Ochanya’s story is one of the hardest truths about what it means to be a girl in Nigeria.
She was only thirteen. Her dream was simple, an education. When teachers in her village school went on strike, her family, desperate to keep her learning, sent her to live with her aunt in Gbokolo, Benue State. They paid her school fees, hoping that being with relatives in town would give her a better chance. But instead of a home, Ochanya walked into a nightmare. It was the silence that buried her before the earth did, the betrayal of those who should have spoken, the justice that never came. It was abandonment.
For years, she was brutally raped by her aunt’s husband and son, robbed of her childhood and dignity in the very place she should have been safe. It wasn’t one moment of horror it was a slow, daily destruction that ended with her death from complications caused by the abuse. The very people who were supposed to protect and nurture her became her abusers and silenced her even before she died.
But Ochanya’s story isn’t isolated. It’s part of a dark pattern stitched into our society, where men hide behind titles like father, uncle, teacher, husband, pastor, neighbour, etc., while destroying the very girls they are meant to nurture. These are not monsters in the shadows; they are men we know. And that’s what makes it extremely terrifying.
Men who hold positions of trust, violating the girls they’re meant to guide? And the women who stand beside these men, shielding their actions and enabling them to continue these horrific abuses against innocent children. How many communities have stayed silent because “it’s a family matter” or “we don’t talk about such things”?
When girls are abused, society rarely asks, Why did he do it? Instead, we ask, what did she do? What was she wearing? What was she doing in his house? We’re quick to label victims as stubborn, wayward, possessed, or promiscuous. Even in death, Ochanya faced questions about why she didn’t speak up sooner, as though a child, trapped by her own guardians, had the power to change a system built to silence her.
Across Nigeria, and indeed the world, we’ve seen the same heartbreak replayed when women or girls speak out, systems designed to protect men quickly move to destroy their credibility.
In Morocco, Amina El-Filali was forced to marry the man who raped her at 16. Humiliated and silenced, she took her own life. The outrage that followed forced lawmakers to repeal a law that allowed rapists to escape punishment through marriage.
In Sudan, Noura Hussein was married off at 16, raped by her husband, and sentenced to death when she fought back and killed him in self-defense. Only international outrage saved her from execution.
In Canada, Rehtaeh Parsons was 15 when she was assaulted by classmates. When photos of the attack went viral, she was bullied until she died by suicide. The system didn’t protect her; it protected the boys.
In the UK, Shafilea Ahmed was murdered by her parents for daring to want control over her own life.
And back home in Nigeria, Ese Oruru was abducted from Bayelsa at 13 and forced into marriage in Kano. The public cried out for justice, but the emotional and psychological damage to Ese and thousands like her cannot be undone.
We could also remember the Chibok girls, taken from their classrooms by Boko Haram, forced into marriages, pregnancies, and lifelong trauma. Years later, many still remain missing.
Different names. Different countries. Same violence. Same silence. But the same story, men in power using control, systems backing them, and societies blaming the victims.
These stories remind us that child marriage and sexual violence against girls are not cultural issues, they are violations of human rights. The pain doesn’t end with one life; it ripples through families, communities, and generations.
Even when women survive and speak, powerful men twist the narrative. They paint their victims as unstable, on drugs, promiscuous, possessed, or seeking attention. It’s the oldest trick in the book, discredit the woman, and you never have to confront your violence.
That’s how powerful men win. They don’t have to prove innocence; they just have to make the woman look unbelievable.
Ochanya’s story forces us to ask: who protects the girl child when her own home becomes the battlefield? When teachers strike, when parents seek help, when schools fail, who steps in?
Her family sent her away for an education, not exploitation. They paid for her future, only to lose her to the people who were supposed to protect her. That is the tragedy, and it’s one too many Nigerian families know too well.
At Women’s Health and Equal Rights (WHER) Initiative, we carry these names with us in our work. We fight to make sure no girl’s voice is drowned out by power, shame, or tradition, we confront this culture of silence head-on. We work to create safe spaces where survivors can speak without shame. We advocate for stronger laws, comprehensive sexuality education, and systems that actually protect children, not destroy them.
Justice for Ochanya goes beyond the courtroom, it’s about rebuilding a system that failed to protect her. It’s about reimagining a society that values girls as human beings, not possessions. It’s about ensuring that every girl, whether in Benue, Edo, Abuja, Sudan, or London, has the right to safety, education, and dignity.
WHER stands with Ochanya’s family and with all survivors. We call on the Attorney General offices, police leadership, child protection agencies, and policy-makers to prioritize the Ochanya case not as an isolated tragedy but as a touchstone for reform: strengthen child-protection protocols, ensure survivor-centered prosecutions, scale up psychosocial and legal services, and fund community-led prevention programs. We also urge donors and development partners to invest long-term in education and economic support for families that are pushed toward harmful coping mechanisms.
We owe it to Ochanya. We owe it to every girl whose dreams were cut short by silence. And we owe it to ourselves to build a future where justice is not the exception, but the rule.
Every time we say Ochanya’s name, we are demanding that her death means something. That Nigeria finally builds a society where girls can pursue education without fear, where families don’t have to choose between safety and opportunity, where predators, no matter who they are, are held accountable.
Because justice for Ochanya is justice for every girl. And until we get it, none of us should sleep easy.
By Giwa-Osagie P.A for WHER Initiative