By Abel Leonard, Lafia
Uren, a secondary school student from Hurti village in Daffo, Bokkos Local Government Area of Plateau State, once lived a simple life. School, farming, and community festivals filled her days. Now, only grief and trauma remain. The sound of gunfire haunts her blood-soaked memories.
“We were just farming,” she said, her voice shaking. “Clearing the land with my parents and siblings when the bullets and bikes came. I saw them—five men with guns, but they chose knives.”
Her story is raw and terrifying. That morning, her family went to the farm early to avoid the heat. Then, motorcycles roared in, bringing death. Gunshots shattered the quiet, and smoke rose from burning homes.
Suspected Fulani militias struck fast, killing without mercy and chanting religious slogans. Uren and some siblings hid in a narrow hole. Outside, her parents and brother faced the horror. Her father was butchered.
Her brother bludgeoned. Her two sisters, sick at home, were also slain.
“My mother urinated on herself from fear. My father just sat, blood pooling beneath him. My brother—my brother was beaten, cut, and left for dead,” she whispered. The pain lies not just in loss but in how normal this violence has become.
A Pattern of Violence
This is not a lone event. From Jos to Riyom, Barkin Ladi to Bassa, and now Bokkos, Plateau State faces relentless terror. Villages burn, families die, and survivors carry deep scars. Justice feels distant.
Dr Stanley Augustine Kavwam, a lecturer at the Federal University of Lafia and Deputy National Publicity Secretary of the Middle-Belt Forum, condemned the attacks.
“The world only burns when the fire reaches your doorstep,” he said. “But this fire—this plague of death—is burning uncontrollably. The silence from authorities is no longer ignorance. It is complicity.”
He pointed to a recent Supreme Court ruling sentencing David Jackson from Adamawa to death for defending himself against suspected Fulani attackers.
“What justice is this,” he asked, “when killers roam free, yet a victim is hanged for refusing to die?”
Voices from Nasarawa
In Lafia, Nasarawa State’s capital, the Plateau Indigenous Development Association Network (PIDAN) met in sorrow. Dawus Tela Francis, Chairman of PIDAN’s Lafia branch, spoke to The Sun.
“This is beyond painful. It is barbaric and inhumane,” he said. “We demand that the government at both state and federal levels rise to their constitutional responsibility of protecting lives and property.”
Though many Plateau natives live in Lafia, their roots tie them to home. “No community should live in constant fear. It is unjust. It is unacceptable. These attacks must be investigated, and those responsible must be held accountable,” Francis urged.
A Call for Action
Security agencies’ repeated failure to stop or respond to these attacks fuels rage. The federal government’s silence and uneven justice deepen the sense of neglect.
“How long do you bow to a system that does not value your blood?” Uren asked. “How long before the survivors become defenders—not out of bravery, but necessity?” Her words are a stark warning of a breaking point.
As Uren holds onto her shattered life and communities mourn again, one truth stands out: memories soaked in blood never fade.