By ODIMEGWU ONWUMERE

“She cooked for them. She loaned food to them. She prayed for their children. Then she said no. And they killed her for it.”

MINNA, NIGER STATE – The market dust never settles in Kasuwan Garba. It dances — caught in a restless whirl of commerce, prayer calls, Okada engines, and hunger. For years, Ammaye stood in the thick of it, behind her humble stall, ladling out steaming jollof rice and spicy stew as dawn gave way to the scorched sun of northern Nigeria.

She was more than a food vendor. She was a provider. A lender of meals. A mother to many who weren’t her children. A woman who fed a town, often on trust, always with kindness.

And yet, on a sweltering August 29 afternoon, that same town fed her to a mob.

A Proposition, a Rejection — and a Spark

It began with a whisper dressed as piety.

A man — well-known, though his name is still officially withheld — leaned close to Ammaye’s stall. His voice, low and laced with entitlement, offered what he called “Sunnah”.

“Come,” he said. “Let us commit Sunnah. There’s a room behind my house — quiet, private.”

It wasn’t faith he was invoking. It was sex — masked in religious language, camouflaged as divine right.

Ammaye paused, wooden spoon in hand, as her stew simmered. Then she looked him in the eye.

“Mallam Junaid,” she said, her voice steady. “I am a married woman. I have a family. Your offer is rude and insulting.”

It was a simple refusal. But in a place where a woman’s dignity is seen as defiance, it was also a spark in a tinderbox.

The Palace, the Police, and the Turning of Tides

The insulted man, his ego bruised, did not let the moment pass. The incident reached the ears of local elders, who insisted it be brought before the traditional ruler’s palace — the customary court of last resort in northern communities.

But instead of seeking justice, the palace twisted her rejection into blasphemy?

They claimed she had “disrespected a good Muslim man”. That she had “challenged Sunnah”. That she had “shamed a brother in faith” in public.

Her crime? Saying "no".

And so, in a decision that would prove fatal, she was turned over to the police — not for protection, but for “further prosecution.”

The Mob That Knew Her Name

When Ammaye arrived at the police, word had already spread. A woman had insulted a man. A woman had mocked religion. A woman had stepped out of her place.

A crowd had gathered.

At first, they watched. Then they shouted. Then they surged.

The police, few in number and poorly equipped, faltered. The mob — many of them men who had eaten from her stall, who owed her money, who had called her “sister” just days before — pulled her out.

They beat her. They stoned her. And in the eyes of many present, they “purified their shame” through her blood.

“She crossed their red line?” activist Mubarak Bala later wrote on Facebook. “From whose food stall they had eaten on credit and charity. Now they will go hungry. But at least, they believe, they secured their paradise.” He mocked the killers with satire.

A Society That Devours Its Women

The death of Ammaye is not an anomaly. It is a mirror.

A 2024 UNICEF report reveals that “one in three Nigerian women” will face physical or sexual violence in her lifetime. In Nigeria’s north, where patriarchy is often enforced under the guise of religious tradition, women’s agency can be a death sentence. Early marriage remains common and nearly 43% of girls in the North are married before the age of 18.

Then again, religious misinterpretation is frequently used to justify gender-based control and silence. Mob justice continues to operate unchecked in many states, despite being illegal. Traditional courts, like the one Ammaye was summoned to, rarely rule in favor of female dignity over male honour.

The Silence That Followed

There was no arrest. No trial. No public apology, as of the time of filing this report.

The traditional ruler issued no statement. Local politicians stayed quiet. The mosque called no special prayer. The market reopened within 24 hours. Someone else now sells near the spot where Ammaye stood.

And the woman who fed them all?

She became a ghost story — too real to deny, too dangerous to discuss.

The Memory They Couldn’t Burn

Today, Ammaye’s name lives in murmurs. In back-room conversations. In the cautious eyes of other women vendors who still feed the same men. In the whispered prayers of those who watched but could not stop it.

A few rights organizations — WRAPA, Amnesty Nigeria, and grassroots feminists — demand justice on such a matter. But without political will or institutional memory, the case risks vanishing into the dust.

Her story Is still not in police records. Her body was buried quickly. Her name — full name — has not been officially honored.

But the lesson is clear: in a society where a woman’s ‘no’ is treated as an act of rebellion, and where male shame outweighs female life, no woman is truly safe.

What Can Be Done?

Ammaye’s death is a call to action — and a warning. To prevent the next tragedy: Legal reform must be fast-tracked to outlaw mob justice with enforceable consequences. Traditional institutions must be held accountable for rulings that endanger women.

Faith leaders must reclaim religious language from those who weaponize it. Women’s economic roles must be protected through licensing, unionization, and legal support. Education campaigns must challenge the cultural roots of gender-based violence from within communities. But above all, there must be consequences. Justice must have a name — hers.

“She Was the Light Here”

When asked about her, a fellow vendor, Halima, said:

“She fed us all. She never turned anyone away. She would scold you like a sister if you tried to cheat her, but she’d still give you food with extra meat. She was the light here.”

And now, that light is gone — extinguished not by accident, not by illness, but by ‘intent’, by ‘indifference’, and by a system that punishes women for surviving.

•Onwumere is Chairman, Advocacy Network On Religious And Cultural Coexistence (ANORACC).

Writer’s Note: Due to the sensitivity of the case and risk of reprisals, names have been changed and certain details withheld. This article is based on first-hand testimony, verified NGO reports, and documented trends of violence against women in northern Nigeria.