Get Guardian on GoogleAs survivors of sexual assault endure their trauma in silence after repeated, frustrating attempts to secure justice, Olayide Soaga, in collaboration with The Guardian Investigates, examines how Nigerian women’s groups are stepping in to fill the justice gap and support survivors.
Warning: This story contains accounts of child sexual assault and sexual assault that some readers may find disturbing.
Blessing was just seven years old when the nightmare began — her father’s abuse would continue for nearly a decade while her pleas for help fell on deaf ears.
Her mother was aware of the rapes for most of that time but dismissed her daughter’s complaints, saying, “You are just a child.”
When Blessing was eight, her mother witnessed one of the rapes, and her husband pleaded that she “forgive and forget.” She did, but whenever Blessing’s mother was upset with her, she would tell her daughter in pidgin: “I no blame you, na because we dey chop from the same place.”
Blessing began documenting every rape in a journal while in primary school because she didn’t trust that her mother would ever stand up for her.
“My mum, whom I trusted, was never there for me, so who else would even believe me if I told them my father was raping me?” she asked, explaining why she documented the abuse.
The attacks continued until 2022, when an acquaintance introduced her to Dorothy Njemanze, founder of the Dorothy Njemanze Foundation (DNF), an Abuja-based, survivor-led shelter supporting victims of sexual and gender-based violence.
In June that year, after being raped by her father for three consecutive days, Blessing, then 15, sought help from Njemanze, who rescued her and brought her to the shelter. Njemanze’s intervention led to the father’s detention by the National Agency for the Prohibition of Trafficking in Persons (NAPTIP).
But four years later, he has still not been formally charged.
Blessing is far from alone in waiting for justice. Her story reflects that of thousands of Nigerian women and girls who survive sexual and gender-based violence (SGBV) only to watch the perpetrators walk free while they continue battling the trauma.
Cases of SGBV in Nigeria have risen significantly since the pandemic. Between 2020 and 2023, there were 27,698 cases, according to the Federal Ministry of Women Affairs; during this period, 1,145 fatal cases were reported, but only 393 perpetrators were convicted. In 2024, 133 women and girls were killed from SGBV, and 32 were killed in January and February of this year, according to DOHS Cares Foundation, a Lagos-based non-profit dedicated to combating SGBV.
High-profile cases have intensified public outrage and renewed calls for accountability.
An intense social media campaign in the run-up to the seventh anniversary of 13-year-old Ochanya Ogbanje’s death in October 2025, for example, led to thousands demanding justice for her. The teen died from complications linked to several years of alleged sexual abuse by her uncle, Andrew Ogbuja, and his son, Victor Ogbuja. She developed Vesicovaginal Fistula (VVF), an abnormal opening between the bladder and vagina, after being repeatedly raped.
Her uncle denied the charges, and the Benue State High Court acquitted him in 2022, deciding that the prosecution failed to prove its case. The son absconded and has never been brought to trial.
Such legal failures come despite legislation to support the victims. With SGBV cases rising significantly, the Nigerian government enacted the Violence Against Persons Prohibition (VAPP) Act in 2015 to address the surge. The legislation aims to eradicate all forms of SGBV and imposes penalties for perpetrators.
VAPP prohibits all forms of violence against men and women, and describes the various forms of offences that can be classified as violence. Part one of the act, for example, defines rape and stipulates penalties for rapists.
The law outlines a minimum of 12 years imprisonment for rape, while offenders under 14 face a maximum sentence of 14 years. For those involved in gang rapes, the penalty is a minimum of 20 years, and the longest sentence for rape can be life imprisonment.
All of Nigeria’s 36 states have adopted the VAPP Act, apart from one: Kano. But female survivors continue to struggle to obtain justice, owing to low levels of public awareness about the legislation, prolonged delays in the courts, inadequate protection for survivors and witnesses, and weak court processes.
But even where the VAPP Act exists on paper, its implementation has been uneven. Survivors report being turned away or even mocked when trying to file reports.
When cases do reach prosecution, they collapse under the weight of a judicial system that treats SGBV as a low priority. Court backlogs mean rape trials can drag on for years, during which time witnesses often decide not to testify, survivors lose hope, and perpetrators continue living freely.
In Blessing’s case, for instance, her case has been with law enforcement agencies for four years. Yet, there is still no indication whether her alleged rapist will face trial.
The financial burden of seeking prosecution also falls entirely on survivors. Nigerian survivors often pay for their own legal representation, medical reports, and transportation to court hearings that may be scheduled repeatedly, only to be postponed. For survivors like Blessing, whose families side with the suspects, this means finding justice is often not affordable.
According to Ololade Ajayi, founder of DOHS Cares Foundation, a Nigerian organisation focused on ending femicide and violence against women, the financial burden of seeking prosecution falls entirely on survivors.
They must pay for their own legal representation, medical reports, and transportation to court hearings, which are often repeatedly scheduled only to be postponed.
Stigma and victim-blaming
Societal factors, such as a culture of victim-blaming, also stop survivors from speaking out and exposing their abusers, says Ajayi.
Ajayi recounted a case at Lagos’s Festac police station where the mother of a child rape survivor couldn’t afford the transportation costs the police demanded to bring them to court. Instead of assistance, both mother and daughter faced victim-blaming from officers.
“I have heard a survivor blamed. She was a child accused of being promiscuous by police officers at the Festac police station. Eventually, we got the case charged to court and the perpetrator was remanded. Then they asked the victim’s mother to bring money to transport them to court—a ridiculous amount she didn’t have. The officer blamed the mother, who is a single mother, saying she was encouraging her daughter to do the same thing,” Ajayi said.
This pattern of victim blaming, combined with financial barriers, discourages women survivors from seeking help and stalls justice.
“Victim blaming won’t let victims speak up because we live in a patriarchal society where most rules benefit men. The moment a victim feels they are not being believed, they are discouraged to speak out. People blame you for what you were wearing, maybe you were not at the right place at the right time, how you spoke, your disposition to the perpetrator. And this is definitely going to demoralise and traumatise them further,“ Ajayi added.
This culture of victim-blaming operates on multiple levels. Njemanze also noted that some families pressure survivors to remain silent, particularly when the perpetrator is a relative or community figure. Some religious leaders have been known to advise forgiveness over justice, framing prosecution as divisive, un-Christian or un-Islamic. Survivors who do speak out are likely to be ostracised — branded as troublemakers, liars, or women who “brought it upon themselves” through their dress, behaviour, or presence in certain places.
In 2019, Busola Dakolo, a celebrity photographer and wife of singer Timi Dakolo, publicly accused Pastor Biodun Fatoyinbo, the founder of the Commonwealth of Zion Assembly (COZA), of raping her when she was a teenager. She faced backlash on social media and was accused of trying to destroy the pastor’s reputation. She was mocked and received threats.
Even murder victims can be targeted by this victim-blaming culture.
During the coronavirus lockdown in 2020, for example, 22-year-old university student Uwaila Omozuwa was raped and killed in a church in Benin City, where she reportedly often went to study. When news of the incident spread, some Nigerians on social media were quick to blame her for going to the church alone to study.
This victim-blaming culture operates on multiple levels. Families pressure survivors to remain silent to preserve “family honour,” particularly when the perpetrator is a relative or community figure.
Some religious leaders have been known to advise forgiveness over justice, framing prosecution as divisive, un-Christian or un-Islamic. Survivors who do speak out are likely to be ostracised — branded as troublemakers, liars, or women who “brought it upon themselves” through their dress, behaviour, or presence in certain places.
The stigma is so powerful that many, like Blessing’s mother, who chose to “save her marriage” over protecting her daughter, witness abuse firsthand and still support the perpetrators.
For survivors whose cases become public, the consequences extend beyond social rejection. They face bullying on social media and physical attacks. Even murder victims can be targeted by the victim-blaming culture.
Survivors fill the gaps
As Nigeria’s justice system continues to fail women, survivors like Njemanze are stepping up and filling the gaps by offering lifelines.
Njemanze, 43, experienced multiple forms of violence from childhood into adulthood. As a child, her neighbour’s domestic staff and his friends were abusive to her, and later, as an adult, she was abused by an intimate partner. She also suffered government-facilitated violence, leading her to sue the Nigerian Government at the Economic Community of West African States Court, where she won her case.
Between January 2011 and March 2013, Njemanze was repeatedly arrested in Abuja and accused of being a sex worker solely because she was out at night. During that period and through 2019, security operatives raided nightclubs and hotels, arresting dozens of women for “provocative dressing”, often labelling them as prostitutes. Some of the detained women reported that police officers raped them.
“I know from experience how much more frustrating it is not to be able to access support or care if one is exposed to trauma,” Njemanze said. “That is why I am very dedicated to providing support services, documenting experiences, and improving the opportunities for the prevention of SGBV.”
She founded DNF in 2011 to provide survivors with legal aid, therapy, empowerment, and financial support. Now, Njemanze runs the shelter in Abuja with two facilities: a survivor support centre and a crisis transitional shelter, intended to house survivors for approximately 10 days, although some stay much longer.
In the government’s absence
What makes initiatives like DNF extraordinary is not just what they provide, but what they reveal about government failure. In Nigeria’s six-million-strong capital, Abuja, the Federal Ministry of Women Affairs runs just one shelter for survivors, leaving survivor-led organisations to fill the gap.
The Ministry also provides emergency support, hosts seminars, organises community outreach programmes and serves as a partner to organisations that try to protect and empower survivors. But it notes that state governments are constitutionally responsible for long-term care and rehabilitation.
“We offer round-the-clock services, both online and offline, to prevent and respond to SGBV,” Njemanze said. The DNF has supported over 10,000 survivors since its inception.
Blessing, who entered DNF as a minor in 2022, received therapy and completed secondary school there. Now, at age 20, she has high hopes for university and still lives in the shelter because her home remains unsafe — her mother is still married to her rapist.
“Dorothy is the best thing that has ever happened to me,” Blessing said.
Amaka, another resident who has lived in DNF’s shelter since 2023, survived rape and child trafficking as a minor and became pregnant. She completed her secondary school studies and earned her certificate while at the shelter. Her predator, meanwhile, was also released by the police.
The shelter is the only home her daughter, now two, has ever known. Amaka would love to take her home to Lagos to live with her mother, but a fire recently destroyed her mother’s home. Now, a few months shy of 19, Amaka looks to the future with hopes of becoming a professional photographer.
Abimbola, 34, a mother of three, spent eight months at DNF after fleeing her partner, who had physically and verbally assaulted her for six years. She was four months pregnant when she left, and she escaped with her two children.
“DNF was a breath of fresh air for me. It was a place of solace,” Abimbola said. “My children still talk about the shelter and the good times we had there. I have now bounced back to my feet.”
Joy Oluwatosin Adeboye, 24, was raped at age 13 by a church member who lived in the house where her guardian was staying. Her father had sent her to live there after being laid off. Her rapist also abused other teenage girls, all between the ages of 13 and 15, in the house, and he threatened them never to speak about it.
When Adeboye confided in a woman living there, the woman told the rapist, who then beat and punished Adeboye for exposing him. At age 14, things were so bad that she contemplated suicide.
Her father and guardian had agreed that Adeboye would be under the guardian’s care for one year. When that period ended, her father took her home again.
Two years later, Adeboye founded the Leadership and Ending Violence Against Women and Girls (LEVAWG), a survivor-led initiative providing support for SGBV survivors and empowering women and girls. At first, her advocacy work included going to schools and teaching students about sexual assault. In six years, LEVAWG, which was self-funded by Adeboye’s work as a teacher in its first year, has supported about 120 survivors of SGBV, domestic violence, child trafficking, and female genital mutilation.
While Adeboye’s organisation doesn’t have a shelter, she works to connect survivors with social workers and sexual assault referral centers, supports secondary school survivors in completing their education, and empowers others with vocational skills.
“We do not refer victims to the police because this is Nigeria. They fail to do their jobs,” Adeboye told said. “Twelve minors whom we have supported have had babies from the rapes.”
In 2024, Adeboye received the prestigious Princess Diana Award in the United Kingdom for her humanitarian work, which impacts lives through social action.
Betty Abah, 52, coordinates the Hearts of Hope Shelter in Lagos, a safe house and shelter that supports women and girls affected by SGBV. It is run by her organisation, the Centre for Children’s Health Education, Orientation and Protection (CEE-HOPE), in partnership with Hearts100, a Switzerland-based organisation founded by Anne Ruffer during the COVID-19 pandemic.
Abah witnessed a huge surge in SGBV cases during Nigeria’s COVID-19 lockdown in spring 2020. As Nigerians stayed home, women and girls subjected to SGBV in their homes were trapped with their rapists and abusers — in what the United Nations called the “shadow pandemic”.
“Hearts of Hope was founded in the aftermath of the COVID-19 era spike in SGBV and [in response to] the need to provide stranded survivors locked in abusive environments with a support system,” Abah said.
Her transitional shelter, where survivors can stay for up to three months, has opened its doors to more than 200 women and over 100 children.
There is no official record on the number of shelters for SGBV survivors, but Abah says the numbers are abysmally low for a country like Nigeria.
“Shelters are very rare in Nigeria, and with the high prevalence of domestic abuse, we need more shelters provided by the government and public-spirited individuals, because shelters are life-saving initiatives in a violent world marked by statistics of highly avoidable deaths of women, especially economically powerless women trapped in intimate partner violence situations.”
As a teenager, Amina, now 20, was sexually molested by her stepfather in Lagos. When she reported the attack to her mother, her mother threatened to send her away and accused her of trying to steal her husband.
At 15, Amina ran away and lived on the streets for three months before a stranger took her to Hearts of Hope, where she stayed for nearly two and a half years.
Amina completed her secondary education and studied cosmetology, thanks to support from Abah’s initiative. Today, she lives on her own and is preparing for college — and she still visits the shelter to help train others in cosmetology.
The price of helping others
These grassroots initiatives often receive little to no government funding. DNF operates on donations and Njemanze’s personal funds, with finances running so tight that she nearly had to close in February.
Hearts of Hope relies on an international partnership with Switzerland-based Hearts100 because securing funding from the Nigerian government is difficult. In its early years, LEVAWG ran entirely on Adeboye’s teaching salary.
The outreach and shelter services come at more than just a financial cost. Njemanze faces backlash, for example, from survivors’ families, religious leaders, and threats from perpetrators. When Blessing’s rapist was arrested, pastors advocated for his release and pushed Njemanze to back off.
Families regularly pressure her not to assist survivors, insisting “it is a family matter,” she said. She also noted that some religious leaders say prosecuting religious leaders of SGBV is “similar to attacking God”.
She has also faced other challenges: Njemanze and team members have even been arrested while working. On January 17, 2022, police raided the shelter, briefly detaining Njemanze and her team on suspicion of trafficking and kidnapping, though they were never charged.
Adeboye has also faced both physical and spiritual attacks. In 2020, after helping a mentally disabled girl who had been raped by a relative, the girl’s mother hired thugs to assault Adeboye.
“I was beaten. I almost lost my sense of hearing. I had to use a hearing aid for my right ear after the attack,” she said.
Despite these challenges, these survivors continue drawing strength from their stories and the stories of others they’ve helped in a country where the justice system fails victims of SGBV.
Victims’ names have been changed to protect their identities.
