I Have Evidence, Both Video and Audio”: Nigerian Catholic Nun Accuses Priests of S3xual Harassment, Claims Dismissal Was Retaliation for Speaking Out
When Reverend Sister Anastasia Kinse, a once-devout member of the Congregation of Mother of Perpetual Help of the Archangels Sisters, took to national television to tell her story, she knew it would shake one of Nigeria’s most conservative institutions — the Catholic Church. Speaking in a deeply emotional interview on Arise TV, the former nun accused senior priests within the Church of s3xual harassment and institutional cover-up, alleging that she was dismissed from her congregation and teaching post for daring to expose misconduct. Her words — “I have evidence, both video and audio” — have since reverberated across Nigeria’s Catholic community, stirring debate about power, silence, and accountability within religious life.
For centuries, the image of the Catholic nun has been that of chastity, obedience, and quiet service. But behind this sacred veil, Sister Anastasia says, lie stories of pain, manipulation, and abuse that are rarely told — especially by women within the Church’s hierarchy. According to her, what began as routine spiritual obedience in 2015 under the Auchi Catholic Diocese in Edo State soon descended into a series of encounters that would challenge her faith, mental stability, and place within the Church she once called home.
Sister Anastasia joined the religious life in 2015, full of zeal for a vocation she believed would bring her closer to God and service to humanity. She was received into the Congregation of Mother of Perpetual Help of the Archangels Sisters, a community dedicated to teaching, prayer, and charity. But within a year, she said, she began facing unwanted advances from priests assigned to guide or supervise her spiritual and professional work. “There was a priest in 2016,” she recalled, “who said I should go with him in his car to his parish for a week. I felt that shouldn’t happen.” Another, she said, “put his belt around my waist under the guise of checking my size for a cloth he claimed he wanted to get me.” These moments, seemingly subtle, left her shaken. “That broke me,” she said. “It gave me a lot of trauma, which is what they later termed ‘madness.’”
Her decision to report these incidents — first to her superior and then to her bishop — marked the beginning of her troubles. Rather than receiving protection or empathy, Sister Anastasia said she was branded as troublesome and unstable. “They said I was always complaining,” she recounted, describing how her mental health and credibility were soon questioned.
What Sister Anastasia describes is not just personal trauma but a pattern of institutional silence that many observers say has allowed abuse to fester within religious settings. “I told my superior about a priest I was living in the same compound with,” she said, “that one day I went into his room and he tried to touch me. I don’t understand if that’s a norm, but my superior told me to ignore him.” This kind of response, she insists, is part of the Church’s wider culture of denial. “They expect you to stay quiet, to forgive, to move on. But silence protects the abuser,” she said. When she persisted in documenting her experiences, including writing multiple letters to her bishop, she was allegedly subjected to psychological evaluations and isolation. Eventually, she was dismissed — not because her claims were proven false, but because she was deemed unfit for religious life.
“The trauma they gave me, they called madness,” she said bitterly. “It’s very funny when they ask for evidence — as if calling names or narrating isn’t enough. But I have evidence. I have both video and audio recordings that show where the Veritas HOD harassed me.” Her claim of possessing recorded evidence has ignited both hope and skepticism among Nigerians. While some praise her courage for breaking the culture of silence, others question her motives or credibility — a reaction familiar to victims of sexual abuse, especially within religious institutions.
Sister Anastasia’s story, though shocking, mirrors a global pattern that the Catholic Church has struggled with for decades. From the United States to Ireland, Chile, and India, priests and religious superiors have faced mounting allegations of sexual abuse — and the Church’s handling of such cases has often drawn criticism for prioritizing its reputation over justice. In Nigeria, the topic remains deeply taboo. The Church is one of the country’s most trusted institutions, commanding moral authority across millions of adherents. Questioning its clergy can be seen as an attack on faith itself. This reverence, experts say, creates a shield that discourages victims from coming forward.
“Religious power in Nigeria is immense,” says Dr. Benedict Otu, a sociologist specializing in religion and gender studies. “When a woman accuses a priest, she’s not just confronting a man — she’s confronting an institution. The social pressure, the fear of excommunication, and the stigma attached to defying the clergy can destroy her life.” Indeed, Sister Anastasia’s account suggests precisely that. Her dismissal from her congregation and loss of employment were followed by social ostracization and what she described as psychological trauma. “Imagine giving your life to God and the people who represent Him turn you into an outcast,” she lamented.
As of press time, the Catholic Diocese of Auchi has not issued a formal statement in response to Sister Anastasia’s allegations. Attempts by journalists to reach diocesan officials have yielded limited comment, with one spokesperson reportedly saying that “disciplinary issues within religious congregations are handled internally.” This silence has drawn criticism from advocacy groups who argue that the Church must treat such allegations with transparency and compassion rather than internal bureaucracy. “The era of sweeping things under the carpet is over,” said Mary Eze, a member of Women of Faith for Justice, a Lagos-based advocacy organization. “If Sister Anastasia has evidence, then let there be an independent investigation. The Church cannot keep dismissing every allegation as madness.”
The consequences of speaking out have been deeply personal for Sister Anastasia. Stripped of her religious habit and identity, she described herself as “a woman without a home.” Once respected within the community, she now lives in a state of emotional uncertainty, haunted by both her memories and the skepticism of those around her. “I joined the convent to serve, to teach, to love,” she said. “I never imagined I would become a story of disgrace.” Her reference to “madness” — the term used by Church officials to justify her dismissal — underscores how religious institutions sometimes weaponize mental health labels to discredit whistleblowers.
What sets Sister Anastasia’s story apart is her insistence that she possesses hard evidence — video and audio recordings implicating a priest she identified as a department head at Veritas University. “I can’t put them out yet,” she said, “but they exist.” Her restraint, she explained, is out of respect for Church protocol and to avoid further scandal. Yet, she also recognizes that without public scrutiny, justice may never come. The existence of such evidence, if verified, could mark a turning point not just for her case, but for how the Nigerian Church handles sexual misconduct claims.
The courage of Sister Anastasia has begun to inspire quiet discussions among other nuns and laywomen who have allegedly faced similar experiences but remained silent. Some have begun reaching out anonymously through social media platforms and faith-based women’s networks, expressing solidarity and fear in equal measure. “This is not just about Sister Anastasia,” wrote one anonymous commenter on X. “It’s about the hundreds of women who suffer in silence because the Church tells them to ‘offer it up’ as a sacrifice to God.”
For Sister Anastasia, the battle is no longer just about her personal pain — it’s about reclaiming her faith and dignity. She insists that she still believes in God, though she admits her trust in the Church has been severely shaken. “The Church is holy, but its men are not perfect,” she said. “My fight is not against God. It’s for truth.”
Her words reflect a paradox familiar to many survivors of religious abuse — the tension between faith and institutional betrayal. “I still pray every day,” she said softly. “But I ask God why. Why me? Why would men who speak of purity and obedience try to violate those vows themselves?”
Whether Sister Anastasia’s claims lead to formal investigation remains uncertain. What is clear, however, is that her story has forced the Nigerian Catholic Church into an uncomfortable spotlight. In an age of social media transparency and rising awareness of gender-based violence, the old tools of silence and internal handling may no longer suffice. The public reaction — a mix of outrage, disbelief, and calls for reform — underscores the need for the Church to confront its internal contradictions.
For now, Sister Anastasia remains defiant, holding onto her evidence and her voice. “I didn’t leave the Church,” she said. “The Church left me when it refused to listen.”
The case of Sister Anastasia Kinse may well become a watershed moment for Nigeria’s religious institutions. Beyond the personal tragedy lies a broader reckoning — about gender, power, and the right to speak truth within sacred walls. In the words she spoke before leaving the Arise TV studio: “I am not fighting the Church. I am fighting injustice within it.” It is a statement that resonates far beyond her convent — echoing in the hearts of countless women who have learned, often painfully, that faith without accountability is not holiness, but hypocrisy.