The Sound of Silence
In the heart of Nigeria, in the rolling hills of Plateau and the fertile plains of Benue, entire communities are vanishing.
What once were vibrant towns filled with laughter, life, and livestock have now become ghostly echoes of carnage and sorrow. And yet, in Abuja — the seat of power — there is only silence. A muted, callous silence. One that stretches across the national consciousness like a thick, suffocating fog.
The persistent massacres in these regions have left thousands dead, tens of thousands displaced, and entire generations traumatised. Yet, the government’s response has been, at best, sporadic, and at worst, apathetic. While lives are extinguished with brutal impunity, Nigeria’s leadership responds with recycled rhetoric, empty condolences, and vague promises that do little to stem the tide of blood.
This is not just a humanitarian crisis. It is a national betrayal. A betrayal that finds its loudest expression in the silence of those with the power to stop it.
For once, President Tinubu decided to leave his lofty abode in Abuja to visit grieving families and persons recovering from the attack by armed bandits on Yelewata, in Guma Local Government Area of Benue State.
Reports say the attack claimed over 200 lives.
The highlight of the visit was a charge by the President to service chiefs to fish out the perpetrators of the dastardly attacks. This directive, in itself, isn’t new; as Nigerians have become used to hearing this overtime, with nothing coming out of it. No one is ever arrested, no one is ever brought to book – the entire visit left a lot to be desired.
Thus, a rare opportunity to mourn with affected families and show empathy for the colossal loss, turned to somewhat of a rally and fell short of genuine concern.
The Blood-Soaked Earth: Benue and Plateau Under Siege
In Benue State, often referred to as the “Food Basket of the Nation,” farmers have become targets. Entire villages are razed, crops destroyed, and children orphaned. In Plateau State, where ethnic and religious communities have coexisted for generations, the delicate balance has shattered under the weight of relentless attacks.
The pattern is disturbingly familiar: Night-time raids, entire families butchered, homes burned, and survivors left with nothing but grief and ruins. The assailants are often described as “unknown gunmen” or “suspected herdsmen,” yet their operations are surgical, coordinated, and recurring. These are not random acts of violence — they are calculated campaigns of terror.
International observers and local watchdogs have catalogued hundreds of such attacks over the past decade. Yet, rarely are perpetrators arrested. Justice is almost non-existent.
The Numbers Behind the Tears
According to a recent report by SBM Intelligence, over 63,000 Nigerians have been killed due to violent conflicts since 2011. In 2024 alone, over 2,000 deaths were attributed to violence in the North-Central region, with Benue and Plateau bearing the heaviest brunt.
Displacement is rampant. The Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre (IDMC) estimates that over 3 million Nigerians are internally displaced due to violence — with a significant percentage from these two states. Camps for Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs) are overflowing, underfunded, and neglected.
Muted by Power: The Government’s Indifference
The most deafening silence, however, comes not from the victims — but from those who should protect them.
Successive administrations — from Jonathan to Buhari, and now Tinubu — have failed to offer a decisive, sustained response to the bloodshed. The Nigerian government has often dismissed these attacks as “clashes” between farmers and herders, framing them as isolated incidents rather than acknowledging the systemic failure of security and governance.
This narrative not only downplays the crisis but dehumanises the victims. The government’s refusal to label the attacks as acts of terrorism or ethnic cleansing deprives victims of justice and perpetuates impunity.
There is a tragic consistency in the response: a few tweets of condemnation, a visit by a federal delegation long after the blood has dried, and then…silence.
Media Fatigue and the Weaponisation of Apathy
The Media too, has grown fatigued. As attacks become routine, the headlines shrink. The stories are buried. The victims, voiceless. In a country obsessed with politics, entertainment, and foreign distractions, the deaths of hundreds in a rural village are often seen as “just another crisis.”
Social media sometimes erupts with outrage, but it quickly fades — overtaken by the latest scandal or soccer match. The victims’ cries are drowned in a sea of trending hashtags that rarely last 24 hours.
This weaponisation of apathy is dangerous. It emboldens killers, discourages justice, and convinces survivors that they are truly alone.
Who Benefits from the Silence?
There are critical questions begging for answers:
• Who are the attackers? Why do they strike with such precision and consistency?
• Where do they get their weapons? How do they move freely across states and communities without interception?
• Why is the government — with all its security apparatus — unable or unwilling to stop them?
• Is the silence a strategy? And if so, for whose benefit?
There is growing suspicion among citizens and observers that the silence is not just negligence, but complicity — whether through inaction, incompetence, or indirect support. The lack of credible investigations, arrests, and prosecutions fuels this fear.
Resisting the Silence: Voices that Refuse to Be Muted
Despite the silence from Abuja, voices are rising from the rubble.
Survivors, local journalists, civil society groups, and religious leaders are documenting atrocities, demanding justice, and keeping the memory of victims alive. Their work is dangerous and often met with threats, but it is crucial.
The Benue State government, particularly under previous administrations, has spoken out loudly — sometimes clashing with federal authorities. Yet, state governments remain largely powerless without federal support and military backing.
International human rights groups have called for investigations and humanitarian support, but Nigeria’s sovereignty remains a shield behind which atrocities are hidden.
Conclusion: When Silence Becomes Complicity
There comes a time when silence is no longer neutrality — it is endorsement.
When a nation refuses to protect its people, when its leaders turn blind eyes and deaf ears to mass killings, it ceases to be a republic. It becomes a graveyard with a flag.
“Muted Silence” is not just about what is not being said. It is about what is being allowed to happen in the absence of action. It is a silence that kills twice: first by the machete or AK-47, and then by the indifference.
It is time to break that silence.
It is time to demand justice, transparency, and a government that does more than mourn. A government that protects. A nation that refuses to let parts of itself bleed without bandage or balm.
Until then, Benue and Plateau — and others like them — will remain trapped in the horror of a country that listens with closed ears, and watches with shut eyes.
Call to Action
For Journalists: Keep telling these stories. Every name matters. Every life deserves remembrance.
For Civil Society: Mobilise pressure campaigns, petitions, and legal actions. Document everything.
For Citizens: Refuse to normalise this violence. Speak out. Vote wisely. Demand accountability.
For the International Community: Apply diplomatic pressure. Support independent investigations. Provide humanitarian relief.
For the Government: Your silence is not just loud — it is lethal. Speak. Act. Now.
Pull Quotes
“We had retired to bed in the night … my sister … was shot at and she didn’t survive it.” — Eric Danlami, Plateau survivor
“We were cooking food when the gunmen attacked … They killed seven people in our family.” — Rifkatu Sati, survivor from Bokkos
Survivor Testimonies
Eric Danlami (Zike hamlet, Plateau)
“We had retired to bed … At the time we heard sporadic gunshots and movement … we found a place to hide … my sister … was afraid … she left the hiding place … they shot at her and she didn’t survive it.”
Christian Emmanuel (Bokkos)
“Realising that the attackers had already occupied our community, I started running … I started crying and begged them to leave me but they refused. They caught me and shot me. I begged again but they shot me again.”
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Mary (Bokkos)
“It was in the night … we started hearing people shouting. I lost my husband, brothers and children … we lay down in the bush hiding … we trekked for long distances … now sleeping in schools with no food or clothes. About 12 people in our family are no more.”
Tabiba Timothy (Darwat Hurun)
“We have lost a lot. The attackers slaughtered our people … burned our houses and the food we have harvested. We don’t know where we are going now … I lost my siblings. I lost my children. I don’t know if my husband is alive …”
Ezekiel Del (Gindin Akwati)
“My father, my mother, my father’s brother … my wife, my four children … were all shot and killed and the house set ablaze … my nine‑year‑old son survived the fire — it was a miracle.”
Witness Interviews on Government Inaction, Military Negligence
A survivor of the 2023 Christmas Eve massacre in Plateau recounted to Parallel Facts how she rushed to report the attacks at a nearby military checkpoint, only to be told “no ammunition to engage terrorists.”
Governmental Failure
An anonymous Plateau victim told West Africa Weekly:
“The terrorists sometimes exempt people they know to be Muslims… When the Fulanis initially came, we accommodated them, and now they are killing us off and taking over our ancestral lands.”
reddit.com, westafricaweekly.com
Journalist Interview: On the Ground Voices
From Reuters via AFP (Apr 2025):
Peter John, who escaped by climbing onto his roof during an attack in Kimakpa, said:
“They shot and killed my younger sister and her daughter right in front of me.”
Analysis and Integration
These testimonies expose the brutal reality of night-time raids: families slaughtered, homes razed, survivors traumatised.
Government failure is underlined by soldiers lacking ammunition and authorities labelling attacks as mere “clashes”—responses which survivors see as negligence, not protection.
Plenty of survivors echo that justice is elusive and impunity reigns—no arrests, no prosecutions.
A Plea for Help (Revised with Human Voices)
In the emptiness of broken homes and orphaned families, the muted silence of the government is deafening. When frontline soldiers have “no ammunition,” and communities call out for help only to be ignored, silence transforms from negligence into complicity.
These testimonies are more than stories—they are pleas for justice, for government accountability, and for an end to the carnage.
