In the final part of this series on the brutal killings in Benue State, FIJ’s EMMANUEL UTI recounts a massacre he did not witness himself, but one he came to understand through the eyes of those who survived it.
I first set foot in Yelewata on Saturday, June 21, exactly one week after the massacre. The air still carried the weight of grief. That day, the Bishop of the Catholic Diocese of Makurdi had come to celebrate Mass at the local church, the very same church that might have been reduced to ashes by the Fulani herders had the police not intervened.
As the service took place inside, I noticed clusters of men and a handful of elderly women gathered beneath the shade of a broad tree. They sat in sombre silence, listening intently as a speaker addressed them. This continued until around 4 pm, when the last of several dignitaries who had visited that day departed and the small crowd began to thin out.
By then, many of the residents were visibly weary and reluctant to speak. But as the Mass concluded and more people exited the church, I seized the moment, phone in hand, and began my first formal round of interviews, ready to hear their stories, however painful.
READ MORE: BLOODBATH IN BENUE (1): How Armed Herdsmen Laid Siege Before Bathing Yelewata in Blood
BEARING WITNESS WITHOUT BEING THERE
When it became clear that speaking to the men gathered at the primary school was nearly impossible, I turned towards Yelewata New Market. This was the very ground on which the Fulani militias butchered more than 300 people. The scene was a portrait of devastation. Mud-built shops and concrete structures were in bad shape, with several parts of the buildings in ruins, their roofs twisted and torn apart, hanging precariously or scattered in pieces across the dirt — all bearing the scars of the raging inferno that killed many while they were in their rooms.
One house in particular commanded a grim silence. It was the first house where 117 people had been burnt alive. The structure, made primarily of red bricks and supported by wooden beams, had lost a significant portion of its corrugated metal roofing, which lay crumpled on the ground. The walls were caving in, and the surrounding area was littered with rubble, broken brick and charred materials. Inside, the building had a strong odour of corpses, and charred human bones were strewn across various rooms.
Before I could frame a single question, Michael Ajah, a survivor, beckoned me. He led me to a fresh burial site holding an entire family—father, mother, and six children—silently swallowed by the soil. He then pointed out trellises of fluted pumpkin vines, explaining how some villagers had clung to them in desperate hiding that night. His own shop lay nearby, reduced to rubble, his harvested crops had become ashes.
As we moved further into the New Market area, Ajah and I happened upon a middle-aged man sitting under a small tree. I thought he could be a fitting source because he was not with the other men in his community who, in my estimation, were only concerned with listening to those politicians and representatives of various organisations who had come to address them. As I approached, I noticed faint streaks of dried tears etched into his cheeks. It was the evidence of a grief that had spilled over countless times.
Before I could speak, Ajah gently stopped me. “Don’t,” he whispered. “He has been through too much.” When I asked what had happened, Ajah’s voice dropped. “He lost all five of his children. He survived, but he has not stopped crying since. Even in his sleep, he shouts and cries.”
As we left that part of the New Market, Ajah gestured towards a woman sitting a little further away. She did not notice us as we passed. She did not wear grief on her face. According to Ajah, she too had lost her children in the attack.
“She grieves differently, but it is still there, inside her. Only she knows how she is holding it in,” Ajah said.
INSIDE THE VILLAGE
After Ajah had taken me through the ruins of the New Market, it struck me that the sheer number of people killed on 13–14 June could not possibly have lived in that small cluster of shops and makeshift homes. I asked him how so many had ended up there. His answer was direct.
Months before the massacre, he explained, fear had driven families out of their individual houses and into the market square. The growing threat from Fulani militias in neighbouring villages, along with sporadic attacks on Yelewata itself, had convinced them that communal living was their safest option. They believed that gathering together, huddled in numbers, offered better protection than remaining isolated in their homes.
To dispel any doubt, Ajah offered to show me parts of Yelewata beyond the widely circulated photographs online.
We walked about 300 metres inward before we reached Ajah’s house. Along the way, he pointed out fresh burial mounds of relatives who had died in the incident. They had been buried in mass graves.
“Five were buried here, four there, six here,” he said.
On our way back towards the market, we encountered a man sifting through debris, searching for anything salvageable in the ruins of what had once been his house. When he saw us, he handed Ajah his National Identity Card, which he had found amid the rubble.
NO SIGN OF ELECTRICITY
Despite the modest but decent condition of the houses Ajah had shown me, one thing was conspicuous: there was no sign of electricity in the area. No poles lined the roads, no wires crisscrossed the skyline, only empty stretches of street, with no trace of connection to the national grid.
Although located in the same state as Makurdi, where residents have access to electricity, Yelewata has never been connected to the national grid. Like many other communities in Nigeria, it lacks basic infrastructure such as electricity and clean water. Residents rely on self-generated electricity and water sources that are not always safe.
“We have never had electricity supplied by the government!” declared Ajah. “We have to rely on ourselves. To charge our phones, we go to those who have made a business out of the situation. We pay them N200 to charge.”
The frustration is shared by others. On Facebook, a report shows that Abigi Akaaer Joshua, a human rights advocate, publicly appealed on behalf of Yelewata’s people to Hycenth Alia, the state governor, to do something about the lack of electricity in Yelewata.
NOTHING TO SURVIVE ON
For many of the men I met whose homes had been reduced to ashes, survival now hinged on the kindness of fellow survivors and whatever scraps of aid trickled their way. Their lives had been stripped bare, leaving them dependent not just on generosity but on sheer willpower.
I offered Ajah one of my shirts when he explained that he had not changed his clothes since the massacre. He wore a faded 2018 Super Eagles jersey and a pair of black trousers. And true to his word, in the videos online where he appeared, he was wearing the same clothes.
“It’s not as if I don’t wish to change my clothes, but I cannot. All my clothes were burnt. My books too. Apart from my life now, I don’t have anything I can call my own,” said Ajah.
But Ajah was not the only one in this situation. Jacob Anya, a survivor of the attack, also told FIJ he had no clothes apart from the one he was wearing. Several other men who saw Anya and Ajah with me said the same thing.
When they walked me back towards the Roman Catholic Mission school, where many of the community’s men had gathered, I asked if they had eaten that day. When they told me they hadn’t, I offered to cover their meal, not because it would fix anything, but because it felt like the smallest way to repay them. They served as my translators. They also persuaded others to speak with me when most were too afraid to talk.
As one chief explained, “Many men won’t say anything. They’re not authorised to. We have to ensure that we are in sync, so we can’t afford to talk anyhow.”
THE IDP CAMP
Life at the IDP camp in the New International Market was as harsh as it was chaotic. Even one of the camp’s officials quietly admitted this to FIJ.
When I visited on June 20, over 3,000 women and children crowded the grounds. Many looked fatigued and wore uncertainty on their faces. But not all of them were genuine survivors. Four insiders revealed to FIJ that many people from the host community had slipped into the camp, posing as victims to benefit from the food and aid delivered by UN agencies and other NGOs.
As two officials escorted me through the camp’s rows of crammed blocks, I couldn’t help but ask how the women managed to survive in such conditions. One of them sighed, glancing at the weary mothers seated on bare floors, clutching restless toddlers.
“This place will never feel like home,” she said bluntly. “They’re uncomfortable, but they have to endure. They won’t be here forever either.”
Earlier, I had seen a truck arrive to unload bags of UNHCR-branded items. One of the officials carefully counted each item as some men carried the contents into a warehouse in the camp. I waited nearby with the official before beginning my interviews with survivors from Yelewata.
But this was where the problem became apparent. The deeper I dug, the blurrier the line between actual victims and opportunistic imposters became. Even officials who had been on the ground in Yelewata immediately after the attack struggled to tell them apart.
When they approached women to ask if they were willing to be interviewed, many declined. I, too, noticed that some women appeared better clothed, better fed, and less shaken than the rest. I left the camp after interviewing five women, one of whom an official confirmed they had seen in Yelewata following the incident.
LIFE IN THE IDP CAMP
As I walked through the IDP camp in search of Yelewata survivors, the air was thick with smoke in places, rising from dozens of makeshift fireplaces. Women crouched low to the ground, fanning flames beneath soot-stained pots balanced on stones. The sharp scent of burning firewood mingled with the unpleasant smell of the open drains in the camp.
Some women stirred their pots while others sat cross-legged nearby, either talking or eating from plastic bowls. The rice I saw being cooked and eaten was plain and unseasoned. Understandably, the people were simply trying to survive. There was no meat, no sauce, no vegetables — just rice boiled in water; enough to fill but not to nourish.
Considering this and the general welfare of the people, Reverend Father Jonathan Ukuma, the parish priest of Yelewata Catholic Church, told FIJ that he longed to see the women and children of his parish return home. In his view, their suffering in the camp was unnecessary and avoidable. He believes they are not receiving proper care because many unaffected individuals have worsened conditions in the camp with their presence.
“I want them back here in Yelewata because where they are staying is not suitable,” Father Ukuma told FIJ. “They are not taking care of them as they should. Some of them have farms nearby. Now that things are calm, they can return to them so they are not completely ruined.”
He explained that if the women and children returned, they would be able to fend for themselves and live with a degree of comfort, as they would have access to utensils and resources to prepare their meals.
“Even if they are given raw food, where would they get the other ingredients to make a proper meal?” the priest asked.
He also told FIJ that what puzzled him was that, in requesting that the camp be relocated to Yelewata, bodies like the Benue State Emergency Management Agency (BSEMA) demanded a letter from him.
“They are asking us to bring an official write-up before they allow them to leave for Yelewata. A letter they never asked for when they took them away in the first place. We are not saying they should close the camp; we are saying they should be relocated here,” said Father Ukuma.
BY A WHISKER
On Sunday, June 22, I returned to Yelewata for what would be my final round of interviews. That was when I met Ruth (pseudonym), a 16-year-old girl whose searching eyes seemed to carry more questions than answers. She had narrowly escaped the massacre and was still trying to piece together the horror she had survived. When I spoke with her, she told me she couldn’t fathom why her people had to live in constant fear of Fulani mercenaries.
As we talked, I learnt that she was new to Yelewata despite being a native. Born and raised in Kaduna, Ruth had only relocated in early 2025, after her mother’s death, to live with her father, whom she had never met until then.
Yelewata was meant to be her fresh start. Instead, she ended up sprinting for her life one chaotic evening as everyone scrambled for safety. And now, she has to stay alert.
She has hope. Ruth believes that once school resumes, she will no longer have to worry about deadly evening attacks by Fulani herders.
“I can’t wait for school to resume. Once it does, I’ll go to Makurdi. I don’t like it here. Kaduna wasn’t like this,” Ruth told FIJ.
As we spoke, an 18-year-old boy who had been sitting nearby earlier strode in and addressed Ruth in Tiv. He muttered that, of the N500,000 an influential man had distributed among the youths in the community, he had managed to secure only N100.
THE BRUTALITY OF THE MERCENARIES
Before I left Yelewata, Ajah and I had a discussion about his future in the shop where Matthew Iormba, his relative was macheted to death. Iormba lived in Makurdi but visited on June 13 to return an item to his brother. After spending some time in Yelewata, he decided he would pass the night in the shop and return home the following morning. The following day never came.
Ajah told FIJ that the Fulani herders did not only kill his relative but also made off with N3 million in cash from the shop. The mercenaries also went with the smartphones of many they killed including Iormba’s. And then came the mockery.
“We kept calling my brother’s number after his death,” Ajah told FIJ. “It would ring, and then a Fulani man finally answered. He mocked us. He said, ‘Why are you still calling? We’ve already killed him.’”
“I told him, ‘You too will die one day.’ But he just laughed and said, ‘At least I’ve already killed your brother.’ I told him he would meet his end someday,” Ajah recalled.
In the attack, even babies were not spared. Father Ukuma, during his interview with FIJ, said that a baby’s arm was cut with a machete during the attack.
“We saw another baby on the ground who sustained a machete wound on his buttocks after they had left. People thought the baby had died when they saw it. But it was still alive. Now, the baby is surviving at the Benue State University Teaching Hospital (BSUTH),” Father Ukuma said.
On July 22, a report stated that a 10-month-old baby who sustained a machete wound on the left side of his buttocks during the deadly herdsmen attack was discharged from BSUTH.
THE FUTURE IS NOW
For Ajah, leaving Yelewata is a lifeline. As a farmer in an agrarian community, his farm was his priceless possession and he guarded it with his life until now that he cannot. That farm was his bridge to a better life: plant, harvest, earn and return to school. But the land that once promised a future now feels like a graveyard of dreams.
He is 34 and is considering his age might be a hindrance if he does not start a bachelor’s programme soon.
“Right now, I have no choice but to leave. How can I say I have only a National Diploma (ND)? I have to get out of this place and work so hard because I must go to school,” Ajah said.
THE WAY OUT
In Yelewata, a single sentiment echoed through nearly every conversation I had: the Fulani mercenaries have grown fearless because of what residents see as the government’s indifference and the army’s failure to protect residents.
However, in the same breath, they spoke differently of the police. They all said the police were the only ones who stood their ground whenever violence erupted. I attempted to speak with the police, but they refused to comment on the matter. One of them told me to write, in my report, whatever the people had said about them.
Some residents told FIJ that to combat these recurring attacks, the army should stop seizing their weapons whenever they are found with any. They believe they have a right to defend themselves when the government fails to protect them.
“Whenever the army sees someone from our tribe, even with something as simple as a small knife, they question us. But the Fulani walk freely, armed and dressed in military jackets that conceal their weapons. They have been doing this for years,” he said.
Ajah, a survivor I had spoken with earlier, believes the solution lies in strengthening the police presence in Yelewata.
“If the government would just send more police officers, they could hold the Fulani back the next time they attack,” he said. “And if they bring in soldiers or commanders, let them be Christians, not Fulanis. That way, there will be no bias.”
But Father Ukuma sees the matter differently. To him, the answers go far beyond guns or uniforms.
“There are many ways to solve this, but only the government has the power to make it happen. If we say we want dialogue, who exactly are we dialoguing with? We can only pray. We cannot offer solutions they will listen to. This is for the government to fix,” said Father Ukuma.
This is the last part of a four-part series. Read Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3.
The post BLOODBATH IN BENUE (4): A Reporter’s View of Yelewata Horror Through Those Who Lived It appeared first on Foundation For Investigative Journalism.