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💡BSA arms you with knowledge and skills to prevent child sexual abuse(CSA)
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Talk to your child.
Teach body safety.
Choose their protection over silence.
If you are serious about raising a body smart child,
stay here and go through my previous videos.
I am teaching everything step by step.
Don't raise docile children for perpetrators to abuse.
Don’t Raise a Child Who Cannot Say “Someone Touched Me”
There is a question many parents are afraid to ask.
“Why did my child not talk?”
But the harder question is this.
“What kind of home did you create that made silence feel safer than truth?”
Children do not wake up and decide to hide abuse.
Silence is learned.
When a child is constantly shut down, corrected harshly, or made to feel small, they begin to understand one thing.
“My voice does not matter here.”
When you laugh at their discomfort, dismiss their fears, or force them to obey without question, you are teaching them something dangerous.
That their body is not fully theirs.
So when abuse happens, they do what they have been trained to do.
They keep quiet.
Not because they are weak.
But because they are trying to survive in a system that has never made room for their voice.
If you truly want to protect your children, you must first look inwards.
Because sometimes, the silence you are questioning… started from you.
29/05/2025
When Mummy lost her job at the hospital, our lives changed. Just like that, things stopped working. The generator stopped. The fridge stopped. Even her laughter stopped. She packed our lives into two Ghana-Must-Go bags and we moved to Grandma’s compound in Kaduna.
Her house wasn’t just a house. It was a universe. Five face me I face you apartments, twelve children always playing ten-ten or suwe, two dogs that barked more than they bit, and Alhaja’s corner shop where the radio was louder than the customers. But life felt safer than the silence we left behind.
Then came Uncle Dayo.
He wasn’t family, but Nigerians like to call every familiar man “uncle” and every woman “auntie.” Uncle Dayo was different. Clean shaven. Smelled like mint. Always in white kaftan and dark shades. He was the type of man adults rushed to serve and children were told to greet on both knees.
He started with gifts, biscuits. Not the N50 cabin ones. Imported. Golden brown with creamy cheese in the middle. He brought soft drinks, sometimes money. "My wife," he would say, tapping my cheek softly. "You’re too fine, like your mama when she was your age."
I was ten.
At first, it felt harmless. He tickled me playfully, my sides, my arms. But slowly, his hands began to forget their boundaries. The tickles moved. My thighs. My backside. The quick hugs lasted too long. The way he stared made my stomach twist, not with butterflies but with dread.
One Sunday afternoon, after everyone returned from church, I stayed back to help Grandma in the kitchen. She went outside to dry clothes. I stayed back to rinse plates.
The door creaked.
It was him. Uncle Dayo.
He smiled. Locked the door behind him.
“Let’s play our little game,” he whispered.
I froze.
But something in me maybe that part that had heard whispers of courage from those late night conversations between Grandma and Alhaja snapped. I screamed!
Loud!
The kind of scream that makes goats stop chewing.
The compound went quiet.
Grandma came in first. Then two other women.
He had stepped away by then, straightening his clothes like nothing happened.
But the slap I received from Grandma was louder than my scream.
"Are you mad?! Do you know who he is? Respect your elders!"
Mummy didn’t say a word. Her eyes remained fixed on the wall.
No one asked me what happened.
For weeks, the silence grew louder. I began to hate the smell of cheese biscuits.
Until a new teacher arrived at school. Auntie Chinelo.
She wasn’t like the others. She didn't twist her nose when someone spoke vernacular. She looked you in the eye. She taught us Body Safety education. Consent, boundaries, secrets that hurt, NO-YELL-RUN-REPORT rule. She told us we had rights, even as children and our voices are powerful.
She looked me in the eye one day and asked, "Are you okay?"
I broke. And then I spoke.
It started small. A whisper. Then a flood. And she held my hand through it.
The police got involved. The school counsellor did too. I got therapy. Uncle Dayo was never seen again. Grandma didn’t speak to us for a while. But Mummy she hugged me tight, every single night after that.
Today, I’m 19. A final year student of Psychology. A survivor. A speaker. A child protection advocate.
To every school owner, religious leader, parent and guardian who thinks Body Safety is optional, I ask:
How many children are being abused under your care and you call it “play,” “discipline,” or “harmless uncle behaviour”?
You can’t protect children if you refuse to equip them with the knowledge and skills for self preservation.
28/05/2025
Ada was only fifteen when she saw blood in her underwear for the first time. Her menarche.
It wasn’t a celebration. It wasn’t even a conversation. It was fear, confusion, shame and pain.
She didn’t know what was happening to her. No one had told her about menstruation. Nobody had explained what to expect, so when the blood came, she panicked. And when it stained her uniform in class, the laughter and whispers finished her.She ran home, hoping for comfort.
But her mother slapped her.
“Are you not ashamed? You’re now a woman and you’re walking carelessly. You want people to start calling your name in the street?”No hug. No explanation. Just a piece of torn wrapper and a warning.“Fold it like this. Don’t ever let any man see this. If people find out, they will think you are loose. And don’t go shouting it up and down. Hide it.”
From that day, Ada learned the rules;
Bleed quietly.
Suffer quietly.
Hide everything.
Her school didn’t help either. No pads. No proper toilets. No safe rooms. No support.
So she started skipping classes every month. Cramps tormented her. The folded rags itched, leaked, and smelled. But dignity was not her priority, survival was.
She stopped raising her hands in class. She stopped talking. She didn’t want to draw attention. Not even her closest friend knew what was going on. Because we taught her that periods are private, dirty, something to be ashamed of.
One month, the pain was too much. She was running a fever. The infection had gone too far, by the time she was rushed to the clinic, she was almost delirious.The doctor said the infection came from using dirty cloth repeatedly.
Her father shouted.“How can period cause this one now? She’s just being dramatic!”Her mother stood in the corner, weeping.But nobody said sorry.Nobody changed anything.And Ada? She stopped talking about her period. She just bled in silence.
This is what we do to our girls in Africa.
We hand them shame instead of education.We silence them with fear instead of preparing them with knowledge.We slap them for bleeding, then expect them to become confident young women.We give them old wrappers instead of sanitary pads.We act as if menstrual hygiene is a luxury, not a right.
In some religions, girls are banned from the altar or don't join others to pray and fast during their periods.
In some schools, girls are still sent home for staining their uniforms.
In some families, girls are told not to cook because they are unclean when they’re menstruating.Some others are forbidden to touch some sacred items at home.
Some countries have 'menstrual huts' women and girls are obligated to stay in during their periods or shortly after the birth of their babies. It's isolated and far from residential buildings. There are many reports about women and girls who have been harmed staying in these huts, but this harmful cultural norm still exists.
Even in 2025, we are still treating menstrual blood as a curse.Let me say this loud and clear:
Periods are not dirty!
They are not a crime!
They are not a taboo!
What is shameful is a society that would rather teach girls to suffer in silence than provide them with means to stay healthy with their dignities intact.
To every parent reading this; What have you told your daughter about menstruation?Do you want her to menstruate in fear and confusion like Ada?
To every school owner; Do your toilets have running water? Or your school has no source of water supply?Do you have safe rooms, girls can change or lie down if periods starts while in school?
Do you have a pad bank accessible to every girl child enrolled in your school?Or you expect NGOs to donate, if they don't you won't provide.
To every religious leader; Are you teaching purity, or punishing girls a natural phenomenon?
To every policymaker; When will you realise that menstrual hygiene is not just a “women’s issue”? It is a national issue. It is a health issue. It is a dignity issue.
Ada is not just one girl. She is thousands of girls in the world. And until we end this culture of silence and shame, more Adas will suffer, immensly. More dreams will die quietly.
Menstrual Hygiene Day is not about pads. It is about power.The power to speak freely.The power to bleed without shame.The power to choose dignity over disgrace.
End the silence!
Fight harmful cultural norms!
Protect your daughters!