Lagos police arrests 60-year-old man for allegedly r@ping 24-year-old woman

The arrest and arraignment of a 60-year-old man, Ajayi Femi, for allegedly r@ping a 24-year-old woman in Meiran, Lagos, has once again reignited urgent conversations across Nigeria about sexual violence, justice, and the systemic cultural and institutional failings that allow such crimes to persist with disturbing frequency. According to a statement released by the Lagos State Police Command spokesperson, CSP Benjamin Hundeyin, the case was first reported to the Meiran Police Station on August 22 by the victim’s sister, and it was immediately transferred to the Gender Unit of the Command for further investigation. Investigators revealed that discreet inquiries and medical examinations established that the suspect allegedly spiked the young woman’s drink, rendering her unconscious, before unlawfully having carnal knowledge of her without her consent. Hundeyin further disclosed that the suspect made a confessional statement during interrogation and has since been arraigned in court, where he was ordered remanded in correctional custody pending the next adjourned date. This case, as disturbing as it is, is far from isolated. It is symptomatic of the broader Nigerian crisis around sexual violence, policing, and the justice system — an interlocking set of cultural taboos, institutional bottlenecks, and societal silences that have for decades shielded perpetrators while leaving survivors traumatized and, in many cases, abandoned.

To properly unpack this case, one must go beyond the bare-bones reporting of the arrest and arraignment and situate it within the wider Nigerian context. Lagos, Nigeria’s economic and cultural hub, is not new to conversations about sexual violence. In fact, its sheer population density, sprawling urban informal settlements, nightlife economy, and under-pressure policing make it one of the most difficult environments for tackling crimes like r@pe. Yet, Lagos also hosts Nigeria’s most advanced structures for victim support — from the Mirabel Centre, the country’s first sexual assault referral centre, to the Gender Unit of the Lagos State Police Command, which has tried to improve responsiveness to such cases. Still, despite these efforts, the city remains plagued by underreporting, stigma, poor investigative standards, and legal delays. Survivors often feel trapped between the trauma of recounting their experiences and the skepticism, victim-blaming, and sometimes outright hostility they encounter from law enforcement, society, and even family members.

The Femi case stands out not only because of the details — the spiking of the victim’s drink, the confession by the suspect, and the immediate transfer of the matter to the Gender Unit — but also because it comes at a time when Lagos and indeed Nigeria are experiencing a surge in reported cases of sexual violence. From cases involving minors in private schools to assaults perpetrated by supposed spiritual leaders, from family members to strangers, Nigeria’s sexual violence problem cuts across every demographic and social class. The Nigeria Demographic and Health Survey has consistently shown that one in four women report having experienced sexual violence, though activists argue that the real number is likely far higher, as stigma and fear of reprisal keep many silent. Lagos, despite its cosmopolitan outlook, is no exception to this grim reality.

In dissecting this incident, one must start with the alleged method of assault: drugging. Spiking drinks has become an increasingly reported phenomenon in Lagos nightlife — from bars in Lekki to clubs in Ikeja — and it speaks to a troubling normalization of predatory behavior. In the Femi case, investigators said the 24-year-old victim was rendered unconscious, a reminder of how often perpetrators deliberately strip victims of agency before assaulting them. This element raises larger questions about Nigeria’s preparedness to deal with the growing menace of drug-facilitated sexual assault (DFSA), a phenomenon that requires not just policing but also forensic sophistication and public education campaigns. Nigerian police are rarely equipped with toxicology labs or trained forensic experts capable of identifying substances used in drink-spiking. This gap means many victims cannot even medically prove their cases, as the evidence dissipates quickly in the body. That the Gender Unit acted swiftly in this case — carrying out medical examinations and securing a confession — is commendable, but it is by no means typical.

The case also highlights the evolving role of Nigeria’s Gender Units, particularly in Lagos. These specialized units were established to provide survivor-centered responses to sexual and gender-based violence (SGBV). In practice, however, many Nigerians remain unaware of their existence, and access remains uneven. Survivors who report at conventional police stations often encounter officers with limited training in handling SGBV cases. They face insensitive questioning, outright disbelief, or demands for money to “open a case file.” The Lagos Command under CP Olohundare Jimoh has attempted to professionalize the Gender Unit, yet public trust in the police remains fragile. The reality is that many survivors still prefer turning to NGOs like WARDC (Women Advocates Research and Documentation Centre) or Mirabel rather than the police, fearing secondary victimization.

That fear of secondary trauma — being shamed, blamed, or dismissed — is at the heart of Nigeria’s rape crisis. The social fabric in Nigeria still stigmatizes survivors more than perpetrators. Families often pressure victims to keep silent to “protect family honor” or to avoid scandal. In rural and urban contexts alike, patriarchal norms discourage open conversation about sexual violence. The burden of proof rests heavily on survivors, and in court, the defense often exploits these cultural biases to discredit victims. When CSP Hundeyin emphasized in his statement that “no matter the social standing or age of the suspect, the law will take its full course,” it was a direct attempt to assure the public that the old habits of shielding influential suspects or trivializing cases would not apply. Yet Nigerians remain understandably skeptical. Countless cases of rape — from university lecturers demanding sex-for-grades to powerful political figures accused by multiple women — have ended in silence, withdrawn charges, or endless legal adjournments.

The arraignment of Ajayi Femi is only the beginning of what could be a long and winding legal process. In Nigeria, court cases, especially criminal trials, are notoriously protracted. Adjournments can stretch over months or even years, often frustrating survivors to the point of giving up. In rape cases, where psychological trauma already looms large, these delays can be devastating. Survivors may feel re-victimized each time they appear in court to recount their ordeal. Many also face intimidation — threats from the perpetrator’s family, social ostracism, or even bribery attempts aimed at buying silence. The Nigerian judiciary, already overburdened with a backlog of cases, rarely prioritizes SGBV cases, despite the Violence Against Persons Prohibition (VAPP) Act, which criminalizes rape and prescribes stricter penalties. Lagos State has domesticated the VAPP Act, but enforcement remains inconsistent.

It is worth reflecting on how Lagos residents have responded to this case. Social media commentary has been sharp, with many expressing outrage not just at the crime but also at the broader failure of Nigeria to decisively confront sexual violence. Activists have used the case to highlight the need for comprehensive sex education, stronger enforcement of laws, and investment in survivor support services. However, the darker side of the discourse has also appeared — comments trivializing the assault, blaming the victim for accepting a drink, or suggesting she should have “known better.” These reactions are not unique to this case; they reflect deep-seated cultural narratives that continue to undermine Nigeria’s fight against sexual violence.

To fully grasp why cases like this continue to occur, one must analyze Nigeria’s structural failures. First, policing. The Nigerian police force remains underfunded, poorly trained, and often distrusted. Specialized units like the Gender Desk are exceptions rather than the rule. Without broader police reform, survivors will continue to face barriers. Second, healthcare. Survivors of sexual assault require immediate and comprehensive care, including forensic examinations, emergency contraception, HIV post-exposure prophylaxis, and psychological counseling. While Lagos has a few centers providing these services, most Nigerian states do not. Survivors in rural areas face immense challenges in accessing medical care that could support prosecution. Third, the judiciary. Legal delays, lack of forensic evidence, and weak prosecutorial capacity all combine to create a justice system where conviction rates for rape remain abysmally low.

Then there is the cultural dimension. Nigeria is still fighting entrenched patriarchal norms that prioritize family reputation over survivor protection. Religious and traditional leaders often counsel silence or “settlement” outside of court. Families may force survivors to marry their rapists in some rural communities, a practice activists have spent years fighting. In urban areas, survivors may fear being labeled “spoiled” or “damaged,” further deterring reporting. These cultural attitudes ensure that for every case like Femi’s that reaches court, dozens remain hidden in silence.

And yet, there is reason for cautious optimism. The fact that this case was reported, investigated, and taken to court — with a public police statement confirming the details — is evidence that some progress is being made. Twenty years ago, such cases were often dismissed outright. Civil society advocacy has been instrumental in pushing sexual violence into the national conversation. Hashtags like #ArewaMeToo, #JusticeForOchanya, and #SayNoToRape have forced Nigerians to confront uncomfortable truths. State governments like Lagos have passed laws establishing sex offender registers. NGOs have established referral centers. Media coverage is more robust, ensuring cases cannot simply be swept away.

The Femi case, therefore, is not just about one man’s alleged crime. It is a litmus test for Lagos and Nigeria’s broader ability to deliver justice to survivors of sexual violence. Will the legal process move swiftly? Will the suspect face meaningful punishment if convicted? Will the survivor receive medical, psychological, and legal support throughout? Or will this become yet another case remembered only for its initial headlines, forgotten after endless adjournments and societal fatigue? These are the questions Nigerians are asking.

Looking forward, this case underscores the urgent need for systemic reform. Lagos must continue to strengthen its Gender Units, expanding their capacity and accessibility. Nationwide, police training must be overhauled to ensure all officers can handle sexual violence cases with sensitivity and professionalism. Forensic capacity must be improved, with investment in toxicology labs and evidence-handling protocols. The judiciary must prioritize SGBV cases, setting strict timelines to prevent adjournment abuse. Survivor support services must be expanded beyond Lagos and Abuja to every state. Equally important, cultural attitudes must shift. Public campaigns, led by government, NGOs, and community leaders, must challenge victim-blaming and promote survivor-centered narratives. Education, both in schools and communities, is essential to breaking the cycle of silence.

In conclusion, the arrest and arraignment of Ajayi Femi for the alleged rape of a 24-year-old woman in Meiran is both a tragedy and an opportunity. It is a tragedy because it reminds Nigerians of the ever-present reality of sexual violence, the trauma survivors endure, and the predatory behaviors that still lurk in everyday interactions. But it is also an opportunity — to reaffirm commitment to justice, to strengthen institutions, and to push for cultural transformation. Lagos, with its size and visibility, has the chance to set an example for the rest of Nigeria. Whether it succeeds will depend not just on this case but on the broader willingness of society, institutions, and leaders to finally say: enough is enough. Sexual violence must never again be normalized, excused, or ignored. Survivors deserve justice, and Nigeria must rise to deliver it.