By Fatimah Idera and Helen Okechukwu
A 13-year-old girl once narrated she was repeatedly raped in the place she should have been safest – home. Years later, her name still echoes through Nigeria’s unfinished conversation on Gender-Based Violence (GBV).
These reporters write that across communities, courtrooms, and cultural festivals, a pattern persists: survivors carry lifelong trauma while accountability remains uncertain.
Age-old GBV continues to unfold as both private horror and public crisis, cutting across age, class, and geography.
The World Health Organization (WHO) defines GBV as violence rooted in inequality between men and women, expressed through physical, sexual, and psychological harm.
In Nigeria, where women make up nearly half the population, the National Human Rights Commission (NHRC) estimates that one in three women will experience some form of GBV in their lifetime.
Furthermore, official figures released in 2025 suggest more than 10,000 cases were reported within a single year.
Yet experts and advocates insist the real number is far higher, buried beneath silence, stigma, and fear.
A Case That Refuses To Fade
Few cases have shaped national outrage like that of 13-year-old Ochanya Ogbanje from Benue State. Her death in 2018 from complications linked to prolonged sexual abuse became a symbol of institutional failure and delayed justice.
Ochanya had earlier disclosed repeated assaults allegedly involving a relative’s household. Medical records later confirmed severe injuries, including vesicovaginal fistula – a condition causing continuous urine leakage due to abnormal connection between organs.
Despite public attention and court proceedings at the Makurdi High Court, the outcome split public opinion.
The presiding judge discharged and acquitted the accused father and son, while the mother received a short custodial sentence for negligence.
The ruling triggered renewed debate over evidentiary thresholds, institutional accountability, and how Nigerian courts respond to sexual violence cases involving minors.
For many Nigerians, the question lingers far beyond the courtroom: what does justice look like when the victim is no longer alive to see it?
When Culture Becomes Contested Space
Years after Ochanya’s case first dominated headlines, another controversy emerged in Delta State’s Ozoro Kingdom, Isoko North Local Government Area, this time during the Alue-Do fertility festival.
The festival, rooted in longstanding local tradition across five communities in Uruamudhu quarters, is historically associated with rituals believed to promote fertility among married women seeking children.
Community leaders describe it as a cultural practice dating back generations.
During the 2026 edition, however, celebrations were overshadowed by viral videos and survivor accounts alleging harassment and sexual assault by groups of young men in different parts of the community.
The festival, which should have been a communal moment of prayer and symbolism, instead became the centre of national outrage.
One survivor described being dragged and assaulted while on a routine errand.
“I went to buy something,” she said in a video shared on social media. “On my way back, some boys came. They took me to a place I don’t know. I was injured. I had to go to hospital.”
She added that she feared public exposure of the incident, citing stigma and personal safety concerns.
Another account, shared by community commentator Gbari Precious, alleged that a pregnant woman was among those affected and had resorted to traditional treatment before seeking medical attention.