Broken and desperate in Nigeria: Rifkatu's story

During those four weeks, she and her husband, Pastor Zamai*, had allowed themselves to dream about a better life. They knew it wouldn’t be simple; after all, along with their families, they’d been driven from their homes and farms by Fulani militants. But a new life together, a chance to build a new home and a new family? That was a dream that seemed within reach for the couple as they said their vows before God and their community.

But just four weeks later, those dreams were reduced to ashes.

That morning, Rifkatu, Zamai and their family had decided to risk returning to their farmland to gather crops, as food was scarce. Toward the evening, after they’d gathered some food, Zamai took his elderly father and younger sister to their new home on his motorbike, telling Rifkatu and his sister to remain in the old farmhouse until he returned.

When the two women heard the sound of a motorbike, they stepped outside, thinking Zamai had returned. But it was not Zamai.

“My sister in-law said to me, ‘It’s Fulani militants,’” Rifkatu remembers. “I turned and saw some of them coming after us on motorbikes. My sister-in-law dropped the yam she was carrying on her head.
“Let's start running,” she said.

“Can we escape them?” I asked.

“Let’s just go.’”

“We ran into the bush. Two other motorbikes started chasing us. They [told us to either] stop, or they [would] shoot us. When we stopped, they asked why we were running—was it that the widowers we have in this community are not enough for us? One of them said we should climb on the motorbike.” The two women knew that if they ran, they'd be shot.

"I told my sister-in-law to climb on his motorbike, then I climbed on the other motorbike.”

Rifkatu began to weep as she slung herself on the seat of the bike. “The one that carried me on his motorbike, he asked why I was crying,” she says. “I told him I am married, but he said, ‘If [your] husband was strong, he would have rescued you from [our] hands."

The militants took Rifkatu and her sister-in-law to an abandoned house and separated them into different rooms. During the night, several men sexually assaulted them.

Please note: The following paragraphs include accounts of sexual violence and may be upsetting for some readers. Please use discretion.

“There, three people slept with me,” says Rifkatu. “One man came in. I acted as though I had fainted, then he started raping me. I woke up as though I was dreaming. Then he said, ‘So, you are enjoying it.’

“My sister-in-law, they all raped her. There were about five of them.”

But the horrors were just beginning.

The following day, the militants took Rifkatu and her sister-in-law to their camp, where other Christians were also being held.

Rifkatu noticed something specific about the women captives. “They did this to us because we are Christians,” she says. “Since I went to that camp, all those who were kidnapped, I didn’t see any Muslims held there.”

At the camp, the horrific abuse continued. “They asked me and my sister-in-law to lie down,” Rifkatu remembers. “They took turns … saying, ‘This mattress is sweet.’ When we cried, they said, ‘Mattresses don’t cry.’ They said we are their mattresses now.

“We couldn’t move or turn. They said they didn’t want us to shake because a mattress does not move. One man burst my lips as his head fell on my mouth, and blood started flowing.”

Rifkatu was so desperate for her ordeal to end that she lied and said she was pregnant, hoping it would deter the man who was hurting her. “He said, ‘Do you think I am playing with you?’ Then he told me to lie down, and he finished what he was doing.”

 

Despite all that was happening to Rifkatu, in her heart, she was praying. It was all she could do.

“I didn’t lose hope in that place,” she says. “At first, when I was caught, I didn’t know if there is a God or not. But after I entered their hands, I depended on God and looked to see what God would do.”

Rifkatu quickly learned that even something as simple as prayer could result in additional abuse. “An old woman in the camp told me to stop praying because if they discover me, it will cause an issue,” Rifkatu says. “But I told her, ‘I know that my husband is praying for me, that God will not allow my end to be in this place.’ In my heart, I prayed, ‘You are the God that saved Shadrach and Meshach. If you are the same God who has not changed, I know I will go home.’”

Around noon the following day, Rifkatu began to have a stomachache, a pain from the abuse she had suffered. Since her captors believed she was pregnant, when they saw blood, they believed Rifkatu was suffering a miscarriage.

In parts of Nigeria, some Muslims follow a form of folk Islam, which mixes beliefs from Islam with traditional folk religions. One of these beliefs is that a woman’s blood brings bad luck and could potentially expose them to their enemies. So when the rumors spread that Rifkatu had a miscarriage, the camp chief became very alarmed.

“[My captors] called the boss and told him that the woman they brought had a miscarriage,” Rifkatu says. “He said, ‘In [the] camp?’ They said ‘Yes.’”

The next morning, the camp leader himself came to Rifkatu. “He asked me, ‘Did they rape you?’ I said ‘Yes.’ Then he apologized for what happened. He promised to take me home, that no ransom would be paid for me. He said that even if he tried to collect ransom for me, it wouldn’t work since I had a miscarriage.”

The camp leader took Rifkatu and her sister to a church in a nearby village, and from there the two women were able to make their way back home.

At first, Rifkatu was welcomed back by her family and community.

“The day my wife returned home, my heart was filled with joy,” remembers Pastor Zamai. “God had answered my prayer for her release.”

But soon the trauma of what she had been through began to show. Rifkatu found herself terrified of men—even her new husband.

“There was a lot of fear in her heart,” shares Zamai. “Sometimes when we were together, she became frightened and said she was afraid of me. It affected our relationship. I started thinking: Is this my wife, the woman I know and married?”

“I didn’t want any man to come close to me,” explains Rifkatu. “If he wanted to touch me, I felt scared. Even if he was [just] talking to me. But [Zamai] never gave up. He told me I shouldn’t worry. He kept telling me to be free with him the way I used to be before, because he has not changed, he is still my husband. I started getting used to him again.”

About two months later, Rifkatu became pregnant. “I was truly filled with joy when she told me the news of her pregnancy,” shares Zamai.

But a few months after their daughter was born, they noticed that the community had begun distancing themselves from Rifkatu and her baby. It became clear that, due to complications during the delivery, Rifkatu’s daughter was suffering from a developmental delay.

That was when the rumors began to circulate. Without any basis, people began to suggest that Rifkatu’s daughter had been fathered by a militant.

“After realizing our daughter’s condition, people started spreading rumors: that it belongs to the Fulani militants; that our daughter is not a real baby, she is the baby of the Fulani militants who kidnapped her,” Zamai says. “Because they know that, when these Fulani militants kidnap women, [they almost always] rape the women. They started thinking that our baby was an evil child.”

Rifkatu adds: “They said [the delay is] because of the Fulani militants that kidnapped me, and from the evil spirits I encountered there. Some of our community said [our baby daughter] does not look like us. Another would say, ‘She looks like Fulani.’"

The treatment grew even worse—and more heartbreaking. “It became difficult for me,” Rifkatu remembers. “Even [among] our church members, the women won’t enter the house because they feel if they visit and my daughter sees them, they will give birth to a baby with her condition. Nobody wanted to come close to me, even my family and friends. If my daughter is sick, and we are in the same town, you won’t see anybody coming to greet us.

“Even if I am going for women’s fellowship, I don’t go with her,” she continues. “I leave her with my mother-in-law. People will ask, ‘Is this your daughter? What is wrong with her? She doesn’t look like you.’ I got tired of it.”

This experience is all too common for women in Nigeria, and across sub-Saharan Africa. Victims of sexual violence find that when they return home, they are treated suspiciously, as if the brutal treatment they endured tainted them. It’s why sexual violence is used against Christians—the result of the abuse extends beyond the individual, tearing apart Christian families and communities, leaving the church weakened.

When the ostracism and isolation began to affect Rifkatu’s relationship with her daughter, she and Zamai knew she needed to get help. Rifkatu’s wounds were deep and scarring.

Thankfully, Open Doors partners were able to put Rifkatu in touch with Asebe*, a trauma care provider who volunteers at the trauma center supported by Open Doors. Every year, the trauma center cares for thousands of women who have experienced violent persecution because of their faith.

“Most of them come with challenges of lack of sleep, fear, worry about what to eat, where to stay,” shares Asebe. “Some come with the challenge of loneliness. Some fear not knowing when the attackers will come again. And rape victims come with challenges of stigmatization. They're stigmatized by people—even by people they love, by the community that they live in. So, it can be very traumatizing.”

That trauma carries with it changes in behavior and attitude, reflecting the pain of the wound rather than normal personalities. This was the case for Rifkatu. “When Rifkatu first came to the center, she came as an angry person,” says Asebe. “She came very sad; she wasn't smiling at anyone. She was even doubting the existence of God. She had lost hope in life.”

That feeling of hopelessness led Rifkatu to question everything she had ever known, even things that she had been so confident in just four weeks before her abduction. “She said when she came back from the bush, she was just living in doubt,” Asebe shares. “She could not figure out how her husband was feeling because he was quiet about it. [And as for Rifkatu’s daughter], she told me there was a point in time that she didn't even want to look at her daughter, that there were times she even made statements like: ‘Can't you see what I'm going through? You are adding to my pain. Just die and let me rest.’”

The most important thing that a trauma care provider can do, says Asebe, is to listen. “I was just there, present,” she says. “I asked Rifkatu helpful questions to allow her to see the way she feels. I encouraged her to do activities, like drawing anything that signifies the pain she's feeling, and writing laments to God.”

And slowly, God began to work in Rifkatu’s spirit.

One of the most powerful elements of the trauma care are the sessions on forgiveness and taking your pain to the cross of Christ.

“When Rifkatu came [to the trauma center], she told me she would never forgive her kidnappers,” says Asebe. “But after we did the session on forgiveness, she made up her mind to forgive them, God helping her. And she told me that we should pray together that God will take away the pain, and that she wanted to rededicate her life to Christ so that she can continue her walk as a Christian woman.”

Rifkatu remembers the day she felt like she could finally give her burden and her pain to Jesus. “Something I will never forget is taking our pains to the cross,” she says. “Everyone wrote their pains on a piece of paper. We sang songs and burned our pieces of paper at the cross. They told us as the ashes go up, our pains are going up to God.”

As the ashes of her pain went up to the sky, Rifkatu found that Jesus had given her the hope she had lost—along with the radical forgiveness of the Kingdom of Heaven. “I used to say, ‘These Fulani militants, I will never forgive them till eternity,’” she says. “But since I came and received these teachings, I have forgiven them in my heart. And may Almighty God help them to repent.”

Seeing such a change in Rifkatu persuaded Zamai also to accept trauma care.

“I saw a lot of changes in her life after coming here,” he says. “I have not seen her cry and worry like before. The way she is now, she is becoming free; before, she was not free, filled with many worries.”

Like many men married to victims of sexual violence, Zamai also felt ashamed and disgraced. This is one of the intentional effects that such assaults can have on Christians. Zamai found his own heart had been wounded and that he also needed healing.

“When my wife shared with me about what the Fulani militants did to her, it hurt me a lot,” he says. “I made up my mind that if God will allow me to meet these people face to face, either they will overpower me and kill me, or I will kill them. But when I came for the training, they taught us forgiveness, and how we can forgive others.”

Zamai credits the time at the trauma center with helping him be able to recenter his focus on the hope of Jesus. “Truly if we had not had the opportunity to come for this trauma healing, maybe to this day, our relationship wouldn’t have been mended,” he says. “When I went for the training, it encouraged and strengthened me and made me change my attitude and thinking. Because of that, I have embraced the situation with faith that God Almighty knows it all.”

Rifkatu’s relationship with her daughter has also been transformed. Before coming to the trauma center, her daughter was a painful reminder of her wounds and how her community had rejected her. “She told me that before she came to the center, she could go weeks without even picking up the baby. Just the sight of our daughter annoyed her," explains Asebe. “But after the sessions, she told me she could embrace the baby, that she loves being with the baby, and that she feels happy. At other times … she's human and still feels this pain. But I keep praying with her, encouraging her and trusting God that He will take that completely away from her so that their relationship will be the one that God wants them to have.”

Rifkatu’s journey to healing is far from over. She and Zamai still need the prayers and support of their global Church family as they rebuild their lives, their family and their future. And sadly, there are many more Christian women like Rifkatu, not just in Nigeria, but across sub-Saharan Africa, who need the help of a trauma care provider like Asebe to start the healing they desperately need. But they don’t just need our prayers and gifts. They also need us to speak for them.

“We want our voices, these women's voices, to be heard,” says Asebe. “Let the world know what is happening to Christian women in Nigeria. Their rights are not being protected. They are being traumatized; they are being abused because of their faith. And we want this to stop.”

This means that all of us who claim the name of Christ have the responsibility to speak out and to act. “I want the world to help us and speak out,” Asebe says. “Let there be advocacy. Let them come with assistance in any way they can. Let them also pray, because what humans cannot do, I believe God can do.”

This is why Open Doors has begun the multi-year Arise Africa campaign. Open Door’s 2025 World Watch List research shows that, at a minimum, 1,700 Christians in sub-Saharan Africa were sexually assaulted or harassed just from November 2023 to October 2024. And of the countries where sexual violence against Christians occurs, eight of the top 10 countries are in sub-Saharan Africa. It’s important to note that these are likely significantly low numbers, as the stigma around this kind of violence means reports are rare and can be difficult to verify.

It's why we must collectively support Christians like Rifkatu, pray with them and speak out on their behalf. The violence is horrific, and it seems no one is paying attention. But by God’s grace, each of us has a role to play. Today, will you stand alongside Asebe, Rifkatu and her daughter? Here are three ways you can stop the violence and start the healing:
 

Add your name to Open Doors' Arise Africa petition—or if you’ve already signed it, ask others to sign it too. The petition will be open until 2026, but please do send your signature as soon as you can to help us build momentum and raise enough signatures to present it to the African Union, European Union and the United Nations. Our goal is to raise a million voices of prayer and advocacy, joining our petitions with those from the church in sub-Saharan Africa. The world is not paying attention, and we believe a million petitions will cause those in power to stand up and take notice. NOTE: IF YOU'VE ALREADY SIGNED THE PETITION BEOFRE, NO NEED TO SIGN IT AGAIN BUT PLEASE DO SHARE IT TO YOUR FRIENDS.
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Your gifts of can provide trauma care to women like Rifkatu. A gift like this can empower trauma care workers like Asebe to provide the help so urgently needed—and your gift today can also help train other Christians to recognize the wounds of trauma and understand how to address them.
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• “I am still having a lot of terrible nightmares,” shares Rifkatu. “I dream about the Fulani militants; sometimes they are chasing after us. Pray that Almighty God may take away these nightmares.
• “Pray that God will strengthen my husband to be able to provide for the needs of our baby because he is the only one working. I must stay with the baby because I cannot get anyone to look after her for me, and she is not old enough to sit while I work.
• “Pray that God will strengthen my baby. She is innocent. May God heal her so that people will be amazed by His wonders. Let Him restore her so that others can see and trust in Him.”
• Rifkatu’s story is only one of more than 1,700 similar stories that happened in the last year (as mentioned above). Pray that God would protect and heal these women—and bring them to a place of healing. Ask God to raise up believers like Asebe to help start the healing. And pray that these sisters would know they aren’t alone.

*Name changed for security reasons