A child was found this morning in the grass, her school shoes gone, her face turned to the sun. Her name is not on any register anymore. She will not attend class again. Her family won’t bury her properly. There is no time, no place, and too many others to mourn.
This is Benue.
And what is happening here is not conflict. It is carnage. It is quiet, slow-burning, systematic murder. It is a land bleeding to death while the rest of the country looks away.
For weeks now, entire communities in Makurdi, Guma, Gwer West, Kwande, Agatu, Otukpo, and the Sankera axis have been under siege. Villages once alive with the hum of farming tools are now hollowed out, homes reduced to ash, fields soaked in fear. Women flee with babies on their backs. The elderly crawl into the bush to die unseen. And the children—God, the children are being hunted like animals.
This is not hearsay. This is not rumor. This is not an attempt to politicize tragedy. This is the truth, and it is unforgiving.
We are watching people slowly disappear.
A priest was shot on the Makurdi-Naka road. He is fighting for his life now. His only weapon was his collar. Churches once sanctuaries are now slaughterhouses. Places of worship are being burned. Clergy are being targeted. Holy spaces violated. It is not just a war on the people. It is a war on their spirit.
And still, the drums rolled in Makurdi yesterday. The Benue State Government marked two years in office with celebration. There were speeches, music, food, and carefully written press releases. The same day, children walked barefoot from the outskirts of the city, too young to understand why gunshots now meant run. Many never made it. They were too small, too slow. Some were caught. Some are dead. Some are missing.
What sort of country hosts a feast while its own children lie face down in the dirt?
When people speak out about this horror, their pleas are too often met with silence or worse, suspicion. They are told they are making it political. Told by people who live in safety, who sleep through the night, who do not have to dig shallow graves with kitchen spoons.
Even some from Benue, in their desperate loyalty to political gods, dare to accuse truth-tellers of theatrics. Their eyes are closed to the blood that runs on their doorstep. They should be ashamed.
Let it be said plainly. This is not politics. This is a massacre.
The humanitarian catastrophe is real. Farmers are displaced at the peak of planting season. Food insecurity is rising. Children are being traumatized beyond repair. Communities are collapsing into grief and starvation. And yet, leaders cling to ceremony while their people cling to life.
Benue has a government. It must act. It must stop hiding behind pageantry and start rallying every possible resource. Security forces, traditional rulers, community leaders, civilian defense structures, alliances with neighboring states. Anything to stop the bleeding.
Other states are confronting similar threats and have shown courage. What excuses does Benue still have? If the murder of children won’t unite us, what will?
This is not a local issue. It is a national disgrace. Every Nigerian should feel the heat of this fire because one day, it may reach their doorstep.
What is happening in Benue is not a footnote. It is a headline. It is a stain on the soul of a country that claims to love its people. One day, history will ask. Where were you when Benue was burning? What did you say? What did you do?
Let no one be silent. Not now. Not ever.
Benue is running out of time.
Stephanie Shaakaa
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