In My Next Life, I Want to Be a Man: Ozoro Horror

Someone said this to me on Friday. And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.

This is what violence, rape, abuse, and hate on women has come to.

Women are already fighting. Every single day. Fighting to go to school. Fighting to work. Fighting to walk safely on the streets. Fighting just to exist. And yet, on Friday, in Ozoro, Delta State, it became terrifyingly visible.

For anyone outside Nigeria who hasn’t heard: there was an alleged “Rape Festival,” where women were told to stay indoors, and anyone found outside could be attacked. Videos circulated showing young girls and women being sexually assaulted in broad daylight.

Women woke up to danger just for stepping outside. Students going to class. Mothers buying food. Girls who didn’t even know about the festival. And suddenly, they were surrounded, grabbed, pulled, stripped, screaming, running.

Can you imagine that fear? Your own community turning against you. Your own streets becoming a place of terror. And almost 48 hours later, what do we have? Silence. People talking, yes. But not really listening. Not to the women. Not to their fear. Not to the trauma they are carrying.

And then someone says, “It’s culture.”

Culture? What kind of culture hurts women just for existing? What kind of culture teaches men it’s okay to hunt women while the world watches? What kind of culture leaves women helpless and calls it tradition?

That’s not culture. That’s cruelty.

And it’s not just Ozoro. It’s everywhere.

In the workplace, women work harder, take on more responsibility, and still get paid less than men. Their ideas are ignored or stolen. Their achievements minimized. They are passed over for promotions. They are harassed. And it’s called normal.

At school, girls struggle to be taken seriously. Even bright, hardworking girls are judged differently, held to higher standards, or told they will fail because they are “girls.”

At home, some fathers value their sons over their daughters. Families celebrate the birth of boys and act disappointed when girls are born. Some women have five girls and are still pressured by family to try for a boy — as if being a woman is somehow not enough. Girls grow up feeling their worth depends on male approval, male safety, male desire.

In health care, women are dismissed. Their pain ignored. Their concerns minimized. In government services or offices, women are often treated like outsiders, like they don’t belong, like they are second-class citizens.

On the streets, women have to fight to walk safely. Every trip, every step, carries risk. Harassment, assault, catcalling, threats, these are daily realities.

And everywhere, society asks women to stay quiet. “Why do you always talk about women?” they ask. “Why can’t you just let it go?”

This is why we keep advocating. This is why we speak. Because women live these realities every day. Because when we ignore these issues, we allow them to continue. Because talking about women’s struggles is not complaining, it is survival.

Someone on Friday said, “In my next life, I would love to come as a man.”

And that’s the truth. Being born a woman can feel like a curse.

A curse to be undervalued.

A curse to be unsafe.

A curse to fight constantly, to be seen, to be heard, to survive.

A curse to have your worth measured against men.

A curse to live in a world where violence is excused as “tradition” and where everyday life can feel like danger.

Culture should protect. Tradition should guide. Workplaces should support. Families should cherish. Communities should defend. Schools should empower. Governments should enforce safety.

But when all of these fail women, when harm is normalized, when society continues to value men over women, we have to speak. We have to act.

The women are still living it. The fear. The trauma. The exhaustion. The anger. The frustration.

We cannot stay quiet. Staying quiet is permission. And permission is what allows this to happen, in Ozoro, in offices, in schools, at home, on the streets, in hospitals, anywhere women walk and wonder if they will make it home safely.

This is the reality of being a woman. And it is not okay.

So here’s what we have to do:

• Speak up. Every time you see injustice, call it out.

• Protect women. Defend their right to exist safely in every space.

• Challenge the excuses. Tradition, culture, family pressure, none of it justifies harm.

• Demand accountability. For men who attack, for leaders who stay silent, for communities that allow this to continue.

• Teach boys and men to respect, to protect, to value women.

Because being born a woman should never feel like a curse. It should feel like opportunity. It should feel like safety. It should feel like worth.

And until that is true, we will keep speaking. We will keep fighting. And we will not be quiet.