It started like every ordinary Sunday in the highlands of Plateau — the kind of morning that tricks you into believing peace still lives here. The church bell had just rung for the first service when the gunfire began. Three sharp bursts. Then silence. The kind of silence that carries questions no one dares to answer.
By noon, the church was a skeleton — charred beams, broken pews, and a Bible half-burnt, opened to Psalms. A boy of twelve sat beside the ruins, staring at nothing. Someone said his father was the choir master. Someone else said he was the one who pulled his father’s body from the altar. No one knew for sure. In these parts, facts travel slower than bullets.
Now, flash forward a week later — Washington D.C. buzzes with the usual diplomacy. A subcommittee is debating whether what’s happening in Nigeria should be called “genocide.” Some officials roll their eyes. Others insist the word fits. Meanwhile, Open Doors reports over 5,000 Christians killed and 3,200 abducted between January and October 2025. Numbers on a page. Clean. Sterile. But I’ve seen what those numbers smell like.
The government calls it “insecurity.”
That’s the word they use — soft enough to fit in a headline, vague enough to mean nothing. But when every tenth village attacked shares one faith, when priests are hunted on lonely highways, when schools with crosses are reduced to rubble, you start to wonder — is this just insecurity, or something darker dressed in denial?
I once met a man in Zangon Kataf who laughed while showing me the ruins of his church. “We’ve rebuilt it three times,” he said. “Each time smaller. The last one has no roof. Helps us see the stars while we pray.” His voice didn’t tremble. Maybe pain gets tired after a while.
That’s the thing about this place — people learn to live between fire and faith.
The politicians keep arguing categories while the killers reload. The media trims adjectives to stay “neutral.” And the rest of us scroll past images of ashes, whispering “God help us” as if heaven still checks hashtags.
They say violence here isn’t religious. Maybe. But try telling that to the widows who sleep in burnt parsonages or the children who draw guns instead of angels in Sunday school.
The truth? Nigeria has turned violence into an economy. Bandits, terrorists, herders, jihadists — different uniforms, same business model. The victims are just currency in a marketplace of fear.
And still, the world debates semantics. Genocide or not. Targeted or random.
But blood doesn’t care what name you give it — it stains the same.
So here’s my question: how many times must the church bells fall silent before someone admits they’re not just broken — they’ve been silenced on purpose?
Because one day, the blood that speaks in silence will demand an answer.
And on that day, no government statement will be loud enough to drown it.
Linus Anagboso.
Digital Solutions Consultant. Columnist. Community & Leadership Advocate.
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