In a land where the mango tree spreads its arms, a little girl reached out—not for gold, not for silver, but for a fruit her ancestors planted. A young man, hardened by years of disappointment, saw not a child but a thief. His hands, meant for toil and tenderness, became instruments of torment. He struck—not with reason, but with rage. What was truly stolen that day? A mango, or mercy? In that moment, the world glimpsed an ugly truth long hidden in plain sight—poverty and patriarchy joining forces to break the weak while sparing the wicked.
C. S. Lewis once wrote, “What you see and hear depends a good deal on where you are standing.” The man in Maiduguri stood where many men stand—on the edge of frustration, his anger festering like an open wound. He could not strike those who had truly robbed him: the politicians who plunder, the system that suffocates, the past that chains him. So, he turned his fury on the easiest target—a defenseless girl. How did we get here, to a world where protectors have become predators, where men who should shelter the weak now wield whips against them? Where have the shepherds gone, leaving the lambs to wolves dressed as fathers and neighbours?
Christ himself warned, “Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.” (Matthew 25:45). The girl who was beaten—was she not Christ in disguise? The world praises noble men like Nelson Mandela, who endured prison yet refused to let bitterness consume him. Yet, in our streets and homes, men rot from within, their strength turned to cruelty. They break what they should build, wound what they should heal. And all the while, the true thieves—the corrupt, the oppressors—sit on golden thrones, watching the poor fight over crumbs.
A wise Igala proverb says, “The cane used to beat the senior wife is hanging on the roof for the junior wife.” Today, a girl is beaten for plucking mangoes. Tomorrow, a mother is cast out for birthing only daughters. The next day, a woman is dragged through the market for daring to demand justice. Injustice is like wildfire—it spreads wherever silence allows. When men lose their sense of righteousness, homes become battlefields, and streets become graveyards of stolen dreams. Yet, they tell us the real problem is not their rage but the women and children who “provoke” them.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who stood against the evils of his time, once said, “The test of the morality of a society is what it does for its children.” And here we are, failing that test every day. A man can beat a girl senseless, and by dusk, the world moves on. But what happens to her? Does she grow up fearing men, cursing mango trees, teaching her daughters to run instead of reach? Or does she become like Hagar in the wilderness, crying to a God who sees, waiting for justice to spring forth like water from a rock?
“A broken spirit who can bear?” (Proverbs 18:14). Nigeria’s streets are filled with broken spirits—girls who were never safe, women who were never heard, men who were taught that strength is in fists, not in forgiveness. The truth is bitter, but until we swallow it, the sickness will remain. Until fathers learn to love, brothers learn to protect, and leaders learn to serve, our mango trees will keep bearing blood instead of fruit.
Yet, even in darkness, a candle flickers. Some still rise—like Malala, like Esther, like Mary Slessor—turning pain into power, fear into fuel. The battle is not just to punish one man but to awaken a nation. For every girl beaten today, a woman will rise tomorrow. And when she does, may she not seek vengeance, but justice. May she remind the world that though the hands of men can wound, the hands of God can heal.
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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