Every nation is judged, not by the wealth of its men or the height of its skyscrapers, but by how it treats its women. In Nigeria, this truth cuts deep. Despite decades of independence, democracy, and modernization, many Nigerian women still wake up every day to fight for the most basic rights—rights that should have been guaranteed at birth. The right to own property, to inherit land, to live free from violence, and to be treated with dignity. These are not privileges. They are fundamental human entitlements that our laws recognize, but our society often denies.
For the ordinary Nigerian woman, these issues are not theoretical. They are woven into daily life. They are present in the widow whose in-laws drive her from her late husband’s home, insisting that she “belongs” to another man. They are seen in the young girl forced into early marriage under the banner of tradition. They echo in the cries of women battered in silence because “it’s a family matter.” They are felt in offices where women are denied promotions or equal pay because of gender. Behind every statistic is a human story—a mother, a sister, a daughter—each fighting for space in a society that too often misunderstands her worth.
Legally speaking, Nigeria does not lack protective frameworks. The 1999 Constitution of the Federal Republic of Nigeria (as amended) is clear in its commitment to equality. Section 42 explicitly forbids discrimination on the basis of sex, religion, or ethnic origin, while Section 34 guarantees the right to dignity of the human person—a right that naturally includes freedom from domestic abuse, harmful widowhood practices, and degrading treatment. The Constitution’s language is powerful: it speaks of equality, fairness, and justice. Yet, the challenge lies not in the words written on paper, but in the will to make those words breathe in real life.
In 2015, Nigeria took a bold step by enacting the Violence Against Persons (Prohibition) Act, popularly known as the VAPP Act. This law was a watershed moment—it expanded protection beyond domestic violence to include harmful practices like female genital mutilation, emotional and psychological abuse, and even harmful traditional widowhood rites. It also criminalized spousal battery and provided clear mechanisms for victims to seek justice. However, since the VAPP Act is a federal law, it initially applied only within the Federal Capital Territory, Abuja. For the law to have nationwide effect, each state must domesticate it through its own legislative assembly. As of 2024, more than thirty states have done so, but a few still lag behind—leaving many women unprotected simply because of where they were born.
Inheritance remains one of the most sensitive fronts in this struggle. Customary laws, deeply rooted in patriarchal traditions, continue to deny women equal inheritance rights in several Nigerian communities. Under some native customs, daughters are not permitted to inherit land from their fathers, and widows may be forced to marry a male relative of their deceased husbands to retain property. These practices are not just outdated—they are unconstitutional. The landmark case of Mojekwu v. Mojekwu (1997) 7 NWLR (Pt. 512) 283 remains one of the most courageous judicial pronouncements in this regard. In that case, the Court of Appeal condemned the “Oli-Ekpe” custom of Nnewi in Anambra State, which denied female children the right to inherit property. Justice Niki Tobi, in his profound wisdom, described the practice as “repugnant to natural justice, equity, and good conscience.” His words continue to echo through Nigeria’s legal corridors as a moral compass, reminding society that culture must bow to conscience when it conflicts with fairness.
Nigeria stands today at a crossroads between its traditions and its constitutional ideals. We cannot continue to claim democracy while some citizens are still treated as invisible.
Real-life stories give flesh to these legal battles. Take the case of Ngozi (not her real name), a widow in Imo State who was forced out of her matrimonial home after her husband’s death. When she sought legal help, she was told that her case fell under “customary matters” and was better resolved by elders. But what happens when the same elders believe she has no right to own land? This is the dilemma faced by thousands of Nigerian women—caught between modern law and ancient customs, between constitutional promises and cultural expectations.
Domestic violence, too, remains a silent epidemic. Many women do not report abuse because they fear stigma, financial dependence, or simply because the police themselves often dismiss such cases as “marital issues.” Yet, Section 19 of the VAPP Act defines spousal battery as a criminal offense, punishable by imprisonment. Organizations like the International Federation of Women Lawyers (FIDA), the Women’s Rights Advancement and Protection Alternative (WRAPA), and the Women’s Aid Collective (WACOL) continue to fight for survivors by offering free legal representation, safe shelters, and public education. Their work, though noble, is not enough without strong state support.
In matters of family and marriage, the Matrimonial Causes Act provides some safeguards for women, especially during divorce, separation, or custody disputes. It ensures that issues of maintenance, child custody, and division of property are determined with fairness. But again, enforcement is uneven. Court processes are slow, and many women lack the resources to pursue justice. Justice delayed, in such cases, becomes justice denied.
So, what does all this mean for the ordinary Nigerian citizen? It means every woman must know her rights and every man must respect them. The Constitution is not a book for lawyers—it is a social contract for every Nigerian. If a woman is denied inheritance, she has the right to challenge it. If she is assaulted, she can report it. If she is discriminated against at work, she can demand redress. For the men, this is not an attack on tradition; it is an invitation to build a fairer society where their daughters can rise without fear. For leaders and policymakers, it is a reminder that law without enforcement is an illusion, and equality without protection is a lie.
In truth, protecting women’s rights is not just a women’s issue—it is a national survival strategy. No country can grow while half its population is silenced or sidelined. A society that empowers its women invests in its own future. When women are safe, educated, and economically independent, communities thrive. Children grow up in stability. Families become stronger.
Nigeria stands today at a crossroads between its traditions and its constitutional ideals. We cannot continue to claim democracy while some citizens are still treated as invisible. The call to action is clear: challenge discriminatory customs, support the domestication of protective laws in every state, educate our communities, and teach our sons to see women not as property but as partners in progress.
Let us remember the words of Justice Tobi in Mojekwu v. Mojekwu: “Any form of societal discrimination on grounds of sex is inconsistent with the spirit of the Constitution.” Equality must not only be preached in our courts but practised in our homes, schools, and communities. The law has spoken. The conscience of the nation must now listen.
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