By Musa Kalim Gambo
ND Shehu Kanam, a political scientist and son of the soil, offered a searing insight into Governor Caleb Mutfwang’s recent statewide broadcast in a Facebook post following the blood-soaked tragedy that befell some communities in Plateau. In dissecting the speech, he made a remark that has lingered in my conscience like smoke from an unquenched fire:
“The governor made reference to previous attacks including Dogo Nahauwa and completely ignored the attack in Garga District of Kanam LGA in 2022 where over 100 lives were killed. At all times, Kanam LGA is being treated as third-class citizens in Plateau State.”
And how true that is—how bitter, how brazen. One would expect that in the arithmetic of grief, every loss would count, that memory would not play favourites. But alas, even in mourning, there is politics. Even in death, there are those deemed more worthy of remembrance than others.
Let’s be clear: every act of violence against any group of people is an abomination. It should be met with absolute condemnation. Those who carry out such horrors—burning homes, hacking down the old and the young, silencing lives with the crack of a rifle—are not just criminals. They are monsters in human form, agents of chaos and cruelty, and they must be made to face the full wrath of justice, if justice still has a name.
But then we turn to the governor’s address. Perhaps the speechwriter, weary and burdened, meant no harm. Maybe it was all too much—the urgency, the pressure, the tears behind closed doors. Perhaps grief blurred the pen, and memory failed. But selective memory tells a deeper story, whether by accident or design. It speaks of a hierarchy of pain where some cries echo louder in the chambers of power while others are muffled into silence.
The omission of the Kanam massacre, where bullets and blades buried over a hundred souls in 2022, is not just an editorial oversight. It is a symbolic erasure. It is a painful reminder that suffering is not always seen in some communities in Plateau. The state does not always mourn their dead. Their pain is not always acknowledged. In the cold theatre of political memory, Kanam seems to occupy the balcony—watching, grieving, unheard.
But why? Why must Kanam and others like it constantly beg to be seen?
Maybe the intention of the governor’s speech wasn’t to compile a historical record of tragedies. Perhaps it was just a passing mention meant to stir the ghosts and frame the urgency. But even a passing mention must carry the weight of justice. When invoking past massacres, we must strive for balance, breadth, and truth. We cannot cherry-pick grief.
This is not mere sentimentality—it’s about shaping policy from a place of inclusion. When the memory of a people is consistently erased or ignored, how can they believe in the solutions presented to them?
Interestingly, embedded in the governor’s speech was a subtle but telling reference to the nature of the attacks. The subsequent ban on open grazing and cattle movement at night across the state implies that the perpetrators may be connected to patterns of pastoral violence. Whether these connections are definitive or speculative is for the intelligence community to clarify. Yet, in that policy, one senses that the governor has a working theory of the violence–it is, therefore, expected that this act of violence will be brought to a definite end very soon.
Still, even the most astute policies will fall flat if people feel excluded from the conversation—if they feel like third-class citizens in their own land.
A state cannot heal when its government speaks selectively, and a people cannot move forward when some of their dead are left behind in the narrative. To move forward, we must gather all the names, all the villages, all the cries, and lay them bare—without hierarchy or hesitation.
Governor Mutfwang must do better. Plateau deserves better. Kanam demands no pity—only remembrance, and justice.
Let this not be another footnote in the long, bitter history of the Middle Belt. Let this be a turning point—where silence gives way to truth, and truth gives rise to healing.
Musa Kalim Gambo writes from Barkinladi, Plateau State.