Rantiade Benson-Idahosa is a lawyer, executive coach, business consultant, speaker, and trainer dedicated to empowering visionary leaders, soul-led entrepreneurs, and global changemakers. She specialises in helping individuals reprogramme limiting beliefs, align with their true design, and fully embrace their leadership potential. Rantiade has led numerous high-level national and international conferences and stakeholder roundtables, skillfully bringing together diverse voices to foster collaboration and drive meaningful change. In this interview with KENNETH ATHEKAME, she noted that the incidence of gender-based violence has risen to alarming levels, particularly due to insurgent activities in the North-East. Excerpts:
You take us back to the beginning. What personal experiences or observations ignited your passion for combating gender-based violence and advancing women’s empowerment in Nigeria?
My passion for women’s empowerment has been part of my DNA for as long as I can remember. But about eleven years ago, that passion was refined into purpose. Over a weekend, I read a book (Let Your Life Speak by Parker Palmer) that forced me to interrogate my existence: why am I here? What legacy do I want to leave? That following Monday, I resigned from my job as a Partner at my law firm and began building what would become Pathfinders Justice Initiative. The name “Pathfinders” wasn’t random. My father gifted it to me as a child because no matter where he was in the world, preaching, teaching, I would always trail him down with precision. And now, it’s what we do for women: we find them, particularly survivors of sex trafficking, and help them find their paths to wholeness and healing.
Growing up, I witnessed something radical, my father valued my mother. He empowered her in a time and culture that didn’t. That lived example showed me that when a woman is supported, she doesn’t just grow, she multiplies. She lifts entire families, communities, and nations.
Years later, in 2019, I was in Italy after speaking at a high-level event on reintegration for survivors. I was walking down the street in a market to get a gift for my Mum when a man stopped me and asked, “Ciao, bella, where are you from? I replied, “Nigeria.” Curious, he inquired further, “but where in Nigeria?” I replied, “Edo State.” His response? “You here for ‘job’?” and by “job” he was asking me if I was in Italy for prostitution. That moment pierced me. Simply because I was a Nigerian woman from Edo State, he saw me as a commodity. That had to change because Edo State, with its rich, cultural heritage, was so much more. Our women deserved more than a future defined by survival.
I’ve met survivors who left Nigeria, simply hoping to earn money to buy medication for their sick children, only to be trafficked and returned in a coffin. These aren’t stories to me; they’re why I wake up every day. Women are not disposable. And our work is to ensure that the world remembers that.
In recent years, the incidence of gender-based violence has risen to alarming levels, particularly with insurgent activities in the North-East. What inspired your commitment to challenging these injustices and driving change?
Gender-based violence has always existed, it’s just no longer hiding in silence. What’s shifted is that women are finding their voices, and society is slowly learning to listen. My commitment isn’t based on statistics alone; it’s based on names. Faces. Mothers. Daughters. Women who walk into our office with nothing but their pain and still find the courage to rebuild. I’ve looked into the eyes of survivors who thought no one saw them, and I’ve promised: “I see you.”
We must refuse to normalise violence. We must reject any system, be it cultural, political, or religious, that deems women expendable. Every woman matters. Every girl matters. And every story like hers deepens my resolve.
As a trained English Barrister and American lawyer, how has your legal background influenced your strategy in advocacy and policymaking for women’s rights in Nigeria?
Law taught me to think critically, act strategically, and speak with clarity. But more than that, it taught me that words on paper, if not implemented, mean nothing. My legal training has been a tool, not a crutch. It allows me to sit across from policymakers, legislators, or law enforcement and translate the pain of survivors into actionable policy. I’ve learned to identify where the legal gaps are and how to close them. Reform must be rooted not just in emotion, but in structure. Laws should not merely exist; they should be implemented. And more importantly, those laws must be created and implemented with the survivor in mind, not in abstraction.
You are a spiritual guide as well as a legal advocate. How do your spiritual beliefs intersect with your fight against GBV and your work with survivors?
There’s no divide between my faith and my fight; they are one and the same. Spirituality is a connection to divinity. I believe in a God who restores. A God who sees the invisible and elevates the dismissed. My faith teaches me that every woman is made in the image of God, fearfully, wonderfully, and purposefully. That belief grounds everything I do. It reminds me that survivors are not defined by their trauma. They are not what happened to them, they are who they choose to become.
Spiritual wholeness is critical in this work. We can give women vocational training, shelter, and therapy, but if their spirit remains broken, we’ve only done half the work. Healing must be holistic.
What are the unique dynamics of gender-based violence in Nigeria that the world may not fully understand?
In Nigeria, gender-based violence is not just an event, it’s a system. A culture. A mindset that’s deeply rooted in patriarchy and normalised across generations. From the law courts to the living rooms, women are often seen as property, people to be disciplined, traded, or controlled.
The world may hear of rape statistics or trafficking numbers, but what they miss is the daily erosion of dignity when a girl is denied an education because her brother needs it more, or when a woman is silenced in church or at home because her voice is deemed too loud.
This violence hides behind tradition, behind phrases like “that’s how it’s always been.” But we must interrogate tradition. We must ask: does this belief system value women as fully human? If not, it’s not culture, it’s injustice.
In what ways do socio-cultural norms, religious structures, and economic conditions perpetuate violence against women in Nigeria?
Culture, religion, and economics are the unholy trinity that often collude against women in Nigeria. Culturally, the payment of bride price can reinforce the idea that a woman is something to be bought, not someone to be valued. In many communities, to have a daughter abroad, even if she’s being trafficked, is seen as a status. That mindset doesn’t just enable trafficking; it celebrates it. Religiously, many survivors have told me they were told by pastors to “pray harder” or “submit more” in the face of abuse. Scriptures are twisted to preserve the institution of marriage over the safety of the woman who is also a child of God. That’s not God, that’s control. Economically, many women have no access to income, no land in their name, and no assets they can call their own. Poverty makes abuse survivable, until it kills. Until we change the systems that keep women disempowered mentally, spiritually, and financially, the violence will persist.
What systemic gaps in Nigeria’s legal or institutional frameworks still hinder justice for survivors of GBV?
Justice in Nigeria moves slowly, sometimes not at all. Even where laws exist, survivors are often re-traumatized by the very systems meant to protect them. We have specialised courts for trafficking and GBV, but too many judges lack trauma-informed training. Survivors are made to recount their stories multiple times, often in the presence of their abusers, without psychological support.
Penalties are also shockingly inadequate. A trafficker might pay a fine that doesn’t even begin to reflect the devastation they’ve caused. And then there’s the bottleneck with victim trust funds. Survivors are told help is available, but they can’t access it because of red tape. Until we reform our systems to respond with urgency, empathy, and equity, justice will remain out of reach for most survivors.
You’ve trained Parliamentarians and law enforcement. What attitudes or misconceptions do you often encounter, and how do you challenge them?
Too often, I encounter apathy, a sense that survivors must have done something to deserve what happened. There’s a failure to grasp the depth of trauma or the systemic powerlessness survivors experience.
We challenge these attitudes with truth. With data, yes, but also with stories. We humanize survivors in the eyes of policymakers and security personnel. We remind them that their power comes with the responsibility to protect, to serve, and to disrupt injustice. And we make it clear: projects won’t solve this problem, people will. We must shift mindsets before we shift laws. Because if hearts don’t change, policies won’t matter.
Why is women’s economic empowerment central to reducing gender-based violence? Because economic dependence is often the glue that keeps women trapped in violent situations.
When a woman has her own income, she has choices. She can leave an abuser. She can care for her children. She can say no and mean it. Economic empowerment doesn’t just open doors, it breaks chains. But it’s not just about giving women access, it’s about giving them equal access. We live in a patriarchal system where even economically empowered women are still undermined or undervalued. So yes, empower her financially, but also educate her community to respect that empowerment.
How does economic disempowerment increase vulnerability to trafficking, especially among young women and girls in Nigeria?
Desperation makes deception easier.
When a young girl is told her only value lies in marrying early or bearing children, she will grasp at anything that looks like a better future. So when someone offers her a job abroad, or a chance to “help the family,” it feels like hope. It feels like freedom. But too often, it’s a trap.
We’ve seen women sell their land, their homes, everything, to pay traffickers and smugglers, believing they were buying a better life. Economic vulnerability doesn’t just make them targets, it isolates them. That’s why safe, dignified alternatives must be available at home.
Can you share a powerful success story where economic empowerment transformed a survivor’s life trajectory?
Yes, so many. But one that stays with me is a young woman we’ll call Joy.
She was trafficked before the age of 18, recruited right from her neighborhood by someone she trusted. She was raped on arrival because she was a virgin, so it would be easier for men to be with her. When she returned, she was broken, unable to speak, paralysed by fear. She had given up on trying anything. We brought her into our shelter and walked with her through the journey: therapy, mentoring, skill training, and eventually, a business startup, all a hundred percent free.
Today, she runs her own successful catering business. She’s married, she’s a mother, and more importantly, she’s whole. She no longer sees herself as a victim. That’s the power of dignity restored.
What policy or financial interventions do you believe are most urgent to empower Nigerian women economically?
We need policies that put women at the center, not at the margins. That means funding for women-owned businesses, but also removing the barriers that keep women from accessing those funds, things like collateral requirements, bureaucratic red tape, or discriminatory lending practices.
We need mentorship programs that don’t just teach women how to start businesses, but how to grow and sustain them.
We need government-backed training programs that are aligned with the real market, tech, agriculture, and manufacturing, not just tailoring and bead-making.
And most urgently, we need tailored economic reintegration programs for survivors of GBV and trafficking programmes that meet them where they are and help them imagine a future they were told they couldn’t have.
Pathfinders have supported over 5,000 survivors. How do you ensure healing is not just legal but also psychological, emotional, and economic?
Because trauma doesn’t exist in just one part of a woman, our response can’t either. At Pathfinders, we are intentional about seeing survivors as whole people, women who are spiritual, emotional, physical, and economic beings. So, our healing model is holistic.
We begin with trust, creating safe spaces where survivors can simply exhale. Our staff is trained in motivational interviewing and psychosocial first aid, but beyond training, we show up with compassion. Counseling is mandatory because no amount of vocational training can overwrite untreated trauma.
We teach life skills from financial literacy to hygiene to critical thinking. We offer business incubation, internships, and tailored start-up grants because, without economic stability, healing can’t be sustained.
And we surround our women with a community. Because isolation is part of what breaks them, connection is part of what heals them.
What inspired the creation of Nigeria’s first National Guidelines for Rehabilitation and HERSAfrica.com?
There was a glaring gap. Survivors were being bounced between NGOs and shelters, and every time, they had to relive their trauma from scratch. There was no standardized protocol for how to care for them, no minimum standards for psychosocial support, reintegration, or aftercare.
We couldn’t accept that. So, we convened shelter operators and experts from across the country and co-created Nigeria’s first National Guidelines for Rehabilitation. That document says: a survivor’s dignity is not negotiable. And every actor in the chain of care must treat it that way.
HERSAfrica.com is an extension of that same vision. We wanted a digital platform that survivors could access from anywhere, whether in Nigeria or abroad. It connects them to help, resources, and free counseling, allowing them to make informed, safe decisions about their future.
The Coordinated Care Mechanism in Edo is Nigeria’s first state-level referral system. What impact has this had on service delivery for survivors of trafficking and GBV?
It has been transformative and a learning curve on Nigeria’s response to anti-trafficking tech solutions. Before the Coordinated Care Mechanism (CCM), survivors were falling through the cracks, sometimes receiving duplicate services, other times receiving none at all. There was no continuity, no accountability, no shared case management.
Now, service providers in Edo State are working together, slowly but surely. Survivors are referred to shelters, NGOS, and legal services without having to relive their stories over and over.
The CCM honors survivors’ dignity. It reduces trauma, speeds up care, and fosters real collaboration. It’s not perfect, it is slowly gaining traction but it’s a blueprint. And one we hope other states and even countries will adapt.
You’ve contributed to Nigeria’s anti-trafficking and election laws. What does an effective, survivor-centered policy reform look like in the Nigerian context?
Survivor-centered reform means that from the moment a woman steps forward to report, she is not punished for her courage. It means that law enforcement responds with trauma-informed care. That investigations are swift, trials are timely, and sentences actually reflect the gravity of the crime.
It means ensuring access to safe housing, counseling, healthcare, legal support, and economic opportunities because justice doesn’t end in the courtroom. It also means survivors must be at the table when these policies are being written. Who better to inform our laws than the women who have lived through what we’re trying to solve? Effective policy reform is not theoretical. It’s deeply practical. And if it doesn’t improve the day-to-day lives of survivors, it has failed.
How can Nigeria close the gaps revealed in the country’s first-ever Gap Analysis on Human Trafficking?
By turning awareness into accountability. The Gap Analysis revealed what many of us already knew: fragmented service delivery, weak survivor referral systems, limited trauma-informed approaches, insufficient survivor-centered policy making, lack of standardized care protocols, of course, corruption, and a whole lot. But now that the data exists, inaction is no longer defensible.
I mean, we are Nigeria, so it starts with us, the government, the community, and individuals. We have already started with the scale-up in state-level Coordinated Care Mechanisms (as PJI piloted in Edo State), which should be nationwide.
Second, Institutionalise standardised referral pathways using digital case management systems.
Ensure memoranda of understanding exist between service providers to minimise re-traumatisation and duplication of care.
Third, training for judges, police, shelter workers, and prosecutors in trauma-informed and survivor-centered practices. Introduce wellness and sensitivity protocols in all facilities interacting with survivors and monitor to ensure compliance with shelters meeting national standards. Are laws being enforced fairly and effectively? If we don’t train them, we can’t blame them, and we can’t fix what we don’t measure. I mean we have started this and had two training but just within Edo State, it needs to go round the country.
And finally, we must hold our institutions to the same standards we hold our survivors to: courage, integrity, and a refusal to settle for the status quo.
If you could change one national policy or law today to better protect women from violence, what would it be and why?
I would remove any statutory limitations that restrict when survivors can bring civil claims, and ensure both our VAPP and Child Rights’ laws are adopted across the country in their entirety.
Trauma doesn’t operate on a timeline. Some survivors take years to find the words, the courage, or the safety to speak, we see that when working with them. Our laws should not punish silence born from survival.
And I would go further: implement mandatory trauma-informed training for all law enforcement officers, judges, and prosecutors who interact with survivors. Because laws are only as effective as the people entrusted to enforce them.
How can lessons from Nigeria inform the wider African and global fight against trafficking and gender-based violence?
Nigeria is a paradox, we are both a source of immense vulnerability and a wellspring of innovation. The lessons here are clear: we must localize solutions. What works in Lagos may not work in Sokoto. What works in Nigeria may need recontextualization in Kenya or Thailand.
But there are universal takeaways. First: coordinated care matters. A fragmented system fails survivors. Second, dignity is non-negotiable. When survivors are treated like statistics, we lose the soul of the work. Third: prevention must be cultural. We have to dismantle the belief systems that allow trafficking and GBV to flourish. That requires generational investment in education, media, and faith-based messaging.
We can and should learn from one another. But we must also listen. Because survivors, wherever they are, will always be the wisest teachers in the room.
What role should African governments, the private sector, and international bodies play in the intersection of women’s rights and development?
Each has a distinct responsibility, and none can afford to abdicate it. Governments must legislate and enforce, not just create policies that look good on paper but fail in practice. They must allocate real budgets for women’s services, not just token gestures. The private sector must go beyond corporate social responsibility and into systemic disruption. Fund women-led businesses, create safe workplaces, and use your platforms to normalize women’s leadership and economic agency. International bodies must decolonize their interventions. Stop parachuting in with one-size-fits-all solutions. Partner with local actors who understand the terrain. Build trust, not just programmes. This work is not charity, it’s justice. And justice is everyone’s responsibility.
What legacy do you hope to leave behind in the fight against gender-based violence and women’s disempowerment?
I hope to leave behind a trail of light. A map for those coming after me to follow, clearer, straighter, safer. I want to have helped reframe the Nigerian woman’s identity from victim to visionary. I want survivors to see themselves not as what happened to them, but as who they’ve chosen to become. If the systems outlive me, and they must, I hope they reflect justice, dignity, and equity. I hope that one day, a young girl in Edo State will walk through her community and not be asked if she’s “here for ‘job’,” but be recognised as a builder of nations. And most of all, I want my life to have testified that the work is worth it. That freedom is possible. That change, though slow, is inevitable when we refuse to give up.
What keeps you grounded and hopeful, even in the face of overwhelming injustice?
Faith. Faith that every woman was created with a divine purpose. Faith that justice, though delayed, will not be denied. Faith that no trauma is beyond redemption, no system beyond reform, and no darkness more powerful than light. I remain grounded by the stories of survivors who walk into our office and shelter, weighed down by shame, and walk out with their heads lifted. I see what healing looks like. I see what courage looks like. And I see what freedom looks like when it finally arrives. That is what fuels me. That is what sustains me. And that is why the work of justice must continue.
