Babies Raising Babies: The Cycle We Refuse to Break

Just this Tuesday, I sat in a room where stories found voices, pain was laid bare, and silence lost its grip. It was a book reading that was aired to the public. But for me, it was more than a public event. It was personal. The kind that shifts something in you. We read three books: Where Is Your Wrapper? A Tray of Locust Beans, and Demand and Supply all by Bisi Adeleye-Fayemi. Each of them powerfully and unapologetically dealt with issues many of us see every day but walk past: rape, early marriage, early pregnancy, gender-based violence, and the quiet suffering embedded in migration journeys, especially for women and girls.

These stories did not just speak to me… they screamed.

They sharpened the way I now look at my community. They confronted my gendered consciousness, one already shaped by my academic background in gender and development. That education gave me what we call the “gender lens,” a set of goggles that lets you see what others do not or will not, like Power dynamics. Systemic injustices. Cultural complicity and what have you.

Now I cannot unsee what I have seen. Just today, I took a walk around my neighborhood, the same one where my mother sells soft drinks and provisions. I saw young girls, 16, 17, maybe 18 years old, carrying babies. These are girls who should be preparing for WAEC or learning a trade. Instead, they are already mothers. And yet, when conversations arise, it is these girls who are shamed. The burden is dumped entirely on their young shoulders.

One girl I have known for years, just around 17 or 18, is now a mother. I still remember her face from when she would come to buy snacks from my mom’s shop. Now she carries a baby. Her own mother is just about 35. And here she is, already repeating the cycle. The question that haunted me as I stood there was not, “What did she do?” It was: Who did this to her?

We forget that there is often a man behind every teenage pregnancy. Sometimes, these are grown men, 28, 30, who lure young girls with gifts, attention, or sheer manipulation. Other times, it starts with rape. But once the pregnancy becomes visible, the story changes. Society blames her. She becomes the problem. No one asks about the boy, the man, the father.

Beside my mother’s shop, there is another young girl, no older than 18, living with her parents. She, too, has a baby. No husband. Nobody stepping forward.

We have normalized this tragedy. In fact, some even celebrate it in quiet corners. You’ll hear elders recite a Yoruba adage with pride: “Àtẹ̀tẹ̀ bí ọmọ ni àtẹ̀tẹ̀ jẹun ọmọ” meaning; to give birth early is to eat the fruits of motherhood early. They say it as if starting motherhood young is something to be proud of, like it’s a smart way to enjoy life earlier than others. But in this context, it becomes a dangerous excuse for exploitation. It glorifies premature motherhood as though it’s a badge of honour, while ignoring the trauma, interrupted dreams, and stolen childhoods that lie beneath. What should be recognised as a societal crisis is instead recast as cultural wisdom.

These girls should be in school, learning a trade, laughing with friends, building dreams. Instead, they are navigating motherhood without the emotional, financial, or social tools needed. They are still children. What do they know about raising one?

And the danger is not just the hardship of raising a child alone… it is the cycle these births. A cycle of poverty. A cycle of interrupted education. A cycle of vulnerability. A cycle of silence.

Meanwhile, society keeps asking the wrong questions. Instead of investigating the power dynamics that led to her pregnancy, instead of teaching boys about consent, accountability, and respect, we lecture the girl. Instead of protecting her, we shame her. Instead of helping her, we hide her.

We need to do better. Sexuality education should no longer be taboo. It must be taught, not just in classrooms, but in homes, on the streets, in faith spaces. We need to start early. We need to speak plainly. We need to show boys and girls that actions have consequences, and that respect, boundaries, and responsibility matter.

The books we read reminded me of something powerful. In Where Is Your Wrapper? Bisi Adeleye-Fayemi writes about the symbolic wrapper that African women wear, how it protects, covers, shields, and how society must collectively wrap our arms around the vulnerable. Today, I ask: Where is your wrapper of sympathy? Where is that wrapper for our girls? Who is covering them? Who is listening to their silent screams?

So, the next time you see a teenage girl carrying a baby… ask yourself:

Who was there for her when she needed protection? What support did she never receive because we looked away?

Why are we not teaching the boys and men around her to respect boundaries?

And most importantly, how do we ensure another girl does not walk this path alone?

About the Author Akinade, Ayomiposi Omoniyi is a graduate of Political Science and currently an MSc student in Gender and Development. He is passionate about governance, gender equity, and public policy, with a keen interest in advocating for social justice and inclusive development.