At just 18, Asabe Hamisu’s* days in Tashan Kurma, a rural neighbourhood in Damaturu, Yobe State in northeastern Nigeria, are heavy with responsibilities far beyond her years. She once lived a modest life with her mother, a woman in her seventies who raised Asabe alone after separating from her father. Their bond was unshakable, and despite their poverty, they found joy in life’s simple moments.

She is the youngest in a large family; her siblings spread far and wide—some married and distant, others nearby, offering companionship that often veered into conflict. Her father remained a distant figure, living in the remote village of Noma. 

When they moved to Tashan Kurma, Asabe had completed her secondary school. There, a neighbour named Yakaka introduced her to Zamaga, an older, married man with children. Yakaka assured her he was dependable, a man who cared for his family and could offer Asabe a secure future. 

At 17, Asabe was flattered and intrigued. The child saw the attention from Zamaga*, an adult, as a glimpse into a promising future. Her mother, however, was unwavering in her disapproval, insisting on the Fulani traditions that called for careful scrutiny before entering such commitments. The difference in age was not an issue for them, even though Nigerian Laws are clear that anyone under 18 is a child and an adult may not enter into a sexual relationship with them. Yakaka brushed aside the mother’s concerns on the need for scrutiny with an almost fervent enthusiasm for matchmaking.

One day, Zamaga invited Asabe to accompany him to Malari, a neighbouring area in Damaturu, under the guise of visiting a friend. What unfolded next was not the fulfilment of his promises but a cruel betrayal that left Asabe scarred. “That day was the worst of my life. He raped me,” recalled Asabe, her voice trembling. 

Child marriage, according to UNICEF, is associated with higher rates of sexual violence, unwanted pregnancy, and maternal mortality.

Asabe could not recall the exact date or time of the assault, but the pain of the experience remained etched in her memory. She returned home that day, unable to share what had happened, her soul cloaked in a heavy shroud of fear and shame.

Research by Banyan Treatment Centers reveals that among teenage girls who have been sexually assaulted, 80 per cent develop at least one mental health disorder within a few months, and 55 per cent experience two or more. Survivors also struggle with intense feelings of shame or guilt, which can stem from self-blame or societal stigma, further eroding their self-image.

Weeks later, it was Asabe’s elder sister who first noticed that something was wrong when she complained of a severe stomachache. Pressed for answers, Asabe confided in her sister about her missed period. What followed was a shocking revelation— Asabe was pregnant. Her mother’s disappointment was evident when she found out. 

“I never thought this would be happening,” her mother lamented. “Yet, there was little I could do but accept the fate.”

When confronted, Zamaga denied responsibility, claiming that he was not the only man Asabe had been involved with—a comment that sank her into further despair. 

He went on to demand she terminate the pregnancy. But Asabe refused. “I won’t abort my baby, no matter what you say,” she told him, even after he threatened to cut ties with her and the unborn child.

As the pregnancy advanced, so did the challenges for Asabe. Her brothers and sisters turned against her, taunting and telling her to leave the house. The words cut deep, especially from her sisters. 

According to Health Think Analytics, social consequences for unmarried pregnant adolescents often include stigma, rejection or violence by partners, parents, and peers. Girls who become pregnant before the age of 18 are more likely to experience violence within a marriage or partnership. 

“They made me feel worthless,” Asabe recounted, tears streaming down her face. “They said I brought shame to the family.”

Her mother corroborated that, indeed, Asabe’s psychological state had deteriorated. She became depressed, which was heightened by the lack of support from those she once considered family. Her only comfort came from her father, who sent money and other essentials when he could. Her mother also supported her, accompanying her to the hospital for check-ups, but the financial strain was ceaseless.

Matters began to pile up against Asabe soon after giving birth to her daughter. Zamaga provided no support, not even the customary ram for the naming ceremony. He sent money occasionally, ranging between ₦1,000 and ₦1,500, (both less than a dollar) but these gestures were inconsistent and inadequate. Asabe was left with no choice but to beg for money to afford her child’s feeding or buy necessary medications.

“Sometimes I spend days without even detergent to wash my daughter’s clothes,” she said. “I have even contemplated returning to my father’s village, but it’s far. I feel trapped.”

Poverty, according to BMC Public Health, significantly increases the risk of teenage pregnancy, as adolescents from economically disadvantaged backgrounds often lack access to education and reproductive health services, which worsens the realities of early motherhood.

The community also added to her burdens. Whispers and judgements followed her wherever she went. Feeling trapped by all this, she hoped to marry Zamaga—not out of love but for the sake of her daughter, who is now a year old.

“I don’t want my child to grow up without knowing her father,” she said. “It is not only me; I want a better future for her.”

But marrying him seemed impossible. Stories emerged of other women he had exploited, leaving behind a trail of illegitimate children. He was notorious for preying on vulnerable young women, yet no one reported him to the authorities. Asabe attributed this silence to a deep-rooted superstition: “People believe he has done something to them to keep them quiet.”

Single motherhood weighed heavily on Asabe. The rent of their small home was ₦6,000 per month, an amount that became too high to afford. Her mother used to sell fura da nono (a fermented milk product similar to yoghurt) but lost her capital along the way, adding to their growing debts.

On some days, Asabe worked on farms to earn little money, but now, with a child to care for, even that was impossible. “If my father doesn’t send millet, we can go a week without cooking,” she said.

Since her ordeal, the first semblance of hope came one day when a non-governmental organisation came to Tashan Kurma, distributing hijabs and ₦2,000 to women in distress. Asabe bought food with hers, alleviating her misery for that one moment. “It felt like a miracle,” she said.

Through it all, Asabe draws strength from her faith. 

“When I pray and make supplications, I feel better,” she said. Her father’s words bring comfort, too: “This is just a phase,” he often tells her.

Yet, Asabe remains optimistic. “I want to raise my daughter well, return to Islamic school, and find someone who will love and accept us,” she said. Her dreams are simple yet deep, evidence of her unbroken spirit amidst unimaginable difficulties.

*Names have been anonymised to protect the victim and her family from stigma.

This report was produced as part of the 2024 HumAngle Accountability Fellowship, with support from MacArthur Foundation.