₦airaland Forum

Perhaps the loud warnings about fire and judgment were invented by people who could not bear the mirror. Perhaps it was easier to threaten the dead than to admit how badly the living were failed. Shame is lighter when it is dressed as doctrine.

The room is quiet. Not peaceful quiet. The kind that presses against the ears until the thoughts grow louder than sound. The clock still works. It always does. Time has not stopped just because someone inside you has.

You sit there wondering how it came to this moment, yet knowing it did not arrive suddenly. It arrived slowly, patiently, over years. In jokes that landed wrong. In confessions answered with laughter. In seriousness met with advice that required no listening. In pain treated like a personality flaw.

You remember the first time you tried to say something real. Your voice shook. You softened it so it would not scare anyone. You turned it into humor so they would not feel uncomfortable. They laughed. Relief washed over their faces. You learned something that day. Your pain was tolerable only when it entertained.

So you tried again later. This time clearer. This time braver. You were told you were overthinking. You were told others had it worse. You were told to be grateful. Each sentence shaved something off you. Not enough to bleed. Enough to thin.

Hope does not disappear all at once. It erodes. It flakes away each time you gather courage and are met with indifference. Each time you explain yourself differently, hoping this version will finally make sense to someone. Each time you promise yourself this is the last time you will bring it up.

Eventually you stop promising.

The mind grows tired of knocking on doors that never open. It starts to believe the problem is not the doors, but you.

You replay conversations like evidence in a trial you already know you will lose. Look how dramatic you sounded. Look how quiet you became. Look how long you stayed even when leaving would have been kinder to yourself. Look at the number of times you said you were not okay and were treated as if you had said the weather was bad.

The disappointment is not only in others. It is in yourself. For staying. For hoping. For needing.

This is the part no one likes to hear. The world did not feel cruel. It felt indifferent. And indifference is heavier than cruelty because it offers no resistance. You push against it and fall through.

At some point the thought appears. Not as panic. As logic. Calm, cold, convincing logic. It does not scream. It whispers. It tells you this exhaustion has an end. That silence could finally be quiet. That you are not choosing death, you are choosing rest.

You argue with it at first. Weakly. Half heartedly. You think of people who know your name. You think of responsibilities. You think of tomorrow. But tomorrow feels like a copy of yesterday, and yesterday already crushed you.

The thought returns, more confident now.

You look back over your life, not for joy, but for proof. Proof that staying ever changed anything. Proof that being honest helped. Proof that someone truly saw you without minimizing, joking, fixing, or dismissing. The list is shorter than the pain.

You imagine telling someone one last time. You imagine their response. You already know it. They will not understand now if they never understood before. And this time, you do not have the strength to be misunderstood again.

Your chest feels hollow, not heavy. That scares you more than sadness ever did. Sadness at least meant you still wanted something. This feels like acceptance.

You tell yourself they will call it a shock. You almost laugh. You have been signaling for years. Quietly. Politely. You were ignored with consistency.

This is where the world likes to step away and call it selfish.

But inside this moment, there is nothing selfish about it. There is only a person who believes they have exhausted every way of being heard. A person who feels like a recurring inconvenience in other people’s lives. A person who thinks removing themselves might finally make things easier for everyone else.

That thought hurts. It also comforts.

This is the contradiction. Pain and relief holding hands.

You think of the times you were labeled strong. How that word trapped you. How strength became the excuse not to check on you. How your smile convinced people you were fine. How lively became invisible.

You think of the reader now, whether they know it or not. You wonder if they remember the last time someone hinted at pain and they brushed it aside. If they recall the joke they laughed at instead of questioning. If they remember thinking someone else would handle it.

You do not blame them with anger. You blame them with resignation. The kind that says of course. Of course no one noticed. No one ever does.

Your hands are steady. That frightens you too. You always thought it would be dramatic. It is not. It is quiet. Clean. Decided.

And then, just before the edge of the thought closes completely, something pauses.

I understand suicide

The pause is not hope. It is clarity. A moment where you see the entire path that led here. Not as a montage, but as a slow march of neglect, misunderstanding, and emotional laziness. You realize this pain did not come from nowhere. It was built. Brick by brick. By silence. By jokes. By neglect. By love that never learned how to listen.

You wonder if they will finally take pain seriously when it no longer speaks.

You wonder if your absence will communicate what your words could not.

That is the tragedy. That death feels like the loudest sentence left.

The decision does not feel brave. It feels inevitable. Like gravity. Like finally agreeing with the voice that has been rehearsing this conclusion for years.

You sit with it. You breathe. You feel nothing and everything at once.

And if someone were here now, really here, not fixing, not judging, not preaching, just staying, the decision might hesitate. But you are alone. Or at least, you feel alone. And feelings are reality when nothing challenges them.

So you make peace, not with death, but with the belief that you were never meant to be fully understood in this world.

I understand suicide

If you are reading this and feel unsettled, good. Sit with that discomfort. It is lighter than what this mind has been carrying. And if any part of this feels familiar, not as curiosity but as recognition, please do not carry it alone. Even now, even here, reaching out to a trusted person or a professional can interrupt the silence. You deserve to be taken seriously before your pain tries to end the conversation forever.

For love of country, we gave everything. That morning, I woke up outside of myself. It was strange, as if I had stepped into the world without my body. I looked down and saw it lying there on the ground—cold, lifeless, forgotten amidst the chaos. The crowd ran past me, and I realized… that wasn’t me anymore. I had become something else, something more than just a man on the street. I was everything, and yet, I was nothing at all.

The noise around me blurred into a dull hum. A gunshot cracked the air—sharp, final. Someone screamed. I felt the sting of it somewhere deep inside me, even though I no longer had skin to feel. The world was spinning, but I wasn’t. I was standing still, watching them. Watching us. Watching me.

I was there among the protesters, the ones they called thugs. I remember marching, my fist in the air, believing that this time—this time—something would change. I was angry, yes, but more than that, I was hopeful. I thought we could make them see us, hear us. But now, as I stand outside of time, I see how naive we were.

I’m not just one of them, though. I was the artist too—the young dreamer who poured every last naira into studio time, convinced that music could free me. It was my escape, my way out of the suffocating reality of this place. I wasn’t supposed to be in the streets that day. No, I had a song to record, a future to chase. But when the call came, I knew I had to be there. For what’s a dream if the world it’s built on crumbles beneath your feet? I stood there, believing in a better tomorrow, until tomorrow came and took my life with it.

But I was more than just the artist. I was the reporter too, standing at the front lines with a camera in one hand and a notebook in the other, capturing history as it unfolded in blood and fire. I thought I was just an observer, but in that moment, I became the story. I was silenced along with the others. My words were cut short, my camera lens shattered, just like my body, by the force of their bullets.

And still, I am more. I remember being the tech bro too—the guy too afraid to carry his laptop outside because the police would see me as a criminal. I coded quietly in my room, building something from nothing, hoping it would lift me out of this place. But even I couldn’t stay silent forever. They profiled me too, made me a suspect in a country where my only crime was dreaming of a life beyond this. The fear of being picked up, beaten, robbed—those were the ghosts I carried long before I became one myself. I knew men who had paid for their freedom with everything they had, and some who paid with their lives. They were me too, and now, I’ve joined them.

It’s been four years now. Four long years since we stood at Lekki Toll Gate, believing we could change something. We gathered in numbers, we raised our voices, we stood our ground. But they didn’t see us as citizens. They saw us as threats. So, they sent soldiers to "restore order." That’s what they called it. But it wasn’t order they wanted. It was silence.

I still hear the shots ringing out in the dark. I still see the flags, soaked in blood, raised high as we sang the anthem of a nation that betrayed us. I still feel the weight of my body hitting the ground, though I am long past feeling anything. They called it a massacre, but it was more than that. It was the death of hope, the slaughter of dreams. And now, four years later, what has changed? The panel they promised would deliver justice? A joke. Compromised from the start. The same people who pulled the triggers were the ones signing off on the investigation. It was all theater—an elaborate show to make the living believe they care. But we know better. We, the ones who died, know the truth.

I am every soul that was lost that night, every body that hit the ground and never rose again. I am the ghost of the protester who stood with his banner high. I am the spirit of the artist whose songs will never be heard. I am the journalist whose pen was silenced before it could write the final chapter. I am the tech bro who will never finish his code. I am the passerby who was just walking home, the innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of a war I didn’t sign up for. I am all of them. I am all but one, yet I carry them within me.

How did we get here? How did this country—our country—become a place where the fight for basic rights is met with gunfire? I remember the dreamers, the fighters, the ones who thought we could build something better. But here I stand, four years later, and nothing has changed. The streets are still filled with fear. The police still prey on the weak. The politicians still feast on our suffering.

And yet, we are not truly gone. Not while the living still remember us. Not while the fight still burns in the hearts of those who survived. I hear them, the ones who still cry for justice. Their voices are softer now, more weary, but they are still there. And as long as they fight, so do I. Because I am not just one ghost—I am the spirit of every soul that believed in something better. I am the dream that refuses to die.
I wait. I watch. I wonder if anyone will finish what we started. Will anyone pick up the pieces of the dream we fought for? Or will our sacrifice be forgotten, like so many others before us?

They killed us once. But they cannot kill the hope that lingers in the air, the defiance that whispers through the streets, the resolve that flows through the blood of those who remain. We are still here. I am still here. The ghost of all but one.

And I will not rest. Not until the fight is won.

Rape is a subject that evokes strong emotions — a topic many are hesitant to discuss, too painful for some to address, especially for those who have experienced its devastating effects firsthand. Yet, avoiding this conversation only perpetuates ignorance and hinders the education of society on the dangers and consequences of rape.

In Africa, rape cases are grossly underreported, but the figures we do have show a disturbing trend. A large majority of the cases — approximately 99% — involve women as victims. This paints a bleak picture of the state of sexual violence in many African societies. Yet, despite the widespread occurrence of rape against women, one form of sexual violence that remains deeply misunderstood, and often debated, is marital rape.

Marital Rape: A Cultural Taboo
In many parts of Africa, including Nigeria, the concept of marital rape is met with resistance. A significant number of men argue that having paid a bride price entitles them to sexual relations whenever they please, regardless of the woman’s willingness. This view, deeply rooted in cultural norms, ignores the reality that consent is required in all sexual relationships, including marriage. According to UN Women, 1 in 3 women globally experiences some form of physical or sexual violence, but in many African countries, marital rape is not even legally recognized.

Male Sexual Molestation: The Overlooked Epidemic
Another significant issue that is often ignored is male sexual molestation. Among African men, childhood molestation is far more prevalent than society acknowledges. In informal surveys and personal interactions, it is not uncommon to find that 7 out of 10 men have been molested as children. Yet, these men are rarely given the opportunity to seek therapy or support. Instead, they are told to “man up” and deal with the trauma on their own, leading to damaged self-esteem, erratic behavior, and an inability to form healthy relationships later in life.

Society often demands strength from men, but fails to address their emotional and psychological needs. As the song by Lucky Dube, “Big Boys Don’t Cry” suggests, men are taught that expressing emotions is a sign of weakness. The tragic consequence is a generation of men grappling with unresolved trauma, which affects their relationships, their parenting, and their ability to engage with society in healthy ways.

A Failing System: Reporting Male Rape
In Nigeria, the issue of male rape is almost treated as a joke. When men attempt to report rape, they are often met with disbelief and ridicule. I once accompanied a male victim to a police station to report a case of sexual assault, and the officer responded with a mocking, “No be man you be?” meaning, “Are you not a man?” This statement reflects a dangerous mindset: men are expected to “enjoy” any form of sexual contact, even if it is against their will.

The societal stigma surrounding male rape makes it difficult for victims to come forward. As a result, many men suffer in silence, and the trauma continues to fester, leading to a wide range of behavioral issues, including aggression, depression, and substance abuse.

The Consequences of Ignoring Male Victims
Ignoring male victims of sexual violence has far-reaching consequences. We are seeing an increase in broken homes, high rates of divorce, absentee fathers, and men who treat women with disdain or abuse. Yet, we fail to see the connection between these issues and the trauma many men endured in their youth.

Furthermore, the rise of false accusations in cases of rape adds another layer of complexity to the issue. False accusations, often made for personal gain or revenge, can destroy lives. Men have been wrongfully accused, with some even driven to suicide after their reputations were tarnished by baseless allegations. Sadly, the accusers often face little to no consequences, further eroding trust in the justice system.

The Nigerian Legal System: A Barrier to Justice
In Nigeria, the legal system itself is often an obstacle to justice for victims of sexual violence. When a rape case is reported, the first step in the investigation is known as “Invitation to Treat.” Here, the authorities focus on establishing the nature of the relationship between the victim and the accused. They probe into the victim’s personal life, questioning their behavior, the way they dress, and the conversations they have had with the accused. This process, which places undue scrutiny on the victim, can effectively kill a case before it even begins.

If a case moves beyond this stage, the focus shifts to proving physical assault or penetration, requiring medical tests and evidence that can be both invasive and retraumatizing for the victim. While these procedures may be necessary to ensure due process, they often add to the emotional burden of the victim, deterring many from seeking justice in the first place.

The Path Forward: Education and Reform
To address the crisis of rape and sexual violence in Africa, we must start by changing the conversation. Education is key. Men and women alike need to understand that consent is fundamental, that marital rape is real, and that male victims of sexual abuse deserve the same support and protection as female victims.

The legal system must also be reformed to reflect modern investigative methods. This includes more humane treatment of victims during the investigation process, swifter prosecution of offenders, and harsher penalties for those who make false accusations. According to a 2020 report by UNICEF, Nigeria has one of the highest rates of sexual violence in sub-Saharan Africa, and yet, many cases go unreported due to the inefficiency and insensitivity of the legal process.

Finally, there must be stronger support systems for all victims of sexual violence. Therapy, counseling, and support groups should be readily available to help individuals heal from the trauma of rape and molestation.

Rape is not just a “woman’s issue.” It affects everyone — men, women, children — and its ripple effects are felt across families and communities. If we are to create a safer, more just society, we must confront the reality of sexual violence head-on, educate our communities, and reform the systems that allow these atrocities to continue unchecked.

The question remains: Are we ready to take the necessary steps to address this crisis?