In the heart of Nigeria’s Middle Belt, a region known for its fertility and calm, the people of Benue State should be harvesting hope. But this April, all they are harvesting is grief.
Friday, April 18, 2025, will never be forgotten. It was supposed to be just another day in the quiet communities of Mchia and Mou in Logo Local Government Area. Instead, it became a day soaked in blood, loss, and despair.
In the late afternoon, residents of Mchia were going about their routines. Some were preparing evening meals, others were returning from the fields, and children were playing under trees. Then came the sound of gunfire. Men believed to be Fulani herdsmen descended on the community with assault rifles. Without warning, they opened fire. Within minutes, twelve people were dead.
The chaos did not end there. The attackers moved swiftly to the nearby village of Mou, where they took three more lives and left at least fifteen others critically injured. Those who could run fled into the bushes. The wounded were carried in wheelbarrows and on motorcycles to overcrowded clinics with little or no medical supplies.
One survivor, barely able to speak through her sobs, whispered, “I saw my brother fall right in front of me. He died before I could reach him.”
The attack came just a day after another horrifying massacre in Gbagir, Ukum Local Government Area. There, at least forty five people were killed. The bodies were still being counted when Mchia and Mou were hit. In some homes, entire families were wiped out. Grandmothers were found with children in their arms. The killers shot indiscriminately.
Displacement has become the new reality in Benue. The fear is now constant. Every knock on the door. Every sound in the night. Families are packing what little they have and running toward already overflowing camps in Anyiin, Abeda, and Tse Akor. But even in those camps, safety is not guaranteed.
Governor Hyacinth Alia has condemned the attacks, but many residents feel abandoned. There is growing frustration over the lack of timely response. There were no military patrols in Mchia before the attack. None in Mou. In Ukum, where the attack left dozens dead, no visible government presence was recorded until after the fact.
“Every time they come, we call for help,” said a local youth leader. “Nobody comes until we are counting corpses.”
The tragedy of this black Friday came on the heels of what has already been a brutal April in Benue. On April 10, Otukpo Local Government Area was invaded. Armed men attacked Otobi, Emichi, Odudaje, and Okpamaju communities. Eleven people died in those raids. Homes were burnt. Farmlands were destroyed. Hundreds of women and children fled into the bush, many of them barefoot, carrying nothing but their children.
Benue is not at war. Yet its villages are under siege. The state, celebrated for its vast agricultural wealth and peaceful rural life, has become a battlefield.
There is a growing belief among residents that these attacks are not isolated. They are organized. They are targeted. And they follow a disturbing pattern. Many believe that land is at the center of the conflict. Others see it as a deliberate act to destabilize and displace. But one truth remains unshaken. Innocent people are dying, and no one is being held accountable.
Farms are now empty. Schools in affected areas have closed. Churches hold more funerals than Sunday services. Markets are silent. Communities that once thrived are turning into ghost towns.
The humanitarian crisis is worsening. Food is scarce. Medical support is thin. Sanitation in the camps is almost nonexistent. With the rains on the way, there is fear of a new wave of sickness. The trauma is unbearable.
Children are the worst hit. Many now wake up screaming at night. They have seen more death than childhood should allow. They walk around confused, asking for parents who will never return. Their childhoods were stolen in a moment of madness that no one seems willing to stop.
Yet, amidst the ruins, the people of Benue still stand. They cry. They mourn. But they stand. This resilience is not because they are superhuman. It is because they have no choice.
But resilience must not be mistaken for peace. These people are not at peace. They are tired. They are broken. And they are calling out. Not for sympathy. But for justice. For protection. For attention.
This black Friday must mark a turning point. It cannot be swept away by the next headline. The blood of these villagers must not be washed away with silence.
Benue is bleeding. The people are calling. The question is will anyone answer?
Stephanie Shaakaa
