Femi Akintunde-Johnson

The bloodbath in Benue State, particularly around the farming community of Yelewata, once again thrusts Nigeria’s North Central into the limelight – not for its rich soils, historic towns, or culinary heritage, but as a killing field where human life is bartered cheaply, and official empathy is rationed like famine aid. The reports are damning: over 100 lives snuffed out, entire villages razed, hundreds displaced – and yet, from Abuja to Makurdi, the fog of bureaucratic indifference floats freely.

 The last weekend massacre, reportedly claiming upwards of 200 lives, should have been a national emergency. But what we got, initially, was a bland statement from the presidency calling for reconciliation – yes, with killers who shoot children and slit the throats of pregnant women. Cold-blooded murderers whose identities are either unknown or conveniently unacknowledged. Reconcile with ghosts? Or should we assume the government has a WhatsApp group chat with these faceless marauders?

  It wasn’t until America sneezed – when a few Congressmen and the Pope raised their brows – that Nigeria reached for its hanky. Suddenly, the Inspector General of Police and the Chief of Defence Staff remembered that Benue was still on the map. By Monday, they were on the ground, cameras in tow, promising action and commiserations. But the question is not when they arrived; it is why they ever left. Why, after years of recurring attacks, do we still respond like shocked spectators rather than a sovereign with muscle and memory?

The federal government, once again, seems trapped in the eternal tango of reaction, not prevention. While the Presidency’s handlers were busy crafting grammatical gymnastics for a media statement, young Nigerians on X (formerly Twitter) were unloading their fury. Some accused the government of ethnic bias, others of cold-hearted incompetence. Few, if any, defended the state – because, frankly, what is there to defend?

  The controversy intensified when reports emerged of the President’s recent visit to Benue. A town hall in Makurdi was hurriedly organised. Elders, leaders, and stakeholders spoke passionately – voices frayed by loss, fear, and disillusionment. And what was the President’s response? Polished, sober, apologetic in parts. Yet, it was his failure to visit Yelewata, the epicentre of the carnage, that ignited fresh outrage. Blaming the rains and poor roads, he stayed back. Surely, this is 2025, and we are talking about the Commander-in-Chief of Africa’s biggest economy. No helicopter? No drone flyover? No virtual address? The symbolism of his absence – at the very heart of the tragedy – is as damning as the bullets that tore through that village.

  And just when one thought the optics couldn’t get worse, the President reportedly asked the IGP: “How come no arrest has been made?” A question better posed in private. Publicly, it sounded like a man startled by the sight of smoke after ignoring fire warnings. The statement stung – not just for its content, but for its suggestion: that the federal leader might be as clueless about the inner workings of his security architecture as the rest of us. And if that is the case, then Nigeria is being steered by autopilot, with turbulence as our only guarantee.

At the state level, Governor Hyacinth Alia – a Catholic priest turned politician – is under fire. Elected under a blaze of hope, his robes are now stained with accusations of impotence. Some see a man overwhelmed, others accuse him of political naivety and a worrying passivity. Whatever the truth, one thing is clear: prayers alone won’t stop bullets. A state that is bleeding can’t afford to have leadership still reading the manual.

So, who are the killers? The ever-vague term “herdsmen” has once again crept into public discourse. Some claim Fulani herders – aggrieved over stolen cattle and slain brethren – are carrying out retributive justice. Others suspect foreign mercenaries (jihadists), bandits in disguise, or the usual suspects in the unending narrative of tribal animus and land grabbing. Regardless of which theory you favour, none justify the carnage. Revenge cannot be a synonym for genocide. The law exists to prevent anarchy, not rubber-stamp it.

And if this is about land, then we are dealing with a deeper, more sinister crisis – one that echoes apartheid-style territorial displacements. A creeping strategy to expel indigenes from ancestral lands under the guise of reprisal or grazing rights. If true, then it is not only the Middle Belt at risk, but the very fabric of Nigeria’s unity. If Benue falls silently, tomorrow it could be Nasarawa, Plateau, or Kogi. The nation is inching dangerously close to Rwanda’s ghostly shadow.

 Compare this with advanced democracies. In places where human life commands premium value, a single death can trigger resignations, national mourning, and sweeping reforms. In Nigeria, however, entire communities are wiped out and we hold town halls. A child in America gets shot in school, and gun laws are debated endlessly. In Nigeria, children are burnt alive and we debate road conditions for presidential convoys.

What then must be done? First, we must discard this illusion that insecurity is a state problem. It is a national emergency. Whether it happens in Benue, Zamfara, or Borno, the buck stops at the centre. The armed forces must be empowered and unleashed – not just for optics or elections, but for real-time, intelligence-driven protection of rural Nigeria.

Secondly, governors must shed the toga of helplessness. The decentralisation of policing must move from the realm of academic theory to legislative action. State police may not be perfect, but a man defending his home with a licensed arrow is better than a man praying under siege.

Thirdly, there must be consequences. If these killings were in retaliation, then those who murdered cows and herders must face the law. But so too must those who planned, armed, and executed the mass murders in Yelewata. Justice is not a buffet; it cannot serve only the powerful or connected.

Most importantly, Nigeria must find the political will to declare these killings as what they are: acts of terrorism. Not clashes, not misunderstandings, not reprisals – but deliberate, calculated terrorism. Naming the problem is the first step towards solving it.

Ultimately, a nation that treats Benue’s blood with political caution is sowing dragon’s teeth. When people no longer feel safe in their homes, when their cries are met with platitudes, when their killers walk freely, they will stop trusting the state. And when trust dies, anarchy is reborn.

The president must now rise beyond the presidential addresses and tear-jerking town hall sympathies. He must summon courage, not just condolences. For every day of silence or delay, the embers of revenge and radicalisation glow hotter in the hearts of the bereaved.

And the next time the president asks why no one has been arrested, perhaps he should first ask: “What exactly have we done?” Because if this government cannot protect Yelewata, then it has no business selling hope to the rest of Nigeria.

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