Long before hashtags, viral videos, and donation links, there was a simple story told to children to teach responsibility: The Boy Who Cried Wolf. A shepherd boy, bored and craving attention, repeatedly lied that a wolf was attacking his flock.
Each time, villagers rushed to help, only to discover the alarm was false. Eventually, when a real wolf appeared, and the boy cried out again, no one came. The sheep were lost, not because danger did not exist, but because trust had already died.
Nigeria recently witnessed a modern version of that ancient fable, only this time, the consequences extend far beyond folklore. They touch real victims, real investigations, and a justice system already struggling to convince survivors of sexual violence that they will be believed.
In February 2026, an 18-year-old TikToker known online as Mirabel, whose real name is Abigail Nsuka, posted a chilling story. She claimed she had been raped inside her apartment in Ogijo, Ogun State. The account was detailed, emotional, and disturbingly vivid.
Nigerians reacted exactly as one would hope a compassionate society should: with outrage, sympathy, and support. Donations flowed. Advocacy groups mobilised. Authorities, including the Lagos State Domestic and Sexual Violence Agency and the Ogun State Police, became involved.
The public believed her because they wanted to believe and help a victim.
Her story was gripping. She said insomnia drove her to drink alcohol early in the morning. Around 9 a.m., she heard knocks at her door. When she opened it, an unknown man allegedly forced his way inside, pushing her backwards until she struck her head against a refrigerator and lost consciousness. She claimed she woke up tied, gagged with a cloth in her mouth, unable to scream while neighbours were away at church.
She described a brutal assault, alleging the attacker raped her and inflicted injuries that caused severe bleeding. She claimed she initially thought the blood was her menstrual cycle. Later, she said the attacker sent threatening messages, reinforcing the fear that she remained in danger. The narrative was structured almost like a thriller, precise, emotional, and horrifying enough to ignite nationwide outrage.
But it was all fiction.
During a phone conversation with social media activist Martins Vincent Otse, popularly known as VeryDarkMan (VDM), Mirabel confessed. The invasion never happened. The rape never occurred. The injuries were self-inflicted during episodes of self-harm linked, she said, to panic attacks and depression. The threatening messages were sent from a fake TikTok account she created herself. She admitted staging the story partly for attention and partly to raise money, including funds to renew her rent.
She also attributed her actions to mental health struggles, hallucinations allegedly linked to substance use, codeine mixed with Sprite, and emotional distress. In the leaked audio, she apologised repeatedly, saying she was tired and suicidal.
Following the confession, police arrested her for providing false information and wasting investigative resources.
At first glance, some may frame this as simply a troubled teenager making disastrous decisions. But that interpretation misses the larger societal damage. False rape allegations are not victimless mistakes. They erode the fragile trust upon which real survivors depend.
Every genuine victim already faces scepticism, questions about clothing, timing, behaviour, and evidence. Many hesitate to report assaults precisely because they fear disbelief. When a fabricated case explodes publicly and then collapses, it reinforces the worst instincts of doubters. The next survivor who comes forward may now face an even heavier burden of proof, not because she is lying, but because someone else did.
A growing argument emerged online after the confession, including sentiments attributed to singer Simi, suggesting that false reporters should not be prosecuted. The intention behind such positions may be rooted in fear that punishment could discourage genuine victims from reporting assaults. It is a sympathetic argument, but strategically flawed.
Justice systems do not operate on sympathy alone; they operate on deterrence and credibility. Refusing to prosecute deliberate fabrications sends a dangerous signal that weaponising a serious crime carries no consequences.
There is a fundamental distinction between a report made in good faith that cannot be proven and a story deliberately manufactured. One is uncertainty. The other is deception.
Mirabel’s case falls squarely into the latter. She invented an attacker, staged evidence, manipulated public empathy, and diverted law enforcement resources that could have been addressing real crimes.
Prosecution, therefore, is not cruelty. Without consequences, the incentive structure becomes distorted, rewarding attention-seeking behaviour while punishing public trust.
Ironically, women themselves have the greatest stake in confronting false accusations head-on. Advocacy against fabricated claims is not betrayal; it is preservation. Women will raise sons as well as daughters. A society where accusations carry automatic belief without accountability creates fear on all sides, fear for victims who may not be believed, and fear for innocent individuals who may be falsely accused.
The Mirabel saga also exposes the darker architecture of social media. Platforms reward emotional extremity. The more shocking the story, the faster it spreads. Sympathy becomes currency; outrage becomes engagement. In such an environment, the line between personal distress and performative crisis can blur dangerously.
Netizens reacted with fury after the confession, not merely because they felt deceived, but because they recognised the broader implications. Many demanded refunds of donations and legal action, arguing that trivialising rape damages real survivors whose voices already struggle to break through societal silence.
And they are not entirely wrong.
Mental health struggles deserve compassion and treatment. But compassion cannot replace accountability. Two truths can exist simultaneously: someone can need psychological help and still be responsible for deliberate harm caused to others.
The ancient shepherd boy learned too late that trust, once broken, is difficult to rebuild. Society now faces the same lesson in digital form. Every false alarm weakens collective empathy. Every fabricated trauma risks silencing a real one.
The tragedy of “The Girl Who Cried Wolf” is not merely that she lied. It is that her lie may echo long after her case fades from timelines, whispering doubt into future moments when someone, somewhere, tells the truth and desperately needs to be believed.
