There is a room in Nigeria where the rich and mighty go to abuse their powers against their victims. Victims who aren't restricted by age, occupation, or gender—whatever seems to happen in that room stays in that room.

To get access to the room, one has to need nothing else but money. What does the room offer? The ability to do whatever they want, to whoever they want, and however they want, within the borders of Nigeria.

If you stay in Nigeria, it is very common to hear stories of how people, mostly men, who have wealth and status, treat people in their lives in ways that are so dehumanizing. Beating their wives and kids, destroying a person's image, unjustly putting someone in jail, disrupting peace, and a lot more acts more gruesome, but still, it doesn't stop. Truth is, they might not care that you cast their story out. They have the power to silence your voice, and at the end of it, they get worshipped. Because Nigerians have an obsession with money and wealth, even religions have become all about money. The money and status of the wealthy has made us overlook the terrible madness happening in the country.

A prominent pastor recently got exposed, but members of the church blamed the victims for publicly ruining his image, being blind to how the pastor ruined the lives of some.

They exist everywhere: our pastors, artists, bosses, fathers, mothers, and teachers. They are the ones coming out of church, entering the silver Jeep that blinds every member with the sun's reflection. Leaving and spraying money to everyone, feeding off their validation, and we helplessly give it to him.

When the rumors come out, we ignore them: "Oh, his wife is lying," "That man can't be a bad person," "She must have done something bad," a woman probably tortured daily by the monster under the skin of the man we so dearly praise.

"She must have done something bad" has to take the cake. Imagine a woman who, after years of shutting her mouth, finally opens up, but rather than hands, she is met with people who want to cut off her tongue. She goes back home, and the monster seated on his high chair smiles at her. "Didn't I tell you? Didn't I say they won't believe you?" and how right he was—how right we made him.

There are men, women, and children whose stories sound like those seen in documentaries. And if you wonder where they are, they're next to you in school, church, university, or work, and some of you sleep next to them. Because of their situation, they have become makeup artists, turning black to white; painting is no longer a hobby but a survival skill.

Those people in the hidden room are fueled by their wealth, but their durability is fueled by our blindness. If the people don't talk, then the victims don't walk, and to walk, they solely beg.

The screams from their room—we say it's a movie; the marks on their skin—we call a reaction. Why? For how long? If someone you loved was a victim, you wouldn't think twice about asking why their smile was a little low.

For so long, power has had its drivers, who use and abuse us. We need to stand up and say no—not once, but over and over again—to those teachers, parents, bosses, politicians, or anyone who tortures the innocent and has no consequence for their actions.

Something has to stop, and it starts with us, stopping our ignorance and creating awareness and protection for victims.