Every year on November 25, the world pauses to mark the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women, and with each passing year, the urgency of its message becomes sharper, almost deafening. Gender-Based Violence (GBV) is no longer whispered about in dark corners; it has become a national menace boldly splashed across headlines, talk shows, and social media timelines. First ladies, ministers of women’s affairs, celebrities, and media personalities raise their voices in a unified chorus urging women to speak up, insisting that reporting abuse is a testament of strength rather than weakness. But beneath this chorus, a quieter, more complex truth lingers, one that often gets drowned in the applause for every whistle blown.
In recent times, nearly every notable public figure is asked whether she has ever been sexually harassed. Startlingly, close to eighty percent respond with a painful “yes,” a statistic that mirrors what feminist scholar bell hooks once observed: that patriarchy survives largely because silence protects it. So when Tiwa Savage recently recounted the humiliation of losing a lucrative endorsement deal for refusing a company executive’s demand to sleep with him, her revelation didn’t just stir sympathy; it reignited a national conversation about power, exploitation, and the expectations placed on women who dare to chase their dreams. She spoke of being told to meet influential executives late at night to secure show bookings and of feeling her talent reduced to mere currency for transactional desires. Her story, echoing what the sociologist Pierre Bourdieu described as symbolic violence, laid bare the unspoken rule: that in certain spaces, a woman’s body is a bargaining chip long before her abilities are acknowledged.
Senator Natasha and Regina Daniels are among public figures, who raised their own allegations of gender-motivated abuse.. Yet, the spotlight that follows these revelations often blinds us to another truth: while exposure can be powerful, it is not painless. Advocacy movements frequently portray speaking out as the most noble, most heroic act. And yet many victims hesitate, not because they do not crave justice, but because justice often drags along its own shadows of loss, stigma, emotional torment, and irreversible public scrutiny.
One need only recall the words of Mrs. Nonye Soludo, wife of the Anambra State governor, who urged women to “speak up,” insisting that silence is the enemy of progress. Her message was heartfelt, valid, necessary. She spoke of finding confidants, seeking help, reporting cases, and pushing for practical activism beyond hashtags. And yet, in the background of her bold call, one could almost hear the quiet questions many women whisper to themselves: What will happen after I speak? Who will carry my shame? Who will protect my children? Who will feed us if my abuser is also my provider?
These are not cowardly questions. They are survival questions, and survival, as the philosopher Thomas Hobbes insisted centuries ago, is “the first and fundamental law of nature.”
The tension between exposure and silence reveals itself with heartbreaking clarity in the story reported by Punch: the case of a 63-year-old pastor in Enugu, Luke Eze, who allegedly raped two teenage sisters under the guise of deliverance. Their parents reported the incident, and the law took its course. Many hailed the act as brave, and indeed, it was. Yet the question lingers: what becomes of the girls after the courtroom lights dim? Justice may punish the offender, but justice does not erase the trauma, the whispers, the lingering sense of violation. The social psychologist Erving Goffman described stigma as a “spoiled identity,” a wound inflicted not by the original act alone but by its public circulation. Victims often pay a second price, one the law does not compensate for.
Growing up in a modest community, I learned early the complexity of domestic conflicts. Husbands and wives fought loudly enough for neighbors to hear, but stepping in was dangerous territory because embarrassment, not injury, was their first fear. When a quarrel erupted, we children would run out, thinking disaster had struck, only to be dismissed with irritated denials by both parties who felt exposed, stripped of dignity. Even after reconciliation, the shame of being seen at their weakest lingered like a stubborn stain. This taught me something fundamental: some wounds hurt more when witnessed.
The same logic applies to GBV cases. Reporting a violent spouse is not just a justice-seeking act; it is a life-altering decision that can dismantle the fragile architecture of a family’s existence. Many women do not work; many rely on their husbands for survival. When an abusive husband is arrested, the human rights lawyer celebrates a victory, but the woman wonders how she will feed her children, pay rent, or stand alone emotionally. Exposure may punish the abuser, but it often punishes the victim too, and sometimes, the innocent children most of all.
As seen in the saga of Senator Ned Nwoko and Regina Daniels, taking a domestic matter to the public can create a whirlwind that destroys more than it protects. Their story, dissected by millions, demonstrated how quickly public sympathy can turn into public judgment. Their marriage became collateral damage of a battle that social media amplified beyond repair.
Even in rural settings, I recall cases where elders intervened quietly in rape incidents. Not to conceal injustice, but to save the young girl from lifelong stigma in environments where judgment is swift and merciless. After punishing the culprit, the leaders would urge the family to guard their dignity, understanding that public exposure sometimes causes deeper wounds than the original crime.
This is the paradox at the heart of GBV reporting: exposure can liberate, but it can also wound; silence can protect, but it can also imprison. Victims weigh not just moral arguments but emotional, economic, social, and psychological consequences. Some fear becoming spectacles. Others fear their partners will lose jobs. Others fear their children will inherit a legacy of shame.
And so we find ourselves in this difficult middle ground where advocacy insists “Speak up!” yet reality quietly whispers “Be careful.”
This reflection is not an argument against reporting abuse—far from it. It is a plea to acknowledge the full weight of what we ask victims to carry when we demand that they step into the light. It is a reminder that justice must be paired with compassion, that systems must be strengthened to protect not only the bodies but also the futures of those who dare to speak.
Because self-preservation, the oldest, deepest instinct of all, should never be sacrificed in the pursuit of justice. And until our society can offer protection without collateral damage, support without stigma, and healing without humiliation, many victims will continue to choose silence, not out of weakness, but out of survival.
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
