Rape: Who Do We Blame When Victims Take The Blame?

In recent weeks, the Nigerian digital landscape has been a battlefield of hashtags, viral videos, and emotional outbursts. At the centre of this storm is Mirabel (@mirab351), a TikToker whose tearful allegations of sexual assault have not only captivated the nation but also reignited a fierce, age-old debate about justice, gender, and the terrifying cost of speaking up.

The story began on February 15, when Mirabel posted a harrowing video alleging that an unidentified man had forced his way into her apartment in the Ogijo area of Ogun State. In the video, she detailed an experience of physical restraint and sexual violation, adding a chilling detail that has since become a focal point of public anger: the perpetrator allegedly boasted that his family’s “influence” and wealth would render any attempt at justice futile.

The response was immediate. Within hours, the hashtag #JusticeForMirabel began trending. The Ogun State Police Command, moved by the public outcry, directed the Ibafo Division to track her down. After receiving preliminary medical care and being moved to the Ogijo jurisdiction, the case entered the slow, grinding gears of the Nigerian legal system.

While the public demands an immediate arrest, the Nigerian Police Force has maintained a stance of calculated neutrality. DSP Oluseyi Babaseyi, the Command’s spokesperson, clarified that Mirabel was never arrested—dismissing social media rumours—but he also issued a stark reminder:

“If she’s telling the truth, the perpetrator will be prosecuted… if it is otherwise, the law goes against giving false information.”

For many, this “balanced” warning feels like a weight placed on the survivor’s chest. In a country where the United Nations reported over 11,000 rape cases in 2020 alone—a number widely considered a gross undercount—the threat of prosecution for “false information” is often viewed as a deterrent that keeps survivors in the shadows.

The police are walking a tightrope; they must navigate an active case at the Ogijo Police Station while gathering sufficient concrete evidence to stand up in court. Yet, the survivor’s reality is far more visceral than a police report. Mirabel was reportedly moved to extended medical care due to her fragile emotional and physical state, a trauma that exists regardless of how long the legal documentation takes.

The Counter-Argument: The Ghost of False Allegations

However, another side of the conversation often surfaces in Nigerian digital spaces: the fear of being “wrongfully accused.” Critics and sceptics argue that in the era of “cancel culture,” a single viral video can destroy a man’s reputation, career, and family before any evidence is presented in court.

Statistics on false allegations globally remain low—usually estimated between 2% and 10%—but for those who fall into that small percentage, the damage is often permanent. This segment of the public argues that “believing all women” without due process undermines the very foundation of justice. They fear that the legal system could be weaponised by “clout-chasers” to settle personal scores. In their view, the accused has an absolute right to the presumption of innocence, even in the face of national outrage.

The Burden of Proof and the “Credibility Discount”

This leads to the central question: Why is the burden of “perfection” always placed on the victim? When a woman reports an assault in Nigeria, she is often subjected to what sociologists call a “credibility discount.” If she were drinking, if she were alone at night, or if—like Mirabel—she were a social media personality, her story would be dissected for flaws. If she isn’t “the perfect victim,” the public (and sometimes the authorities) quickly shifts the blame from the perpetrator’s actions to the victim’s choices.

The reporting process itself is a gauntlet of social stigma, often leading to “slut-shaming” and public harassment that can be as damaging as the legal proceedings themselves.

Musician Simi recently echoed this frustration on X, noting that women are tired of being told how to avoid being raped while the culture of accountability for men remains stagnant. “We are not crazy,” she wrote. “We are afraid.” And for this, she has faced criticism and name-calling, with many insisting she should be cancelled.

The case of Mirabel is currently a “he-said, she-said” in the eyes of the law, but in the eyes of a grieving nation, it is a litmus test for the Nigerian justice system. If the perpetrator is indeed protected by “influence,” it will confirm the public’s worst fears—that the law is a tool for the powerful. If the allegations are proven false, it will provide fuel for those who wish to silence future survivors.