Mercy Philip will never forget January 12, 2017.
One mother.
One daughter.
One neighbour.
One day that split childhood in two.
And after that day—
rocks, laughter, whispers,
shame thrown at the child
as if telling the truth
was the crime.
Na pikin be that o!
A girl sent away to family
so she could go to school—
in Benue,
she never came home.
Tell me,
what kind of world
looks at a child
and sees a target?
Wetin you dey do with pikin?
I counted them.
Not numbers.
Children.
A thirteen-year-old in Lagos.
A six-month-old baby
who could not even say help.
A six-year-old
waiting after school.
A five-year-old.
A nine-year-old.
A ten-year-old.
An eleven-year-old.
A twelve-year-old.
A fourteen-year-old.
A seventeen-year-old.
Different birthdays.
Different houses.
Different states.
Same stolen childhood.
From Lagos to Bauchi.
From Anambra to Abuja.
From Rivers to Ogun.
From Benue to Delta.
Different streets.
Different uniforms.
Different family names.
But the same question:
Who taught you that a child is yours to hurt?
Some children were beaten
until their bodies could barely carry them.
Some were burned.
Some were tied up.
Some were locked away.
Some were beaten for schoolwork.
Some were beaten for food.
Some were beaten over money.
Some were beaten
because an adult woke up angry
and decided that a child's body
was the safest place
to pour that anger.
You no get shame?
An eleven-year-old boy
was reportedly tied with rope
and beaten with a stick and cable.
A ten-year-old boy
was reportedly beaten so badly
he could barely sit,
his hands swollen from the violence.
A ten-year-old boy in Oyo
was reportedly beaten
until his arms were broken
and then burned.
A two-year-old girl in Anambra
was reportedly flogged at school
until she suffered serious injuries.
An eight-year-old boy
was beaten at school
and fell into a coma,
He did not wake up.
A thirteen-year-old boy
was reportedly struck repeatedly
on the head with a bucket handle.
He did not survive.
And still—
some people say,
“Na discipline.”
No.
Call it what it is.
Violence.
Call it what it is.
Abuse.
Call it what it is.
A child being failed by the adults
who were supposed to protect them.
And then there are the children
whose names never reached a newspaper.
The child behind the locked door.
The child who learned
to stop crying loudly.
The child who flinches
when an adult raises a hand.
The child who goes to school
pretending everything is fine.
The child who thinks
pain is normal
because pain is all they know.
Those children count too.
I counted them—
not because numbers are enough,
but because silence is not.
One report.
Another report.
Another child.
Another state.
Another family saying,
“Please help my child.”
And how many never got the chance to say it?
How many were told:
Don't tell anybody.
Don't disgrace the family.
Don't make trouble.
Respect your elders.
Respect?
Respect is not obedience to abuse.
Family is not permission.
Teacher is not permission.
Pastor is not permission.
Parent is not permission.
Relative is not permission.
Poverty is not permission.
Culture is not permission.
Nothing gives an adult the right to destroy a child's body.
And to the people who see a bruised child
and look away—
why?
To the people who hear crying
through the next door
and say, “It is not my business”—
why?
To the people who know
and choose silence
because the perpetrator is family—
why?
To every institution
that protects reputation
before it protects a child—
SHAME.
Because children are not family secrets.
Children are not sacrifices
for somebody else's reputation.
Children are not punching bags.
Children are not servants.
Children are not property.
Children are not proof
that an adult has power.
Children are children.
Before the money.
Before the surname.
Before the religion.
Before the tribe.
Before the school uniform.
Before the whole damn argument
about who is right—
there is a child.
And the child should have been safe.
So hear me clearly:
A child is under eighteen.
A child is learning.
A child is growing.
A child is trusting you.
A child should be allowed
to be afraid of exams,
not afraid of home.
A child should cry
because they fell down,
not because someone put them there.
A child should remember
their childhood—
not survive it.
Na pikin be that o!
So when you see them—
protect them.
When they speak—
believe them.
When they are hurt—
help them.
When they say no—
listen.
When you know—
do something.
Because another child
should not have to die
before we decide
that their life mattered.
Another child
should not have to bleed
before we call it abuse.
Another child
should not have to disappear
before we ask where they went.
Another child
should not have to become an adult
just to tell us
that childhood was taken from them.
Your mate no dey your age?
Then act like it.
Leave children alone.
Leave their bodies alone.
Leave their innocence alone.
Leave their childhood alone.
And if you cannot protect a child—
at least do not become the reason
they need protection.
LEAVE CHILDREN ALONE.
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