Hauwau Shehu Maikeffi

Abuja has become home to many things, opportunity, ambition, art, community. But beneath it all is a growing string of stories. Stories of young women, many underage, who have walked into rooms expecting warmth and left with trauma etched across their memories. Stories of boys barely out of school, soft-spoken, well-dressed, articulate who understand charm well enough to manipulate with it. Stories of exploitation that don’t scream but leave echoes.

This is not new.

In universities across the city, the same names move in whispers. The same stories are told in group chats, in toilets, on late-night calls between friends who warn each other without “sounding dramatic.” The rules are often unspoken: Don’t be alone with him. Don’t accept drinks. Don’t let him drop you off.

And in the center of these stories is a dangerous assumption that because it’s not rape, it’s not abuse.

Baze University, Abuja , one of the capital’s most reputable private institutions  is no exception. It’s here that this story unfolds. It’s here that Khalil Ibrahim Abubakar, a 21-year-old student, became a recurring character in the testimonies of girls who never met each other but shared the same unease, the same language of discomfort. Their accounts over 18 in number follow a disturbingly similar pattern. They speak of pressure. Of touch without permission. Of “jokes” that lingered too long. Of being followed, being cornered, being broken in small ways that they are still learning how to name.

This is not fiction. This is what happened.

On the third day of Eid, March 30th, she went out with her sister and friends to Vibes by Anne, a restaurant in Wuse 2. It was supposed to be casual. Safe. Normal. Khalil was there. She didn’t expect what followed.

From the beginning, she was uncomfortable. He didn’t stop. She told him to. She moved away. He followed. When she went to the toilet to escape the weight of his presence, he followed her there too. She was crying. Shaking. Repeating “stop” like it was a prayer. But he didn’t.

And later, when confronted, his voice was still calm:

“I didn’t force her.”

“Consent isn’t a crime.”

As if “no” only matters when it’s shouted. As if discomfort doesn’t count. As if crying isn’t enough of a boundary. As if her silence, her freeze, her fear  somehow meant yes.

But no means no, even if whispered. Even if implied. Even if inconvenient. No means no whether it’s a stranger, a classmate, a friend, a girlfriend, even a wife. No is not a negotiation. No is not an invitation for persuasion. No is not a blurred line. It is the line.

The tragedy of this story isn’t just what happened, it’s that it keeps happening.

We tracked the incident through receipts. Payment logs. Location data. The records placed Khalil at the restaurant. But evidence rarely tells the full story. Not the way trauma does. Not the way trembling hands or unanswered messages do. Not the way a girl’s eyes lose their light when they realize speaking up might cost them peace, while silence only costs them themselves.

The girls who have come forward, anonymously, are not weak. They are tired. Tired of being told they’re imagining it. Tired of being told not to “blow it out of proportion.” Tired of hearing “but he’s not that type.” Tired of people protecting abusers because of who they seem to be.

Because Khalil, like many others, presents well. He is calm. Composed. Intelligent. And that calm is how he moves through spaces unchecked. But behind that demeanor is a pattern — one made possible by enablers, by institutions too slow to act, by a culture too committed to covering shame than confronting truth.

So this story, really, isn’t just about him. It’s about the systems that allow boys to become predators while calling them promising. It’s about the adults who look the other way. It’s about the women who are told to forgive and forget, while their dignity is quietly erased.

Sexual abuse is not always loud. It’s not always violent. Sometimes, it’s soft hands and sharp manipulation. Sometimes, it’s words twisted into excuses. Sometimes, it’s someone you know. Someone you trust.

We tell this story not to scandalize. Not to accuse. But to say: enough.

Enough of whispering warnings instead of changing systems. Enough of protecting reputations while girls lose themselves in silence. Enough of waiting until it’s too late.

This story doesn’t belong to one girl. It belongs to many. And they are still healing, still hiding, still hurting. So if we’re going to talk about accountability, it has to start with listening. It has to start with saying no to complicity. No to silence. No to rewriting the victim’s story to preserve the abuser’s image.

No must mean no.

And if I am the one to tell this story, it is because I carry the weight of too many girls whose voices were dismissed. Because I understand the language of fear, and the courage it takes to speak anyway. Because I know the cost of silence. And because someone must remember, must write, must refuse to look away  so that, finally, we all start listening.