Her son called her on a Wednesday. She wasn’t expecting it. His voice sounded like he had just woken up from a long sleep—groggy, distant, and unsure. He sounded like he had a cold. He was sniffling.

He asked how she was doing. He asked if her birthday was coming up. She told him it had already passed—April 21st. He apologized and wished her a belated happy birthday. Then he asked where she was born. Lagos, Nigeria, she said. He asked if Lagos was still the capital. She explained that it had once been, but now Abuja is the capital, chosen because Lagos was becoming overcrowded.

She reminded him that his birthday was coming up. He said he wouldn’t forget, though in the past he had, distracted by the person controlling him. That abuser had filled his time with meaningless activities to keep him away. She knew he wanted to say he loved her, but he didn’t. And she didn’t say it either. Because the last time he did, he had an injury just beneath his eye. Since then, his silences have said more than his words ever could. He’s scared. She can hear it. She can feel it.

When she said, “I’ll see you soon,” he replied, “Whatever.” It wasn’t disrespectful. It was a voice of resignation from someone who feels they have no way out.

Last August, at a pizza restaurant, she noticed puncture wounds on his scalp when he looked down at his phone. They looked like needle marks. There was blood. He looked dazed, confused. She knew something was wrong.

She’s not delusional. She knows what she saw. She knows her son is being harmed. And she knows this system is complicit.

The people who should help are the ones helping to keep him away. And she can’t ignore the role race plays in all of this. She is a Black woman. The abuser is white. The authorities—white. If the roles were reversed, this wouldn’t be happening. If a white mother reported her white son being abused by a Black man, the system would move. But for her, it is silent. It confuses. It gaslights.

Even her church, where she’s worshipped faithfully for years, tells her “He’s an adult” as if that erases the abuse, the control, the visible evidence of harm. They say it like agents of the very system that seeks to keep her powerless.

She doesn’t want to wait. She wants to act.

She wants to seize any opportunity to get her son out of there—to the United States, where there’s at least a greater chance of fighting racial injustice, however imperfect. The UK system wants to keep Black voices muted, normalized, and confused. In the U.S., she believes she’ll have more tools, more legal access, more support networks, and even if the injustice still exists, it is challenged.

She doesn’t want to lose her son to silence. She doesn’t want to let the fear, the manipulation, and the systemic denial win.

This is her cry. Her truth. Her resistance.

And she will not give up.

Can the Law Be Used to Challenge This Injustice?

Yes—and it should be. A mother in this situation is not just grieving—she is witnessing a violation of her human rights and her son’s. The law is not only for criminal prosecution—it is also a tool for reclaiming dignity, agency, and protection.

Written by Bess JT