then there was this programme where military officers were being trained in computer literacy. One of the soldiers knew me and introduced me to his superior, who hired me to train a group of officers at the barracks in Yaba Alagomeji. Three times a week, I travelled to the barracks to teach. I got to know many of the officers and enjoyed the work.
One day, after finishing my classes, I decided to stop by Yaba Market before heading home. As I walked through the market, moving from one line of shops to another, a young man suddenly stretched out his hand and grabbed my breast.
Not brushed against me. Not accidentally touched me. He forcefully grabbed and squeezed my breast. For a moment, I froze. I trembled. I fell. He laughed.
“Your breast dey stand. Small breast,” he mocked. “Oya, come and buy.”
I burst into tears. The pain wasn’t physical. It was the feeling of being violated, stripped of dignity, and reduced to an object for someone’s amusement. As I cried, he continued mocking me.
“Wetin dey do this one? Small breast wey no reach ₦500 a night to suck.”
I somehow gathered myself and called one of the officers I worked with. They arrived in an army vehicle and asked me to identify the man.
I went back into the market and pointed him out.
They arrested him and other traders nearby who had witnessed what happened and done nothing. They were taken to the barracks. Eventually, market leaders intervened and pleaded for their release.
At first, I thought justice had been served.
The Battle That Followed
I was wrong. Because the real battle started afterwards.
From that day, without even realising it, I began walking around with my arms crossed over my chest. People noticed. Even at university, friends often asked why I constantly folded my arms over my breasts.
I didn’t understand it then. I understand it now.
It was trauma. Sometimes the incident would replay in my mind so vividly that I felt dirty in my own body. I would scrub my breasts as though they had somehow offended me.
Years passed. I thought I had moved on.
Then I got married. And the trauma followed me into my marriage. My breasts became a battlefield. A simple touch could instantly take me back to that day in Yaba Market. The fear, disgust, humiliation, and violation would rush back as though it had just happened.
I fought it. I tried therapy. I tried convincing myself I was over it. But trauma does not always obey logic.
Till today, I still struggle with memories of that moment. It happened only once. One single incident. One brief violation. Yet years later, after marriage and two children, part of me still carries the wound.
Celebrating a Convicted Offender
That is why I am horrified by what is happening in Nigeria today. We are celebrating a convicted child sex offender. We are treating Baba Ijesha like a hero.
This is not someone whose conviction was uncertain. He was convicted by a court of law, and his appeals were unsuccessful. Yet instead of centering the victim, discussing the damage done, and advocating for healing, we have chosen celebration.
Do we understand what sexual abuse does to victims? Do we understand that some victims carry the scars for decades? Do we understand that many never fully recover?
If a single act of sexual violation against me has affected me for years, imagine what a child victim carries. Imagine watching the person who abused you being welcomed home with applause, gifts, and public honour.
Imagine seeing society celebrate the person who helped create your trauma. What lesson are we teaching children? What lesson are we teaching predators? That if they get caught, serve their sentence, and return, society will throw them a party?
Nigeria has witnessed countless acts of courage and integrity. We have seen people return millions they found. We have seen citizens rescue strangers from danger. We have seen ordinary people perform extraordinary acts of kindness.
Yet many of those people receive little recognition.
Why then are we reserving public celebration for a convicted child sex offender?
The Real Hero
Baba Ijesha is not a hero.
The hero is the child who survived.
The hero is every survivor who wakes up every morning and keeps going despite the trauma.
The hero is every victim fighting to reclaim their life.
What happened is wrong.
It was wrong to publicly celebrate him.
It was wrong to present him with gifts and honours.
And it is wrong to ignore the pain of victims while elevating the people who hurt them.
We are creating a dangerous culture when we show more compassion to offenders than to survivors.
Tomorrow, you will tell me to respect your Ooni, that he’s a respectful monarch, but he chooses to use wealth from local govt funds to gift cars to convicted and registered child sex offender.
