The case of 13-year-old Ochanya Ogbanje — abused, dying from VVF, while her alleged assailants walk free — underscores Nigeria’s rampant culture of rape and the urgent need for justice and reform.
The story of Ochanya Ogbanje is horrifying, and yet it is far from unique in Nigeria. At 13 years old, she died from complications of a vesicovaginal fistula (VVF) after years of sexual abuse by two male relatives. Despite a recorded video testimony of the victim and medical autopsy reports detailing her cause of death, outcomes were — at best — woefully inadequate. Andrew Ogbuja, her uncle and abuser, was acquitted, while Victor Ogbuja, her cousin and abuser, remains at large. Her aunt, Felicia Ogbuja, the woman considered complicit, received a jail term of only five months for negligence.
This case has sparked fresh outrage online, with hashtags seeking justice, brewing protests, petitions calling for government intervention and reopening of the 2018 rape case. However, beneath the loud public pressure lies a deeper truth: Nigeria’s response to rape remains alarmingly weak. The government’s silence or minimal action doesn’t just reflect a failure of justice; it also fuels an environment in which rape culture, child brides, and sexual violence thrive.
A growing tide of abuse, yet little effective justice
Sexual violence is not an isolated crisis; it is systemic. According to UNICEF, six out of every ten Nigerian children experience some form of violence before turning 18, and one in four girls has suffered sexual abuse. In a community-study in south-west Nigeria, 25.7 % of adolescents reported child sexual abuse, with forced penetrative abuse in 7.5 % of cases; in 46.2 % of those abused, force was used.
In Lagos State alone, authorities recorded 24,009 incidents of sexual and gender-based violence in the last five years, most involving minors. A retrospective review of sexual assault cases revealed that the perpetrator was known or in their circle. Yet despite thousands of reports each year, conviction rates remain astonishingly low.
Amnesty International notes that in 2021, over 11,200 rape cases were reported nationwide, but only a fraction led to prosecution, and even fewer to conviction. This gap between the countless abused victims and the few who find justice lies at the very heart of our failing system. When survivors lose faith in the justice system, perpetrators act without fear.
Read also: Musa Suleiman: A tale of pedophilia and sexual exploitation
Legal protections exist — but major gaps remain
On paper, Nigeria’s legal framework is designed to protect women and children. The Violence Against Persons (Prohibition) Act (VAPP) 2015 addresses sexual violence, while the Child Rights Act (CRA) outlines protections for minors. Additionally, the National Agency for the Prohibition of Trafficking in Persons (NAPTIP) maintains a sexual offenders register through the National Sexual Offenders and Service Provider Database.
But in reality, implementation has serious weaknesses:
Many states have not adopted or fully implemented the CRA or the VAPP Act. As of 2021, the CRA and VAPP Acts had been domesticated in only 26 and 27 of Nigeria’s 36 states, respectively.
Enforcement is weak: Investigations are delayed or superficial; survivors face stigma and victim-blaming.
Cultural and institutional barriers: In some jurisdictions, sharia or customary courts handle rape cases in ways that disadvantage survivors (e.g., requiring witnesses, pressuring for settlement or even marriage to the perpetrator).
Limited provision for survivors: Few specialised sexual assault referral centres, poor access to forensic support, counselling and legal aid.
When prosecutions happen, punishments are rarely commensurate with the crime, reinforcing a culture of impunity.
For victims like Ochanya, every systemic failure — from poor medical care to slow justice — compounds the trauma.
Why rape culture persists in Nigeria
Impunity for perpetrators
In many cases, those who commit sexual violence, especially those who have status, power or space to evade accountability, are not held to account. As noted by Amnesty International, the “failure to tackle the rape crisis emboldens perpetrators and silences survivors”.
Victim-blaming and stigma
Survivors frequently face moral judgment, disbelief or suspicion. Many do not report because they fear being labelled a liar or carrying the shame of the act rather than receiving support.
Family, cultural and institutional pressure
In some instances, families push for out-of-court “settlements”, marriage to the perpetrator, or silence the survivor for the sake of “honour.” Families of victims are also not exempt from shame and blame resulting from living in communities that reinforce modesty as a means to prevent sexual abuse.
Weak institutional capacity and low priority
Some police and prosecutorial systems are under-resourced or untrained for sexual-violence cases, leading to delays, inadequate evidence collection, or diversion of cases away from formal justice.
Overlapping vulnerabilities, children, early marriage, and coercion
The girl-child is disproportionately at risk because many survivors are minors, and early marriage or statutory rape complicates legal redress. The intersection of gender, age and economic dependency makes it easier for abuse to happen and harder for justice to follow.
Read also: Breaking the cycle of victim-blaming is not a drill; it is imperative
The cost of the silence
When cases like that of 13-year-old Ochanya Ogbanje are allowed to fade into silence, the consequences are profound and far-reaching.
When survivors see perpetrators walk free, the system sends a clear message: girls and women are unprotected, their pain dismissed. As perpetrators witness this impunity, they grow bolder instead of cautious. And when communities watch injustice — or no justice at all — unfold, trust in the system erodes, and reporting declines.
Moreover, the trauma doesn’t stop with the individual survivor, it ripples through families, neighbourhoods and the wider society. A system that fails to protect not only fails the immediate victim; it undermines education (girls drop out), health (medical and psychological effects like VVF, depression, isolation), and social cohesion (fear, mistrust, silence).
In effect, the failure to respond is not only a legal or institutional deficit, but it is a moral and societal crisis. If we accept that rape of a child or woman is a grave human rights violation, then silent systems, weak prosecutions and ambiguous protections become part of the harm. They transform isolated cases into structural patterns. The intangible costs of lost potential, obscured justice, and wounded communities are massive.
What must change
We cannot merely document the crisis; we must respond to it with urgency, intelligence, and purpose. Existing laws must not remain symbolic. They must be fully domesticated in every state, meaning each state government must adopt, operationalise and resource them so that a girl in Lagos or Maiduguri has the same legal protection.
Furthermore, we must build a justice system that is truly survivor-centred. Safe reporting mechanisms, forensic and medical support, free legal aid, and child-friendly courts must be implemented, so survivors are not re-victimised by the system meant to protect them.
Transparent data collection is also vital. Without this, the public cannot see failure, accept accountability or demand change.
Another critical area is ending informal “settlements”: the justice system must assert the criminal nature of rape, rather than let custom, fear, or silence convert it to a private matter.
Simultaneously, public education must shift the narrative: consent, power, the girl-child’s dignity must be part of every school, every community, every family conversation.
Finally, we must hold perpetrators accountable with meaningful penalties — no havens for offenders, no quiet settlements, and no wrapping things up behind closed doors.
The urgency is clear; every day of inaction expands the damage. Reform must not be gradual; it must be intentional and immediate, because delayed justice betrays survivors, and further erodes the public’s trust in our society’s promise to protect the vulnerable.
Read more: Grooming—The subtle but dangerous beginning to abuse
