Delta Man on the Run After Impregnating His Daughter

 

When news broke from Otulu, a quiet community in Delta State, that a man had impregnated his own daughter, Nigeria once again confronted the dark, recurring horror of incest and sexual abuse within families. The story, shared by activist Harrison Gwamnishu through his verified platforms, jolted the public conscience not just because of its unspeakable cruelty but because of what it revealed about the fractures within the family institution — the supposed foundation of morality, love, and safety.

According to Gwamnishu, the young woman — now pregnant — is safe and receiving care through his NGO’s support network. The perpetrator, her father, fled immediately after the incident came to light, sparking both outrage and a renewed call for urgent legal and psychological intervention in cases of sexual abuse within domestic spaces.

As authorities hunt for the suspect, the case raises piercing questions: How could a man cross such an unimaginable line? How do we as a society handle cases where blood ties become instruments of trauma? And most importantly, what systems exist — or fail to exist — to protect vulnerable young women from predators within their own families?

This is not just one man’s crime; it is a symptom of Nigeria’s silent epidemic of incest, exploitation, and moral decay under the weight of poverty, patriarchy, and failed enforcement.

Eyewitness accounts from Otulu describe the accused as a quiet, middle-aged man, known within the neighborhood for his withdrawn demeanor and temperamental behavior. His daughter, whose identity is withheld for privacy reasons, had been living with him after her mother reportedly separated from him years ago. Like many rural or semi-urban homes in Nigeria, theirs was a fragile family unit held together by proximity and poverty rather than affection or support.

It was within that fragile domestic space that repeated sexual abuse allegedly began. Neighbors reported noticing strange behavioral changes in the girl — withdrawal, silence, and visible discomfort around her father — but no one dared ask questions. In conservative communities like Otulu, family matters are often seen as sacred and private. Even when violence or abuse is suspected, interference is discouraged, especially when the abuser is a respected elder.

By the time the pregnancy was discovered, the damage was irreversible. The girl reportedly confessed to being abused by her father over an extended period, finally revealing the truth after realizing she was carrying his child. Shock and disbelief swept through the community. The father vanished days later, abandoning his home, leaving his daughter’s fate in the hands of strangers and the compassion of activists.

Human rights advocate Harrison Gwamnishu, a prominent figure in grassroots activism across southern Nigeria, immediately stepped in. Known for his hands-on approach to justice for victims of abuse and police brutality, Gwamnishu publicized the case on his social media platforms, demanding the arrest and prosecution of the suspect.

He confirmed that the survivor is under the protection of his NGO and is receiving counseling, shelter, and medical care.

In his statement, Gwamnishu wrote:

“This case is another reminder of the evil that happens in silence within families. Incest is not just immoral; it is a crime punishable under Nigerian law. We call on the Delta State Police Command to immediately arrest and prosecute this man to ensure justice and to prevent further abuse.”

His words captured the gravity of what is often dismissed in rural Nigerian society as “family shame” rather than a felony. His intervention transformed what could have remained a hushed scandal into a national conversation about the hidden epidemic of sexual crimes within families.

Under Sections 214 and 390 of the Nigerian Criminal Code, incest — defined as sexual intercourse between close blood relatives such as parents and children, or siblings — is a felony punishable by imprisonment of up to seven years. Where the victim is under 18, as is likely in this case, the act also constitutes defilement or rape, carrying penalties of life imprisonment under Section 218 of the Code and Section 31 of the Child Rights Act.

Legal experts note that incest cases are difficult to prosecute because they are often underreported, and when reported, victims face pressure from family members to recant statements or “forgive” the offender in the name of family unity. This culture of silence effectively shields perpetrators and perpetuates the cycle of abuse.

Barrister Ejiro Akpotohwo, a legal practitioner based in Warri, explains:

“Our justice system is structurally biased against vulnerable women and children. Incest cases rarely see the light of day in court because victims are intimidated, families are complicit, and communities prefer concealment over confrontation. Until we reform both our social attitudes and legal processes, these crimes will persist.

The trauma of incest runs deep. Psychologists describe it as one of the most damaging forms of sexual abuse because it destroys not only a person’s sense of bodily autonomy but also their foundational trust in family. When the abuser is a father — the figure traditionally seen as protector — the psychological harm can last a lifetime.

Dr. Obianuju Eze, a clinical psychologist at the University of Benin Teaching Hospital, notes that victims of incest often struggle with complex PTSD, depression, and dissociative disorders.

“Many of these survivors lose faith in relationships, marriage, and even the concept of love. The trauma isn’t just sexual; it’s existential. It warps their identity, sense of worth, and ability to connect emotionally with others.”

She adds that Nigeria lacks sufficient trauma counseling services, especially in rural areas. NGOs like Gwamnishu’s have stepped into that void, but without institutional support from government agencies, such interventions remain limited.

In most African societies, the family is regarded as the nucleus of moral education and discipline. Yet that very reverence can become a cloak for abusers. In rural Delta, as in many Nigerian communities, conversations about sex, consent, and abuse are taboo. Children grow up without the language to describe inappropriate behavior, leaving them defenseless when victimized.

Cultural anthropologist Professor Patience Udo, from the University of Port Harcourt, observes:

“We have a culture that idolizes parental authority. A child cannot question a father, even when she feels unsafe. That silence is how abuse thrives. We call it respect, but sometimes it is repression.”

Incest is not new in Nigeria. Similar cases have emerged in Edo, Akwa Ibom, and Anambra in recent years — fathers impregnating daughters, uncles defiling nieces, and even mothers complicit in covering up such acts. Yet, only a handful lead to convictions. The rest are buried beneath layers of shame, fear, and patriarchal denial.

Beyond morality and culture, poverty often plays a central role in sexual abuse within families. Economic desperation makes victims dependent on their abusers. When the abuser controls food, shelter, and safety, resistance becomes dangerous.

In Otulu, where subsistence farming and petty trade dominate livelihoods, many households live on less than ₦1,000 per day. For the girl involved, her father was not just her abuser — he was her provider. Reporting him would have meant losing the only source of survival.

Sociologist Chinedu Nwosu explains this vicious cycle:

“Poverty weakens moral resistance. In poor households, abuse is often rationalized as ‘family problem’ because everyone depends on the abuser economically. Until economic empowerment is paired with education, sexual violence will continue to hide behind poverty.”

Otulu residents remain divided. While many condemned the act outright, others reportedly urged discretion, saying “it should not bring disgrace to the family.” This moral ambivalence reflects a broader national crisis — the erosion of collective outrage against evil.

Religious leaders in Delta have since issued statements. The Anglican Communion of the region called for “spiritual cleansing of the family and justice for the victim,” while some Pentecostal pastors used the incident to sermonize about “the end times” and moral decay.

But activists argue that moral outrage without legal action is empty. Gwamnishu has urged police authorities to declare the suspect wanted publicly, noting that “justice must be seen and felt, not preached.”

Delta State Police Command confirmed awareness of the case but has yet to announce an arrest. The typical bureaucratic inertia in sexual abuse investigations — delays in evidence collection, reluctance of officers, and corruption — often kills justice before it starts.

In many cases, local police discourage families from pursuing charges, citing “family reconciliation.” This attitude contradicts Section 1 of the Violence Against Persons (Prohibition) Act, which criminalizes sexual and domestic abuse regardless of family relationships.

Without proper investigation, forensic evidence, or child protection officers, cases like this collapse before reaching court. The result? Perpetrators walk free while survivors live with lifelong trauma.

While official statistics on incest are scarce due to underreporting, social workers believe the problem is far more widespread than acknowledged. A 2023 UNICEF report estimated that one in four Nigerian girls experiences sexual violence before age 18, often by someone she knows.

NGO data from states like Delta, Cross River, and Akwa Ibom reveal recurring patterns — uncles, stepfathers, cousins, and even biological fathers violating young girls. These crimes are not limited to rural areas; urban centers like Lagos and Port Harcourt have also recorded multiple incest cases in the past five years.

Social media has become the only space where many victims’ stories surface, thanks to activists like Harrison Gwamnishu, Dorothy Njemanze, and Mirabel Centre. But digital advocacy cannot replace institutional accountability.

One of the more troubling aspects of how Nigerian communities handle incest is the misuse of religion. Victims are often told to “forgive and forget,” and families push for “spiritual deliverance” rather than prosecution.

In several instances, pastors have mediated incest cases privately, encouraging “reconciliation” instead of reporting to the police. This not only undermines justice but reinforces a theology of silence — where sin is privatized and crime is spiritualized.

As Reverend (Dr.) Joseph Onah of Asaba bluntly puts it:

“The church must stop confusing mercy with complicity. Forgiveness does not mean freedom from justice. God’s law does not cancel man’s law.”

The young woman at the center of this case now faces an unthinkable future — carrying the child of her father. While Gwamnishu’s NGO has provided her temporary shelter, her long-term recovery will require years of therapy, social reintegration, and support far beyond childbirth.

Many incest survivors face stigma even after escaping their abusers. Some are rejected by relatives or labeled “cursed.” Others are pushed into early marriage to erase the “shame.” These secondary abuses compound the original trauma.

Dr. Obianuju Eze stresses that “healing must be holistic,” combining psychological, medical, and legal care. Without sustained intervention, victims risk generational trauma — passing on unhealed pain to their own children.

Nigeria’s Ministry of Women Affairs and Social Development has repeatedly pledged to strengthen protection mechanisms for women and children. However, the gap between policy and practice remains vast. The National Agency for the Prohibition of Trafficking in Persons (NAPTIP), which also handles sexual abuse cases, is often overwhelmed and underfunded.

Delta State has a Child Rights Law, but enforcement is weak. Many local governments lack functional family courts or child protection officers. As a result, cases like this fall through the cracks, leaving NGOs and activists to fill the void.

A forward-thinking policy reform would require:

1. Establishing forensic response units in all states for sexual abuse investigations.
2. Mandatory reporting laws compelling teachers, neighbors, and clergy to report suspected abuse.
3. Psychological rehabilitation centers for survivors.
4. Strict community monitoring of known offenders.

Until these structures are operational, justice will remain selective.

For Harrison Gwamnishu, this case is part of a relentless battle against entrenched evil. His NGO has handled dozens of similar cases — many involving young girls abused by relatives. His work exposes him to threats, lawsuits, and burnout, yet he persists because, in his words, “silence kills more than violence.”

He uses social media strategically — not just to inform but to pressure institutions into action. His digital activism often leads to real-world arrests, but it also invites criticism from those who accuse him of “chasing clout.” Still, he insists that visibility is the first step toward justice.

“If we don’t make noise, nothing happens. People forget that behind every headline is a human life — broken, crying, and waiting for someone to care.”

 

Beyond outrage, Nigeria must confront the institutional rot that allows such crimes to flourish. Every layer — family, community, religion, law enforcement, and government — bears responsibility.

• Families must abandon silence and confront abuse even when it implicates loved ones.
• Communities must replace shame with protection.
• Churches and mosques must act as moral enforcers, not mediators of impunity.
• The judiciary must fast-track sexual abuse cases.
• Media and activists must continue to spotlight the voiceless.

The Delta case is one of countless stories revealing how Nigerian women’s bodies are routinely violated with little consequence. Whether it’s rape in schools, harassment in workplaces, or incest at home, the state’s response remains slow and insufficient.

Experts argue that sexual violence is not only a criminal issue but a governance issue. A country that cannot protect its most vulnerable citizens cannot claim moral legitimacy. The problem, therefore, is not just legal — it is structural, rooted in patriarchy, poverty, and political neglect.

This tragedy must serve as a wake-up call. Nigeria needs a National Sexual Offender Registry actively maintained and publicized. The Delta State government should provide lifetime psychological care for the victim and other survivors. Schools must include sex education and consent training in their curricula to break cultural taboos.

Additionally:

• Local police units should have gender desks managed by trained officers.
• Religious institutions should form partnerships with social workers.
• Communities should establish anonymous reporting systems.

These steps may not undo the past, but they can prevent future tragedies.

As of this writing, the father remains on the run. Authorities suspect he may have fled to a neighboring state. Activists have circulated his photos online, urging citizens to report any leads. There is growing pressure on the Delta State Police Command to treat the case as a priority manhunt rather than a mere domestic incident.

The escape of the suspect underscores how porous justice can be in Nigeria — criminals vanish easily, aided by poor coordination among state agencies. Without swift arrest and prosecution, faith in the justice system further erodes.

In the viral video released by Gwamnishu, the victim speaks softly, her voice trembling. She recounts how her father began “touching” her, how she cried and begged, and how nobody listened. Her words cut deep because they reveal not just one man’s evil, but a society’s indifference.

For every girl who speaks, countless others remain silent — trapped by fear, shame, or family loyalty. Her story forces Nigeria to look into the mirror and confront an uncomfortable truth: that our silence is complicity.

The Delta incest case is not just a tragedy; it is a test of national conscience. It challenges the justice system to rise above bureaucracy, challenges communities to replace stigma with solidarity, and challenges leaders to invest in systems that protect rather than neglect.

If justice is served — if the fugitive father is arrested, prosecuted, and sentenced — it will send a message that family ties do not exempt anyone from the law. If the survivor receives sustained support, it will prove that compassion can still heal what cruelty has broken.

But if the story fades, as many do, it will confirm what activists have long warned — that Nigeria’s moral crisis runs deeper than crime; it lies in our capacity to forget.