Written by: Dr Kemi Dasilva-Ibru and Gloria Joacquim
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the WARIF Survivor Stories Series, a monthly feature where stories of survivors of rape and sexual violence are shared to motivate and encourage survivors to speak their truth without the fear of judgment or stigmatisation and to educate the public on the sheer magnitude of this problem in our society. The Women at Risk International Foundation (WARIF) is a non-profit organisation set up in response to the extremely high incidence of rape, sexual violence, and human trafficking of young girls and women in our society. WARIF is tackling this issue through a holistic approach that covers health, education, and community service initiatives.
WARIF aids survivors of rape and sexual violence through the WARIF Centre – a haven where trained professionals are present full-time, 6 days a week, including public holidays, to offer immediate medical care, forensic medical examinations, psychosocial counselling, and welfare services which include shelter, legal aid, and vocational skills training. These services are provided FREE of charge to any survivor who walks into the Centre.
From Silence to Strength.
I was born and raised in Lagos, Nigeria, although my family is originally from the northern part of the country. I am the firstborn in a family of seven—my parents and my five younger siblings. For a long time, I carried a secret I didn’t know how to tell anyone. It started when I was just 11 years old.
At that age, my parents employed a religious cleric to teach my younger sister and me Arabic at home. His name was “Alfa Kundus.” He would come to our house to teach us while my parents were away at work.
I remember the first time he abused me. What began as an ordinary lesson quickly became something I could not understand as a child. Alfa Kudus brought out his phone and played a pornographic video. As the video played, he began touching my breasts and caressing my body and raped me. I was only 11. I did not understand why an adult who was supposed to teach and protect me was doing these things to me. I was frightened, confused, and helpless.
After several thrusts, he ejaculated. At the time, I did not understand what the whitish, slippery substance was. I only learned much later that it was semen.
Sadly, that was not the last time. Whenever Alfa Kundus came to teach us, he would rape me each time. I became more afraid and felt trapped. He made sure I understood that I was not supposed to tell anyone.
He threatened to kill me if I ever spoke about what he was doing to me. He also told me that if my parents found out, they would die mysteriously.
Those threats terrified me. So I kept quiet.
I was just a child carrying a secret that was far too heavy for me to carry. I was afraid of what he might do to me, but I was also deeply afraid for my younger sister. I wondered if he would hurt her too. I had no idea how to ask for help. I only knew that something terrible was happening to me, and I was too scared to tell anyone.
Two years later, the abuse took an even more horrific turn.
The same cleric began placing me on his lap, pulling my clothes apart, and raping me. He would rape me repeatedly whenever he came to tutor us in Islamic studies. It happened so many times that I eventually lost count of the number of times he raped me.
I endured the pain and the fear in silence, partly because I believed I was protecting my younger sister. In my young and frightened mind, I thought that if I continued allowing him to abuse me, he would leave my baby sister alone. I thought I could somehow shield her by becoming his victim.
As I grew older, I finally summoned the courage to tell my mother. She, in turn, told my father. I had hoped that, at last, someone would believe me. I hoped my nightmare would finally come to an end.
Instead, my parents did not believe me.
They were deeply devoted to their religious beliefs, and they warned me never to defame the character of a well-respected religious leader, a family man, and a highly respected figure in society. Those were their exact words.
Their response broke my heart.
The people I had trusted to protect me had chosen to protect the reputation of the man who was destroying me. From that moment, I became irritated by anything associated with religion or religious leaders. I made a vow to myself that once I was old enough to leave my parents’ home, I would stay away from anything that reminded me of religion.
But until then, the abuse continued.
I continued to endure the painful rape experiences, living with constant anxiety, insomnia, and fear of the man I knew I would have to face again. I constantly wondered when it would all end. Some days, the pain became so overwhelming that I thought about taking my own life. I nursed those thoughts several times, and even now, I do not know how I found the strength to keep going.
Then, during the final year of my secondary education, a small ray of hope appeared.
Despite everything I had been through, I sat for my WAEC and JAMB examinations and passed with excellent results. To me, it felt like a miracle. I had struggled academically for years, not because I lacked intelligence—I knew I was brilliant—but because the abuse and trauma I was living with had deeply affected my ability to concentrate and perform well in school.
So, when I gained admission at the age of 19 to study Pharmacy at one of Nigeria’s prestigious universities, my joy was beyond words.
For the first time in a long while, I saw a way out.
I left home proudly for the university and told my parents that I would no longer participate in any lessons organised by the cleric. They agreed, perhaps because of the allegations I had made against him earlier.
Although I was finally away from him, I soon realised that the abuse had left deep wounds inside me.
It affected the way I related to men. I struggled to build positive friendships or relationships with male figures because, in my mind, I saw them all as potential predators—men waiting for an opportunity to harm or exploit women. The early exposure to sexual abuse left me with insecurities that I still struggle with. Even now, as I approach the end of my university education, I am still learning how to deal with the effects of what happened to me.
Then came another event that brought the past crashing back into my life.
During the last Ileya celebration, my parents hosted members of our extended family who had travelled from different parts of Nigeria and abroad to celebrate with us. The house was full of people, laughter, and celebration. Food was abundant: local, continental, and international dishes, and everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time.
We were enjoying ourselves so much that we did not realise how late it had become.
As night fell, some relatives who lived within the city began saying their goodbyes and thanking my parents for being wonderful hosts. Those who had travelled from outside the city were given rooms in the house so they could spend the night and leave the following day.
I was exhausted.
After the long day, I went to my room, showered, and prepared to sleep.
I do not know how long I had been asleep when I suddenly felt a heavy weight on my body.
I opened my eyes. And there he was.
It was Alfa Kundus—the same man who had abused me throughout my childhood.
He was naked and on top of me.
For a moment, everything felt unreal. Then, fear and shock gave way to instinct. I pushed him away and screamed for help.
My parents and siblings rushed into my room. They froze when they saw what was happening.
He had been allowed to spend the night in our home because he had told my parents that he wanted to say a special prayer for our family.
At that moment, the image they had held of him as a respected religious leader, a family man, and a highly respected member of society was shattered before their eyes.
My mother broke down. My parents immediately reported the incident to the police, and he was arrested.
When we returned home, my parents asked me to forgive them for not believing me years earlier. But there was another painful truth waiting to come to light.
My younger sister finally opened up.
She revealed that after I left for the university, the same man had begun raping her too. The very thing I had spent years fearing had happened. Despite everything I had endured in the hope of protecting her, he had eventually turned his attention to her. She also revealed that he had taken her to a slum where she underwent abortions after becoming pregnant by him on two occasions.
My sister and I were referred to the WARIF Centre through the police, and that marked the beginning of our healing journey.
For the first time, we received the kind of support we desperately needed.
We were given free medical examinations, psychosocial counselling, and follow-up care. The counselling sessions became an important part of my healing. They were eye-opening and helped me begin to understand something I had struggled with for years: none of what happened to me was my fault.
My counsellor encouraged me to believe in myself again. She taught me to appreciate myself, to recognise my strength, and to be grateful that I had survived those dreadful and horrific years.
Eight years. Eight years of continuous sexual abuse.
For so long, those years had defined my life. But slowly, I began to understand they didn’t have to define my future.
Today, my goal is to practise self-care, celebrate myself more, and take my healing journey one step at a time, just as my counsellor taught me.
I also attended group therapy sessions at WARIF, where I met other survivors of sexual abuse. We shared our experiences, bonded with one another, and learned new coping mechanisms. For the first time, I realised that I was not alone. I found a community of people who understood pain, survival, healing, and the difficult journey of rebuilding one’s life.
They became part of my support system, and I am deeply grateful to the staff and management of WARIF for helping provide that support.
Meanwhile, justice eventually came.
The cleric was found guilty of the crimes committed against other survivors and me. During the case, other people he had raped over the years also came forward to testify against him. In the end, he was sentenced to life imprisonment.
Today, I am back at school and in my final year. My academic performance has improved tremendously compared to the years when I was silently carrying the weight of abuse and trauma. I am hopeful of graduating with a First Class.
My younger sister is also moving forward. She is currently preparing for her WAEC examinations.
Our journey has not been easy, and healing does not happen overnight. There are still difficult days, painful memories, and moments when the past feels closer than I would like. But I am no longer the frightened 11-year-old girl who believed she had to suffer in silence.
I survived. My sister survived. And today, we are learning to live again.
I am learning to love myself, believe in myself, and look forward to the life ahead. My past is a part of my story, but it is no longer the only thing that defines who I am.
I am a survivor. And I am still healing, still growing, and still moving forward—one step at a time.
Thank you to the management and staff of WARIF for helping me find hope again and for giving my life a new meaning.
*Real name of the Survivor changed for confidentiality
Dear Survivor, please know that you are not alone, and it is not your fault. Help is available. If you have been raped or know someone who has, please visit us at:
The WARIF Centre
6, Turton Street, off Thorburn Avenue, Sabo, Yaba.
or call our 24-hour confidential helpline on
0800-9210-0009
