Yelewata Massacre: What Benue Citizens Hoped President Tinubu Would Say

• A woman gives birth to twins in a toilet pit shack
• “I’ve lost so many people, I don’t know what to call myself anymore”
• Families were locked inside homes and burned alive
• 45 burned in one house, 28 in another – bodies unrecognizable
• Nearly 900,000 now displaced in Benue State
• Entire villages left in haunting silence
• A child sends a plea: “Tell Abuja we want to go home”

I didn’t arrive at Makurdi International Market Camp as a journalist hunting a headline or as a lecturer with a title.

I wasn’t there as an observer or even a witness. I went because I could no longer ignore the pain. I went as a native, a neighbor. My home sits just beside the camp.

Each morning on my way to school, I pass through one of the IDP camps at North Bank. The people now see me as family, not a visitor. Some of the mothers even visit my home every Saturday.

We sit together, we speak, we share tears. What began as a small act of concern has now become an unbreakable bond born from shared struggle and humanity.

What amazes me is how these women wear their pain like a garment of dignity. Despite their suffering, they exude resilience that forces you to reflect on your own complaints. Their laughter and courage are profound reminders of strength.

They are no longer just numbers in a tragedy. They are my people. In the rubble of what was, we’ve created something unforgettable. A sisterhood forged in survival, which will endure even after they return to their rightful homes.

Hope lingers thinly in the camp air, fainter than the smoke from the cooking shacks. Children follow quietly, not to beg, but curious to see someone not handing out rations or preaching hope.

The first woman I met couldn’t even say her name. “I’ve lost too many people,” she said, “I don’t know who I am anymore.” Her eyes were red from staring endlessly at the ground. “I lost four that night,” she whispered. “We had just returned from the farm, hadn’t even made luam yet.”

Dooshima, a 15-year-old girl, held a crying baby—her little sister. “She won’t stop crying,” she said. Their mother was killed in the attack. “She told us to run and left the baby with me. I looked back for her, but never saw her again.” They later found her near a burned barn.

Terver, an eight-year-old boy, told me he comes from “running,” not from a place. Both his parents were burnt in the Yelewata attack. “I couldn’t tell which was my mom or dad,” he said, like describing the weather.

A woman gave birth to twins inside a pit latrine shack because the camp’s clinic was overcrowded. “I didn’t scream,” she said. “I bit my hand so they wouldn’t hear me.” The twins survived—but for how long?

This wasn’t just an attack. It was designed to terrorize completely. Around 10pm, armed men corralled families inside their homes and set them ablaze. In one house, 45 people died; in another, 28. A mother and her five children were burned with her elderly mother.

At the hospital, I met a man holding his six-month-old—rescued alive from rubble three days after the massacre. His wife and other four kids were found in pieces. “Only this one lived,” he said. “Maybe God still remembers me.”

Every family in Yelewata lost someone. Some compounds had no survivors at all. Bodies are still being discovered—some headless, some limbless, some reduced to bones and ash. These aren’t displaced citizens; they are people being wiped away.

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Names of Victims Released

The following names are not just records—they are human stories, extinguished while the world remains quiet:

Fanen Chii. Doom Chii. Terzungwe Chii. Edeember Uke. Aondodoo Uke. Adohi Dooga. Mbanyiar Dooga. Ikyoche Dooga. Awanboi Dooga. Regina Dooga. Adoo Dooga. Aondofa Dooga. Mathew Iormba. Apam Iormba. Philomena Iormba. Akama Iormba. Ngodoo Iormba. Kumawues Iormba. Nensha Iormba. Victoria Tsegba. Ngodoo Tsegba. Mimidoo Tsegba.

Dorathy Tsegba. Msendoo Tsegba. Iorgyer Kyule. Ute Dooga. Shaadye Koornam. Sewuese Iorember. Dooshima Aondoana. Agbogo Aondoana. Erdoo Aondoana. Orsoja Ikpakyaa. Injinia Ikpakyaa. Chia Orshio. Uyina Orshio. Katie Orshio. Myuega Orshio. Usha Orshio. Philomena Orshio. Alia Orshio. Lydia Ajah. Terdoo Ajah. Iwuese Ajah. Orbuter Anya. Terzungwe Akpen. Aondohemba Akpen. Ushana Akpen. Shater Akpen. Mercy Akpen. Isaac Akpen. Doowuese Ugbah. Ngodoo Ugba. Manta Simon. Manta Laadi. Manta Iwuese. Doose Asoo. Aondosoo Asoo. Terlumun Fidelis. Yakov Shagwa. Margaret Shagwa. Erdoo Shagwa. Dooauur Shagwa. Sewuese Shagwa. Logo Ukô. Eunice Tyokuwa. Jude Aza. Kwaghhar Ordue. Doosuur Ordue. Terngu Nongotse. Msugh Nongotse. Dooshima Nongotse. Orlogbo Lamaaondo. Laadi Lamaaondo. Awan Shiôr. Aondohemba Ucha. Bonashe Uzer. Amaki Dende.

Angbiandoo Dende. Festus Amaki. Mbaufe Ubi. Matthew Uto. Doopinen Uto. Kumater Uto. Terhile Uto. Versuwe Zerkohol. Mbakeren Aondovihi. Monday Aondovihi. Erdoo Aondovihi. Joe Aondovihi. Mwarga Aondovihi. Felicia Gwabo. Mary Gwabo. Terhemba Gwabo. Jirgema Gwabo. Mercy Dende. Lubem Dende. Uwundu Iorhemen. Gabriel Fide. Aondoana Fide. Ukese Fide. Averter Fide. Mwaraorga Fide. Terkimbir Solomon. Amina Kongo. Terkula Kongo.

Aboi Asoo. Shater Amaki. Lumunga Gbem. Doose Ayom. Mama Mfanyi. Samson Uke. Aboi Korna. Aondoawase Lamaaondo. Ormbagba Utim. Mermber Lamaaondo. Doose Ordue. Torsaar Adam. Doose Adam. Nguyilan Adam. Terver Ucha. Agon Ucha. Aondohemba Ucha. Atuur Asom. Uvershigh Asom. Nongo Ulam. Aondoaver Ulam. Ayangealumun Azahan. Nguzugwen Torgeri. Washima Nyiyongu. Tarnum Zerhemba.

More names are yet to come from villages like Tse-Ikyoon, Tse-Viambe, Tse-Hwar, Tse-Iortyer, Tse-Aguun, Mbagbanger, Tse-Ikyegh, Tse-Chule—places where nothing remains.

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Tinubu’s Visit: As Benue IDPs Climb to 900,000

Benue State now shelters nearly 900,000 displaced individuals. Children grow up with no proper food, education, or healthcare. The federal response? Delayed. Passive. Empty.

Only after another 200 people were slaughtered in Yelewata did the President visit.

Even then, he delivered empty words: committee suggestions, ranching discussions, blood donation appeals. But by then, the blood had already dried into the soil.

He called for peace and asked why no arrests were made. He offered poetic statements like “we will turn this tragedy into prosperity.”

But Mr. President, have you stood beside a grieving mother who buried five children in one grave? Have you seen a man cradle his only surviving infant, burned but alive?

Sir, we needed your presence, not poetry. Action, not analysis.

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What Benue Expected from the President

We expected the President to name the violence for what it is: terrorism, genocide, ethnic cleansing. We needed to hear: “This is war against Nigerian farmers, and I will deploy every federal resource to end it.”

Instead, we heard, “Lead the way.”

We hoped for an announcement like: “Here is ₦100 billion for rebuilding and returning displaced citizens to their lands.”
Instead, we got vague talk about peace meetings.

We needed him to say: “I hear you, I see your pain, I recognize your loss.” But the only clear statement was: “Peace is good for development.”

But what development exists without survival?

How can ranching be discussed when families are burning?

How can farmers return to ashes?

How can peace be made when hands still bury fresh graves?

Where’s the federal policy for resettling these people?

Where’s the military presence for vulnerable areas like Guma, Logo, Agatu, Gwer-West?

Will the killers ever be declared terrorists? Or will this horror keep getting described as “clashes”?

These are the questions we need answered.

Tor Tiv, Professor James Ayatse, said it plainly: “This is not a farmer-herder clash. It is organized genocide and land-grabbing.”

Yet the federal government continues to downplay it with vague descriptions. This is not reprisal—it’s coordinated extermination.

Benue didn’t want sympathy. They needed protection. Not poetry, but justice. Not talks, but action—now.

As I left that day, a little girl used a stick as a microphone. “Welcome to my news,” she said. “My house is fire. My mummy is black in the ground.” Then she smiled and said, “Please tell Abuja we want to go home.”

I turned away. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. At the exit, a man held my hand. His name was Agber. He lost his wife and three daughters.

“Please tell Abuja we’re still human,” he said. “Stop sending words. We need action. We need to go home.”

I promised I would. That’s why I wrote this.

Let us stop calling it a “herder-farmer clash.” It is genocide, land seizure, ethnic annihilation. And Nigeria’s silence makes it complicit. These names are not just victims—they are a national indictment.

Mr. President, this is your Nigeria. These are your citizens. Their bones are your burden. Their stories are your legacy. Do not let them fade into dust.

Benue now has one of the highest IDP counts, second only to Borno and Zamfara. Yet the funding is scarce. Resettlement plans are nonexistent. And the killings continue.