By Oreva Godwin
As I write this article, I do so with tears in my eyes. I write with a heavy heart. The tears was triggered after I watched a video from India. In the video, a girl, no more than eleven years old, stood with two other children her age. A stranger offered them candy. Before collecting it, the girl asked, “I hope it’s not drugged? Please don’t kidnap us.”
The man assured her it wasn’t. It took time before she relaxed and became the child that she truly was.
That moment broke me.The world is not safe for the girl child. Every day, her life is threatened, by rape, child trafficking, ritual killings, domestic violence and constant sexualisation.
In the first week of January 2026, another video had surfaced. A family had travelled to Imo State for the holidays. They went out to watch a masquerade performance, while their sixteen-year-old daughter chose to stay at home alone.
The victim narrated that a man walked into the house with a knife, threatened and finally raped her.
It was not a random act. The man knew she was alone. He knew the house. He was an insider.
A video also surfaced on the 20th of March during the Ozoro festival, showing young ladies being sexually assaulted.
These videos showed monsters hiding behind culture. I do not condemn anyone’s religion or tradition, but when it becomes an excuse to commit crime, then it must end.
I watched those girls, and I saw a familiar fear… panic.They were not standing before fellow humans. They stood before predators in human skin, and they were the prey.
How long will the girl child continue to live in fear? This is the reality of the girl child. We live in constant fear. Fear has become part of us.
It breaks my heart to imagine having a daughter and having to prepare her for this cruel reality. To imagine her asking innocently, “Are men bad? Is daddy also a bad man?” and having to explain. Is this life?
A girl cannot walk on an isolated road without panicking. She cannot greet a man on the street and be sure he will simply respond and move on.
A woman, lawfully married to her husband, can still be raped, and silenced, because society refuses to accept that rape is rape, even within marriage.
A young girl can meet a guy online, build trust, video call, travel to see him, only to be murdered for rituals. Imagine the terror, the betrayal, the pain, in the final moments before her life ends.
Because a woman is a sex worker does not give anyone the right to rape her, gang-rape her, or play God over her life. Her life is her own.
A young girl will trust you as an elder, a family friend, or a relative, only for you to sell her into sex trafficking.
I have deep respect for women. They wake up every day and smile. They put on makeup, dress up, and show up in public. But if you look closely, many are broken. They are like broken glass shattered by men they trusted, shattered by life itself. Still, they must learn to love themselves, to love a life that has been unfair to them. They must love men again, marry them, and sometimes even remain in wrong marriages with such men.
We have failed as humans. We have failed each other.
Mary was nineteen plus, young enough to still believe the world was mostly safe. Young enough to think that saying “no” was a complete sentence.
She had a scheduled date for 7 p.m. She took time to get ready, fixing her hair twice, choosing a dress that made her look pretty. She smiled quietly to herself, feeling very relaxed as she stepped out.
The date went on well, until the young man leaned in and said, calmly, “You’re not going home tonight.”
The words landed like a slap. Mary stood up immediately, shouting as she walked away. She chose herself.
Anger burned in her chest as she waved down a cab. She didn’t check the driver’s face. She didn’t check the back seat. She just wanted to go home.
Moments into the ride, her eyelids felt heavy. Soon her head began to swing. The ride had only been for ten minutes, but all she wanted at that time was to close her eyes and sleep. She suddenly found herself succumb to slight slumber.
That split second of sleep almost cost her her life. She suddenly felt a heavy weight crash through her body. She later woke up choking on fear.
She woke up to see a man was on top of her. Her heart slammed violently against her ribs as she looked around. The cab had passed her street.
She clawed at the door handle, tried to open it but they wouldn’t’t budge. So also were the windows shut.
Reality hit her like thunderbolt. She knew it was a one-chance vehicle that she entered. Her body quickly reacted before her mind could catch up. She punched the man hard and he fell off her. She scrambled to roll down the window, her fingers shaking violently. But the handle was not there.
The man recovered quickly, and slapped her with force. The ring on his finger tore her skin. Warm blood started sliding down her face. That was when Mary knew, this was not one man. This was a den.
One sat in front, silent and watching. The one who slapped her pulled out a knife from the back seat and smiled. Her entire body began to tremble. Her bladder burst loose.
For the first time, it felt as if she had a one on one meeting with death. They told her they would sell her into slavery if she didn’t cooperate. They told her an Alhaji would pay well for her body. Then they drove her to a deserted place and parked.
What followed broke something inside her that never fully healed. As hands violated her, the body stopped feeling, like it belonged to someone else. Mary stared at the roof of the car. Tears streamed down the sides of her face and soaked into her hair. She was helpless as they took turns on her.
She looked at the roof of the car and said a prayer, she said, “God, I forgive them.” She said it over and over again. She said it because she had nothing else left.
When they were done, they took everything: her phone, shoes, belt; her dignity. They shoved her out of the car like trash. She hit the ground and cried until her chest burned.
A stranger passing by later came to her rescue. A good man. He stopped, listened and did not molest her. He held her by the wrists with her express permission. He took her to a pharmacy, bought her emergency contraceptives and antibiotics, and drove her home.
When Mary walked into her house, her mother screamed, her siblings cried in fear of the unknown. They were shocked by her appearance, crying silently. Her clothes were torn. Her face fully bruised. Her eyes were empty. Then her mother asked only one question: “Did they?” Mary nodded. That nod broke the dam. They cried together; loud, helpless sobs.
Mary felt like something precious had been stolen from her forever. She felt ruined. Spoiled. Less human. After that night, Mary stopped being the same girl. Touch from a man became unbearable. Once a man holds her hands, she would start shaking, and fear would be visible in her eyes. She avoided cabs if she saw men inside. She would rather walk long distances alone rather than risk sitting beside a stranger.
Men’s footsteps behind her made her heart race. Men’s voices made her tense. Men’s presence felt like danger. She was nineteen, and already exhausted by fear.
She hated the way her family looked at her with pity. She hated movies with assault scenes. She hated her body most of all. She scrubbed herself until her skin burned, trying to wash away hands that still felt present. No amount of soap made her feel clean.
For a long time, she didn’t want to heal. Healing felt like letting them win. But slowly, very slowly, Mary chose to live. She learned that not all men were monsters. She learned that what happened was not her fault. She learned to breathe again.
Still, even now, the fear never fully leaves. When a man touches her after she says no, her body reacts before her mind can reason. She shakes. She freezes. The scars reopen.
Some scars do not fade with time. They live quietly under the skin. We learn to hide them from the world and show them only to those who love us gently.
But no woman deserves this. Not the fear. Not the wound. Not the lifetime of caution. We deserve to walk freely and return home alive. Parents deserve peace of mind when their daughters step outside.
No means no. It is not an invitation as some men think. It is not a challenge. It is a boundary.
Parents, raise your sons to act decently. Teach them that masculinity is protection, not violence. Power is responsibility, not entitlement.
Stop shielding criminals because they share your blood. Justice must matter more than shame. Let us make this world safer for the girl child. Because surviving should never be the price of being female.
*Oreva Godwin, The Southerner
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