They
say the world only burns when the fire reaches your doorstep.
Otherwise, it is just another spectacle, far-off smoke, a sound you can
sleep through. It is all right, they say, to watch the flames of
violence swallow others, so long as they don’t
swallow us. So long as the ash does not settle on our roofs. Some even
say it is acceptable if it is our own doing the burning. Then, the
silence is justified. The gain is holy.
But what happens when the flame forgets its lane?
It will. It always does.
My
name is Uren. I am from Hurti, a small village in Daffo, Bokkos,
Plateau state. I am in SS3 at the Government Secondary School in
Manguna.
In Bokkos, we farm potatoes, maize, and whatever the land agrees to yield because that is what we know best. That is how we survive. Occasionally, we trade. But it is the land that feeds us.
During
a recent weekend, my people, the Ron and Kulere, enjoyed our annual
festival. People came from all over. Not because everything was alright,
but because the festival gave us strength. It reminded us that we are
still here. We are still alive. And even though we keep losing people to
violence, we cannot stop living. Besides, we know everyone will die someday.
On
Wednesday morning, before the sun rose, my mother reminded me that we
needed to head to the farm early before the heat turned cruel and
drained our energy. There is always work to be done on the farm; come rain, come sun, dry, or green. Life in our village follows that rhythm.
For some reason, that morning, I woke with the weight of Oswald Mtshali’s “Nightfall in Soweto” pressing heavily on my chest. Mr. Mallo, our literature teacher, painted it vividly when he taught the poem. “Feel it,” he said. “Poetry is meant to be felt.”
I felt it, alright. The fear. The dusk was falling like judgment. I felt it because it was no longer just poetry. It was no longer Soweto. It was Plateau. It was Bokkos. It was home. It was real.
My
classmate told me that in their village, Josho, and even in Ganda and
Manguna, they no longer sleep at night. The men and the boys had started
spending the night in the trees, like hunted animals. They went up
there not to fight. They went there to act as sirens. Human alarms.
When the raiders came, they were the voices screaming, “Run!”
And the raiders? They always came.
In our history class, Mrs. Mafwil told us that once upon a time, invaders galloped in on horses, with spears, bows, and arrows slicing through the air with ancient rage. Today, they arrive on iron horses, humming death and machines that spit fire and thunder.
They come knowing they will not be stopped.
They come knowing their mission has been carved into the silence of complicity.
They come. They slaughter. They leave. And they come again. Their faces are not hidden. Their names are whispered. Their language portrays who they are. Yet, somehow, they remain unknown.
That
Wednesday, they walked into our morning as we worked on the farm. My
mother, father, five siblings, and I cleared the land so we could plant
soon. We were engrossed in tearing up weeds with calloused hands and
brushing the earth off our feet when we heard the buzzing of motorbikes,
many of them, and the cracking of gunfire all around.
It
was loud and close — a rhythm now too familiar. First at night, now in
broad daylight. A group of attackers was moving in on our village, and
the nearby villages too.
We froze, not knowing what to do. Big black clouds of smoke began rising. Houses were burning. We saw people running, screaming. Although it wasn't near us yet, the land was flat; we could see everything. We were certain the attackers had seen us. One cannot hide easily out there. My mother’s face twisted.
“Home,” she whispered and broke into a run. But my father ran after her and held her back. She began to shiver. “My children, my children,” she said, as tears welled up in her eyes.
My
two younger sisters were at home; one was sick, the other left to look
after her. The ground where my mother stood turned wet. She had urinated
on herself out of fear.
The
sky was no longer blue. It had become a sheet of thick black smoke. In
the distance, homes coughed fire, and people ran like ants from an
overturned nest. Screams scattered in the wind. The attackers chased
those who ran toward our farm. They were coming. We had been seen. The land offers no cover here. It is flat and wide. It betrays you.
My father’s mind raced faster than the bikes. He pointed to a narrow hole. The opening was wide enough for us to squeeze through, and we did. We did not ask what was inside. We did not think where it would lead. We just entered.
We
smelled the damp scent of death all around us. We squeezed in, my
siblings and I, while my parents and one of my brothers covered the hole
with dry leaves and grass. They stayed outside. There was no room for
all of us. From that tiny breath-hole, I watched.
The
men on bikes came. Five of them. With their guns slung carelessly
around them, they chose to use knives instead. Long, rusted, personal.
They circled my parents and brother like wolves around tired prey. They
chanted a “God is great” prayer to a God they no longer feared. And then, they cut wherever their razors could reach. Blood was everywhere.
My
father begged, his voice cracking like old wood. My mother shrieked as
they cut, and they cut again. They struck my brother down with the butt
of a gun.
“Soon, you are all gone!” they shouted in Hausa with a Fulani accent. Then more chants of “God is great,” and more bikes revving into the distance. Their glee was carried by gunshots and war cries as they made their way to join the others. And then, there was silence, except for my mother’s sharp and soul-piercing wail. She crawled to my brother’s lifeless body and pulled it close.
My father just sat there, blood pooling around him. His eyes were vacant. He was staring like he could see a world we could not. I could not take it anymore. I blacked out. My young mind had given up.
When I finally came to, I learned my father had died. My two sisters, who were left at home, were slaughtered with knives. My mother was still in shock.
We saw the assailants and
what they looked like. We heard the language they spoke and how they
prayed to their god. We also know that their kind occupies many of the
villages around that have been razed.
It is said that when people are pushed to a wall, they will push
back, not out of bravery, but out of necessity. I fear what will happen
now that we are near that point. Survival is not cowardice. It is
instinct. But how long do you stay law-abiding while the law does not
consider your blood worth avenging? How long do you bow to a system that
rewards those who live outside it?
First, it was Jos, now christened the “Jos crisis,” then Riyom, Barkin Ladi, Bassa, Mangu, Wase, and Kanam. Everywhere in Plateau is getting a taste of the 21st-century jihad.
I hear that there are people who gain from the fire.
People who watch it from high windows and sip their tea. People who
call for peace but fund the bullets. And then, there are people like me,
Uren, who only ever wanted to farm, to live, and to love my land.
The invaders have awakened something dangerous, not just pain, but memory.
And memory, when soaked in blood, never forgets.
International
Christian Concern (ICC) continues to work in Nigeria, helping our
brothers and sisters there overcome ongoing attacks from Islamic
extremists. Join us in this work by making a donation today.
To read more news stories, visit the ICC Newsroom. For interviews, please email press@persecution.org.
