There’s a corner of Benue State soaked in silence right now. Not the kind of silence that brings peace. It’s the kind that sits heavy in the air, that follows unspeakable things, that clings to burned houses, mass graves, and terrified eyes. Yelwata is grieving.
Over 200 people were slaughtered in one of the most brutal mass killings Nigeria has seen in recent years. Women, children, men burned alive, hacked down, shot in their sleep. Entire households wiped out in one night. And just like that, the village was turned into a graveyard with names no one will ever remember. The only names we’re hearing now are those of the suspects.
Fifteen more were picked up this week.
Those responsible are Fulani herdsmen, Abdulsalam Mohammed, Dahiru Mohammed, Bako Jibril, Abubakar Isa, Abubakar Adamu, Umar Lawali, Bello Tukur, Musa Mohammed, Muazu Idris, Usman Suleman, Dauda Umar, Safiyanu Sani, Isa Yusufa, Babangida Usman, and Yakubu Mamman. All undergoing interrogation. All allegedly tied to the Yelwata massacre. But here’s the thing how long before they’re quietly released or mysteriously vanish from the news cycle? How many times have we seen this movie?
Let’s not pretend this is new. It isn’t. Benue has bled like this before. Guma, Logo, Agatu different towns, same sorrow. Always blamed on “unknown gunmen” or “herder-farmer clashes,” as though murder becomes less horrific when given a bureaucratic title. We reduce people’s deaths to conflict labels, then move on like it’s just another page in Nigeria’s bloody diary.
Where were the drone surveillance systems they promised in Senate hearings? Where are the so-called early warning mechanisms? Why does intelligence arrive only after the smoke clears?
But let’s stop here and really ask. What kind of country loses more than 200 people in one night and still goes to sleep the next day?
In some countries, the death of a single citizen can shut down an entire city. In Nigeria, the death of hundreds earns a hashtag, a vague promise, and deafening silence by day three.
What kind of leadership visits the capital of the affected state, makes speeches and never steps foot on the scorched soil where the blood still smells fresh?
We are living in a nation where death tolls no longer move us. Two hundred bodies are just another statistic. A massacre is just another headline to scroll past on your phone. And somewhere in all this madness, the victims become invisible. Their screams fade. Their stories are never told. We never learn their names.
But let’s remember at least one. Iveren was ten years old. She died clutching her baby brother in the only place she thought was safe,the corner of their thatched room. Both of them were burned alive. Their father had gone to the next village to buy cassava stems. When he came back, there was nothing left to feed, nothing left to hold. What does a man plant after that?
The list of suspects is public, but what about the list of the dead?
Who keeps that record? Is there a book in the Ministry of Interior with their names? Or do we bury them twice once in the earth and once in forgetfulness?
Who were they? What were their dreams? How many schools lost pupils that night? How many homes will never hear children’s laughter again?
This isn’t just about security lapses. It’s about how we have normalized evil. It’s about how perpetrators of mass murder are protected by silence and sometimes by influence. It’s about how we keep calling it a clash when in truth it’s a coordinated invasion. And it’s about how the same cycle plays out,attack, outrage, arrests, silence, forgetfulness.
The Nigeria Police Force claims it had intelligence. The DSS claims it is working behind the scenes. The federal government promises justice. But where were the drones? Where were the boots on the ground when the first cries went up? Why do they always arrive to count bodies, never to prevent them?
Let’s say this clearly.
Yelwata didn’t die because of a conflict. Yelwata died because Nigeria doesn’t know how to protect its people. Yelwata died because evil men know they can kill and nothing will happen. Yelwata died because there is no price to pay for spilling innocent blood here.
And yet, even in the midst of ashes, hope dares to whisper. But hope is not enough. Not without justice. Not without truth. Not without memory.
We owe it to the dead to remember them, to say their names, to scream their stories, to demand that these fifteen suspects and whoever else was involved don’t disappear into a system that is famous for forgetting the weak and forgiving the wicked.
How can there be healing when there’s no justice? How can there be peace when killers walk free, protected by ethnic shields, political godfathers, or just the sheer incompetence of our system?
And yet, even in the midst of ashes, hope dares to whisper. But hope is not enough. Not without justice. Not without truth. Not without memory.
Let this not be another tragedy that ends in press statements. Let it be the one that finally breaks the cycle.
Nigeria is watching. The world is watching. And so is history.
If justice is too heavy for this country to carry, then let it at least carry the memory. Let it never forget Yelwata or it will forget itself.
If we forget Yelwata, we’re just waiting for our own name to be next.
Stephanie Shaakaa
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