The Things We Do Not Name

 

image credit: Tayli Randall

She sits still at the balcony. She is one whose story was written before she learned to walk, yet she had no say in its authorship. Like many before her, silence became her companion. Not by choice, but by necessity. She was once called a co-creator with the One whose hands hold the world, for within her bosom lies life itself. Yet now, the breeze feels bland, and the storms make sense, because her flower was uprooted, not once, not twice, and not even when her cries filled the room.

If all that remains is a thin, lifeless stalk from a withered hibiscus, then perhaps silence feels safer than speaking. And so, voiceless, she became.

“To be a woman is to smile through thorns. But who the heck made such a rule?” – Anonymous

A story once echoed through the cold walls of a hospital, that of a sixteen-year-old female, college freshman brutally raped by her father for seven long years. Seven years without childhood, without laughter, without dawn. By the time the world found her, she was with child, forced into motherhood before she learned what womanhood meant. Her story made the news, and in the chaos that followed, men from her community seized her father and beat him until he barely lived. Yet, beyond the fury, beyond the spectacle of mob justice, lay the tragic truth: her story is only one among millions.

In Nigeria and our universities, sexual violence has become a disease that spreads like wildfire, silent, relentless, and often excused. To cure the world of this plague would mean setting centuries of deliration ablaze, but what power is a single matchbox against a forest of thorns?

According to United Nations statistics compiled from government sources, over 250,000 cases of rape or attempted rape are recorded by police annually across 65 countries. And according to research by Rainn, On college campuses 13% of all students experience rape or sexual assault, with rates even higher for undergraduate women (26.4%) and students with nonconforming social identities. Why do women suffer this damnable fate and yet choose to remain silent?

The reasons are many: fear of retaliation, stigma, the shame of being doubted, and the tragic normalization of abuse. In some cities, even forced sex within partners is not recognized as rape. And when the system meant to protect becomes a weapon of dismissal, victims are left to rot in quiet agony.

The University of Ibadan, like many Nigerian universities, has not been spared. Behind the gates of academia, where the pursuit of knowledge should liberate, stories of harassment, assault, and coercion have found a home.

In 2023, the University of Ibadan was again thrust into the spotlight following a disturbing case that shook the campus community. A 200-level Law student was arrested for allegedly raping a 100-level female student within the university premises. According to reports, the incident occurred in one of the student halls, prompting widespread outrage among students and rights advocates who demanded accountability and stronger protection for female students. The case, which was investigated by the Oyo State Police Command, reignited conversations about the safety of women on Nigerian campuses and the urgent need for universities to adopt stricter anti–sexual assault policies. Many students and alumni of the institution took to social media, calling for justice and better support systems for survivors of gender-based violence within the university environment.

That is one case from a haystack of a million. Girls have wept quietly and endlessly, into pillows that know too much. Countless souls whose tears have become invisible ink on the pages of society’s neglect. Many have learned to treat such trauma as merely a nick in the course of their lives. Globally, nearly one in three women about 30% of women aged 15 and above have experienced physical and/or sexual violence, including both intimate partner and non-partner assault. More specifically, global estimates suggest that around 22% of women have experienced sexual violence since the age of 15, with a lifetime estimate of over 370 million girls and women subjected to rape or sexual assault as children before age 18. But numbers are cold. They do not shiver. They do not bleed. They do not capture the tremor in her hands when she hears a familiar knock, or the way her laughter catches in her throat. In truth, every dorm room holds a story, and every woman hides one behind her smile.

But beyond the outrage lies a quieter, more haunting battle, the mental torment endured by survivors. For many female students, especially those violated by people they trusted, classmates, friends, mentors, even lecturers, the pain runs deeper than words can reach. Their sense of safety, once tied to familiar lecture halls and dorm rooms, crumbles into fragments. The spaces that once symbolized growth now carry ghosts of violation. Anxiety creeps in with every footstep behind them; a simple knock on the door can trigger dread.

The betrayal of trust cuts sharper than the act itself. How does one reconcile respect for a mentor who became a predator? How does a young woman sit through lectures delivered by someone who reminds her of her trauma? Some lose their academic zeal entirely, struggling to attend classes or concentrate. Others bury themselves in work, masking their pain behind achievements and laughter that never quite reaches their eyes.

In the solitude of their rooms, panic attacks replace peace. The body remembers what the mind tries to forget, the sound of the door closing, the weight of unwanted touch, the helplessness of being doubted. Many survivors describe feeling as though their souls left their bodies that day, and every attempt at healing feels like dragging a ghost back into flesh.

Yet, society often demands their silence. “Don’t ruin his studentship,” they’re told. “You must have led him on.” The shame is misplaced, shifted from perpetrator to victim, until survivors begin to believe it. Depression, suicidal thoughts, loss of self-worth, and social withdrawal become their invisible chains. And when justice is delayed or denied, the wound festers, unhealed and unseen.

But this cycle of pain can be broken. Healing is possible, not through pity, but through purposeful change. We must move beyond statements and slogans to concrete systems of protection. We should have confidential, survivor-centered reporting mechanisms, with trained counselors and legal officers who handle cases with sensitivity and urgency. Student communities should be educated on consent, boundaries, and bystander intervention.

Beyond institutions, our culture must change. Families must learn to listen without judgment. Religious centers must stop preaching silence disguised as forgiveness. Survivors need spaces to speak, to breathe, to heal, and they must know their pain will not be dismissed or doubted.

Justice, too, must speak loudly. Offenders must face strict penalties, not merely to punish, but to warn. Schools and systems must publicly sanction those found guilty, to send a message that assault, no matter who commits it, will never be excused. Policy must meet empathy. Awareness must meet action.

Because every time a girl’s trust is shattered and her pain silenced, a part of society’s conscience dies with her. Until every survivor can walk freely without fear, laugh without flashbacks, and study without dread, our collective work remains unfinished. And so, she learns to whisper, because her subconscious has been taught that survival sounds like silence. Yet one day, when those whispers rise and merge into a chorus of defiance, the world will finally listen. If only we dared to name.