By Oladoja M.O
Benue bleeds again. A recent massacre in Yelewata village, where at least 100 to 150 lives were claimed, cast a shadow over headlines, but smothered the deeper truth of decades-long sorrow. As images flash across social media in real time, outrage erupts. But near-instant outrage often substitutes for understanding. And in Benue, where tragedy is almost normalised, such performative empathy does more harm than good.
A Land on Fire, not for the First Time. This is not a one-off disaster. The roots go deep:
The 2001 Zaki‑Biam, where Nigerian soldiers massacred hundreds of Tiv civilians, razing villages in a brutal military reprisal, the 2016 Agatu Massacre, where more than 300, possibly up to 500, villagers were slaughtered during herders‑farmers clashes, leaving thousands displaced, the Odugbeho 2021, where suspected Fulani herders killed at least 40 residents in Agatu LGA, part of a continued wave of violence. In April 2022, over 25 were murdered in coordinated herder attacks on farming communities in Goma, up till this latest carnage, where victims were shot and burned in their homes, echoing a tragic pattern.
Between 2015 and March 2023 alone, 5,138 lives were lost across Benue in herder‑farmer attacks. Under President Buhari’s term, Benue became a killing field; 6,000 killed, 2 million displaced. The Humanitarian Crisis has been ongoing under the surface of fleeting headline moments.
The tragedy is not fodder for political stunts. The moment a video goes online, hashtags spiral: blaming the President, vilifying the government, and stirring political gain. But very few pause to ask: who suffers most in these cycles of condemnation? The dead do not return. The displaced families do not reclaim their farms. The real loss is in our silence, our unwillingness to grasp the whole before pointing fingers. Yes, government leaders, state and federal, bear responsibility.
The 2017 anti‑open grazing law in Benue was well-meaning. However, it remains a paper tiger: characterised by uneven enforcement, a lack of ranches, and feeble federal support. President Tinubu’s speeches and increased defence budgets amount to little on the ground when arms still flow, and security forces remain under-resourced. And when political opponents oversimplify the conflict as mere religious persecution or ethnic cleansing, nuance is lost.
At the heart of all these disputes is a struggle over scarce resources, including land, water, and natural resources, as well as grazing routes, which is exacerbated by climate change. Historically, grazing corridors existed. However, escalating population growth, farmland encroachment, and desertification have reduced these spaces. Compounding this: centuries-old migration, religious and ethnic tensions, cattle rustling, and political exclusion of Fulani groups. Each side bears accumulated grievances; farmers over burnt crops, herders over stolen cattle.
This is fundamentally communal, not merely political. Solutions must be rooted in non‑kinetic, non‑violent engagement. Dialogue tables must sit Fulani herders alongside Tiv farmers and local officials. Traditional leaders, ranchers, security services, and federal authorities must all negotiate a win-win framework, including grazing reserves, clear land-use maps, property rights enforcement, and swift justice for perpetrators. Yes, bring the perpetrators to book. Those profiting from killing, whether herders or cartels supplying arms, must face speedy consequences. However, we cannot rely solely on force. We need intelligence systems, community policing, and legal reform. We need peaceful co-management of land and water.
It’s time for Nigerians to shift from hashtag empathy to hard-won solidarity. Unleashing threads of blame on social media while clicking “share” does little for grieving widows or orphaned children.
Recording a burn-out home instead of rescuing a trapped neighbor is the hallmark of a self‑absorbed age.
Public discourse must evolve from political opportunism to intellectual empathy. From performance to purpose. When presidents speak, let’s demand substance: “Where are the ranches? Where is land‑use reform? Who funds security at the village level?”
We demand action, but not at the cost of conscience. We must hold leaders accountable while still listening. Civil society must stop yelling into empty rooms, and start negotiating into full ones.
A practical roadmap might include;
Reviving grazing reserves with clear boundaries, monitored jointly by local farmers and herders, enforcement of anti-grazing laws, backed with ranching incentives and federal support, swift prosecution of killers, with community courts supported by federal justice, strengthening local security, with trained village vigilantes under lawful guidelines. Climate adaptation, planting trees, building dams, restoring soil to reduce migration pressure, and, more importantly, promoting inter‑communal peace‑building through youth exchanges, shared markets, and local councils.
If Nigeria continues to allow Benue’s blood to stain its conscience, we’ll face another generation hardened by loss, distrust, and rage. A country that waits for television headlines before honouring its fallen has already forgotten them. Benue’s suffering needs more than outrage; it needs us: grounded, knowledgeable, purposeful. We must reject hollow political theatre and demand real solutions. Because beneath the noise and the blood, lies an entire community crying for justice, and silence is not an option.
Oladoja M.O writes from Abuja and can be reached at: mayokunmark@gmail.com.
