Sometimes the bruises are hidden. Sometimes the screams are muffled behind locked doors, loud music, forced smiles and church photographs. But domestic violence leaves traces everywhere. In the eyes of frightened children. In the silence of women too afraid to leave. In the shame of men too embarrassed to speak. And too often, in obituaries that come far too soon.
There is something profoundly heartbreaking about watching people die slowly inside relationships that were supposed to give them safety, companionship and peace.
Not every abusive relationship ends in death, but many leave behind emotional graves. Broken confidence. Fear. Anxiety. Depression. Children who grow up believing violence is normal. Women who lose themselves trying to preserve marriages. Men who suffer in silence because society tells them they are not supposed to be victims.
When gospel singer Osinachi Nwachukwu died on April 8, 2022, Nigerians were initially told she died of throat cancer. What later emerged was far more disturbing. Investigations revealed years of alleged abuse, silence, fear and suffering inside her marriage. Her children reportedly spoke of repeated violence. Eventually, her husband, Peter Nwachukwu, was convicted and sentenced to death by hanging in April 2025. But even with the judgment, what exactly was won?
Osinachi is gone. Her husband is also facing death. Their children are left carrying trauma heavy enough to last a lifetime. They watched their mother suffer. They reportedly testified against their father. They lost both parents in different ways.
And perhaps that is the cruellest part of domestic violence. Even when justice comes, it often arrives too late.
The recent death of 28-year-old Omerebere Faith Okafor again reopened painful conversations Nigerians keep avoiding. Faith reportedly married at 17 to a much older man and, according to messages she allegedly shared before her death, endured years of violence, humiliation and fear. She reportedly spoke about repeated beatings during pregnancy and feeling trapped with four children and nowhere to turn.
Now she is dead too. Again, children are left motherless. Again, people are asking questions after the funeral. Again, society is shocked after ignoring warning signs.
One of the most painful things about abusive relationships is that many victims do not stay because they enjoy suffering. They stay because they are afraid. Afraid of poverty. Afraid of shame. Afraid of starting over. Afraid of raising children alone. Afraid of religious condemnation. Afraid nobody will believe them. Some have been emotionally broken down until leaving no longer feels possible.
Others stay because everybody around them keeps urging endurance instead of escape.
“Manage.”
“Pray harder.”
“He will change.”
“Think about your children.”
“What will society say?”
“No marriage is perfect.”
But what becomes of the children people claim they are staying for?
Nneka, an only child, once described how her parents fought almost every night throughout her childhood. She remembered waking repeatedly to hear her mother muttering in Igbo through tears , “Ọ ka m si je?” “Ọ ka m si je?” “Ọ ka m si je?” (Is this the result of my journey?)
Years later, the emotional scars remain.
Children raised in violent homes often carry invisible wounds into adulthood. Many struggle with fear, anxiety, trust issues, emotional instability and unhealthy relationship patterns. Some grow up normalising abuse because violence was the language spoken at home.
This is why domestic violence is never only between husband and wife. The children are always inside the violence too, whether physically or psychologically.
The tragic story of Felicia Temitope Odu, a lawyer reportedly abused for over two decades before her death, again highlighted how religion and social expectations sometimes keep victims trapped in dangerous marriages. During a memorial walk held in her honour by members of the Nigerian Bar Association Lagos branch, participants stressed that faith should never become a death sentence. That message matters.
Leaving an abusive relationship is not failure. Staying alive is not failure. Seeking safety is not failure. And domestic violence is not only about women.
Men suffer too, though many endure quietly because society mocks male victims or refuses to believe them. The killing of Bilyaminu Bello in Abuja in 2017 by his wife, Maryam Sanda, shocked the country and reminded Nigerians that violence can exist in any direction. Abuse is abuse, whether the victim is male or female.
This conversation should never become a battle between genders. It is about humanity, safety, dignity and emotional wellbeing.
Nigeria’s Violence Against Persons Prohibition Act was supposed to be a major turning point when it was signed into law in 2015. The law criminalises various forms of abuse including spousal battery, emotional abuse and harmful practices. But implementation remains weak and inconsistent.
Too often, police officers still treat domestic violence as a “family matter.” Survivors are encouraged to settle privately with abusers instead of pursuing justice. Some victims are blamed. Others are shamed into silence. Investigations are poorly handled. Shelters are limited. Many states still lack effective structures to support survivors. And even where laws exist, culture frequently overpowers justice.
Some communities still see wife beating as discipline. Some religious teachings are distorted to encourage dangerous endurance. Shockingly, Section 55(1)(d) of the Penal Code still contains language suggesting a husband may “correct” his wife provided grievous harm is not inflicted. That alone reveals how deeply normalised violence has been historically.
But laws alone cannot solve this crisis. The deeper issue is that many people have nowhere to go.
How does a woman with four children leave when she has no income, no shelter, no support system and no family willing to take her in? How does a man report abuse when he knows society may ridicule him? How does somebody emotionally battered for years suddenly find the courage to walk away?
This is why conversations about domestic violence must move beyond outrage after deaths. Nigeria needs functioning shelters, emergency hotlines, trauma counselling, financial support systems, legal aid, relocation support and long-term rehabilitation for survivors and their children.
Victims do not just need rescue. They need rebuilding. Therapy should not be seen as luxury. Children exposed to prolonged domestic violence often require deep psychological support. Many survivors struggle with post-traumatic stress, panic attacks, depression, emotional numbness and fear long after they physically escape abuse.
The truth is painful. Some people survive abusive relationships physically but never recover emotionally. And perhaps this is the question society must finally confront honestly:
Why do we keep teaching people to preserve marriages at the cost of preserving themselves?
Marriage should never become a place where people slowly disappear. No relationship is worth dying for. No child deserves to grow up watching violence become normal. No culture, religion or societal expectation should demand human sacrifice in the name of endurance.
Sometimes the bravest thing a person can do is leave. Sometimes survival is the real success story.
A lawyer and equity advocate, Lillian is the publisher of Law & Society Magazine. She can be reached at Lillianokenwa@gmail.com
