By Prof. Chiwuike Uba, Ph.D.
The story should have ended in triumph but it didn’t. A 13-year-old boy, kidnapped in Imo State while fetching grass for his goats, managed to slip away from his captors in Anambra when they fell asleep. Alone, frightened, but determined, he found safety. The community rejoiced; his family wept with relief. Yet, within hours, what should have been a quiet, dignified reunion turned into a second ordeal. The Anambra State Police Command as reported in different newspapers and other media outlets authorised the public release of the boy’s full name, photographs, and identifying details. Multiple media outlets published them—online, on radio, and in print. No thought was given to whether the abductors had been caught (they had not), or whether this disclosure might expose the boy to re-abduction, retaliation, or public scrutiny. In a single news cycle, his safety, privacy, and emotional recovery were all put at risk.
This needless exposure amounts to what psychologists describe as secondary victimization—when survivors of trauma are harmed again, often by those meant to protect them. Research from Child Abuse & Neglect and the Journal of Traumatic Stress shows that public identification of child survivors aggravates post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), heightens anxiety, and can lead to stigma and isolation (McElvaney et al., 2013; Pfefferbaum et al., 2014). For a child who has just endured the terror of kidnapping, seeing his face and name circulated nationwide is not a validation of his rescue; it is a fresh layer of vulnerability. This risk is not hypothetical. Across Nigeria and in other countries, there are documented cases of children being targeted again after their identities were broadcast.
The laws in Nigeria are explicit on this matter, and they leave no room for doubt. Section 8(1) of the Child Rights Act 2003 guarantees every child dignity and protection from “inhuman, cruel, or degrading treatment.” Section 14 safeguards a child’s privacy, while Section 205 explicitly forbids the publication of any identifying material about children involved in legal or traumatic situations. The Criminal Code Act criminalises acts that jeopardise a minor’s welfare. Reinforcing this, the Nigerian Press Council Code of Ethics (Clauses 25 and 26) prohibits naming or photographing children involved in cases of crime or abuse, emphasising protection from harm, stigma, and undue exposure.
International obligations mirror these protections. The UN Convention on the Rights of the Child (CRC), in Article 16, guarantees a child’s right to privacy, and in Article 19, compels states to shield children from all forms of physical or mental violence, injury, or abuse—including psychological harm. The African Charter on the Rights and Welfare of the Child imposes similar duties. UNICEF’s Principles for Ethical Reporting on Children call for strict confidentiality and informed consent before any disclosure, and Nigeria’s Inter-Agency Guidelines for Child Protection in Emergencies require that the identities of child survivors be safeguarded. These frameworks exist not for decoration or public relations, but precisely to avert the kind of harm that befell this boy.
In this case, there was no operational necessity for the breach. The boy’s village—Ubaha-Akparu in Ideato LGA, Imo State —was already known to the police, who could have quietly facilitated his reunion with family through community leaders or traditional channels. Choosing instead to publicise his details not only disregarded culturally sensitive procedures, but also eroded community trust and undermined professional duty.
Sadly, such lapses are not isolated. Nigeria’s child protection failures stem less from gaps in legislation than from poor enforcement. Laws sit on the books without meaningful consequences for breaches. Many police officers and journalists have never received trauma-informed child protection training, leaving them unaware of how exposure can magnify a child’s suffering. The pull of sensational headlines and viral images often eclipses ethical restraint, and the lack of clear Standard Operating Procedures for handling the identities of rescued children opens the door to arbitrary and harmful decisions.
The problem is compounded by troubling statistics. According to the National Bureau of Statistics, reported cases of child abduction in Nigeria rose by over 35 percent between 2018 and 2023, with many linked to ransom demands or trafficking. In the South-East, at least one in five reported cases between 2020 and 2023 involved children under 15 years old. Despite strong legislative frameworks—including the Child Rights Act, the Criminal Code Act, and Nigeria’s ratification of the CRC and the African Charter—enforcement remains patchy, leaving even rescued children exposed to danger.
In today’s digital environment, the risks are magnified further. Where an ill-judged print report might once have reached a few thousand people, a single Facebook post or WhatsApp forward can now make a child’s identity visible to millions within hours. Nigeria’s Cybercrimes Act 2015 contains provisions for removing harmful content and penalising offenders, but without rapid monitoring and takedowns, once an image is online, it is almost impossible to erase entirely. The internet ensures that the consequences of wrongful disclosure are not just immediate, but enduring.
Defenders of such disclosures sometimes argue that publishing a rescued child’s image helps find relatives or reassures the public of law enforcement’s effectiveness. Yet both objectives can be achieved without endangering the child—by using silhouettes, blurred faces, or anonymous descriptions. In this instance, the boy’s family could already be reached through established community networks, making the disclosure not only avoidable, but reckless. Public curiosity can never be justification for risking a child’s safety.
By any measure, the police PPRO and the media outlets involved failed in their obligations. As state agents and professional journalists, they were bound by both law and ethics to protect the child. That duty was breached, in contravention of the Child Rights Act, the Criminal Code Act, the Press Council Code of Ethics, the CRC, the African Charter, the UNICEF Principles for Ethical Reporting on Children, and the Inter-Agency Guidelines for Child Protection in Emergencies. These were not minor oversights, but direct violations of national and international law.
To avoid repeating such failures, Nigeria must act decisively. Officers and media houses that breach child protection laws should face disciplinary measures. All police PPROs, journalists, and editors must undergo mandatory trauma-informed child protection training. An independent oversight body should monitor compliance across both law enforcement and the media. Cultural sensitivity and confidentiality should be embedded in child reunification processes by working closely with traditional leaders and community structures. In the online space, the Nigerian Police Force must build partnerships with social media platforms to ensure swift removal of unlawful child images. Public education campaigns can also shift attitudes from sensationalism to empathy, reinforcing the idea that protecting children is not an optional courtesy but a binding duty.
Ultimately, rescuing a child is only the first act of protection. The real measure of our humanity is what happens next. In this case, Nigeria failed twice—once when the boy was abducted, and again when his privacy and safety were betrayed by those sworn to protect him. Every child survivor deserves the chance to heal without fear. Until we treat that right as inviolable, we will continue turning rescues into re-traumatisations—a moral failure no society should tolerate. God is with us!
*Prof. Chiwuike Uba is a development economist, public sector reforms expert, public affairs analyst and the Chairman of the Board, ACUF Initiative for Policy and Governance._