When the Sky Watches Over Us: Why the Tiv Must Now Protect Themselves.

The land still carries the memory of blood. It’s not just the soil that grieves, but the very air above it.

Since I last wrote about the silent slaughter of the Tiv people, the world has remained quiet. No headlines. No consequences. No change.

And while we continue to pray for peace, there is every reason to believe the violence will continue.

Because nothing has changed.

There are no UN boots on the ground. No peacekeepers in Benue. No drones overhead watching for the next group of attackers. There is only silence — and the long memory of a people who have endured too much for too long.

So what now?

If governments won’t act, and the international community looks the other way, then we must imagine something different.

Something practical. Strategic. A new model of self-defence rooted in community and courage.

We believe the way forward must come from within — led by those most at risk, equipped to protect themselves.

That’s why we’re now exploring how to help communities like the Tiv access the tools they need — eyes in the sky, and healing on the ground. Not charity. Not dependency. But dignity. Preparedness. Protection.

This would mean community-led early warning — drones flown by locals, alert systems that reach families in minutes, not hours. And the beginnings of a Golden Hour response network — training ordinary villagers to stabilise the wounded when no ambulance is coming.

It’s not just possible — it’s necessary. Because in the absence of protection, the alternative is unthinkable.

The reality is stark: if we don’t act, these communities will be left defenceless. And if we do act, it must be with clear-eyed intent — not pity, not performance, but purpose.

The Tiv are not asking for our saviour complex. They are asking for the tools to live. And we must respond — with urgency, with humility, and with conviction.

There is a word from Scripture that keeps returning to me — one that feels made for moments like this:

“Son of man, I have made you a watchman…

When you see the sword coming and do not blow the trumpet to warn the people…”

Ezekiel 33:6.

This isn’t about blame. It’s about responsibility.

The truth is: many of us do see the sword coming — whether through headlines, testimonies, or quiet conversations that never make the news. And when we see these things, we have a choice: look away, or sound the alarm.

At Kerygmos, we choose to sound the alarm.

We believe the role of the watchman is not just a metaphor — it’s a call. And in today’s world, that calling might look like helping a community launch a drone that will look for threats or training a local volunteer to treat wounds no ambulance will reach. Or telling the story no one else will tell.

We want to help raise up a new kind of watchman — not with sandals and scrolls, but with vision, technology, and courage.

This is not about militarising communities.

It’s about helping them live.

Helping them see the sword in time — and act.

Because when no one else is watching, we must be.

And when the world is silent, we must still blow the trumpet.

No more villages should burn in silence.

Not while we have breath.

Not while the sky can still speak.

The Silent Slaughter: Why the World Must Not Ignore the Tiv Genocide.

In the heart of Nigeria’s Middle Belt, among the green hills and fertile lands of the Benue Valley, a long and brutal erasure is reaching new, devastating heights. For decades, the Tiv people—a resilient, culturally rich community of many millions—have endured waves of displacement, persecution, and neglect. But what we are witnessing now is something far more deliberate: a genocide in slow motion. Their villages are razed, their ancestral lands are occupied, and their very identity is under siege. This is not merely “conflict.” It is targeted, systematic violence. And the world, once again, is looking away.

More than 30 years ago, as a young teenager,  I sat with a man who shaped my life in profound ways—Dr. Habakkuk Yongo. A proud Tiv elder and economist, Dr. Yongo was not only a mentor but a second father to me. Even then, his warning was chilling and clear. He spoke with sorrowful conviction about what would come if the world continued to ignore the signs. He predicted this genocide.

Dr. Yongo’s wisdom came not from paranoia, but from history. He understood what it meant for a people to be targeted not just physically, but culturally—through the destruction of their language, their social fabric, their way of life. He knew that persecution was on the way. That deep sense of identity, passed from generation to generation, was something he held sacred. 

And now, it is being dismantled before our eyes.

In June 2025, another elder of immense significance—the Tor Tiv, His Royal Majesty James Ortese Iorzua Ayatse—gave voice to this pain. Standing before President Bola Ahmed Tinubu and the entire Nigerian state apparatus, the Tor Tiv spoke with unflinching courage, calling the violence what it is: a full-scale genocidal invasion. His words cut through the fog of denial that so often cloaks Nigeria’s ethnic crises. He spoke not just for his people, but for the soul of a nation being torn apart.

This isn’t just about one community. It is about a truth that Africa—and the world—must reckon with. When indigenous communities are destroyed, when their land is taken, their children killed, and their cultures silenced, all of humanity is diminished.

The Tiv are a deeply rooted agrarian people. Their lives are woven into the soil they till, the rhythms of the seasons, and the communal bonds that define their villages. Their songs, dances, and oral traditions are not relics of the past—they are living expressions of identity. But in recent years, hundreds of thousands have been displaced from these lands, now living in makeshift camps without water, food, or medical care. Children are dying of preventable diseases. Elders perish from heartbreak.

And yet, the international community barely registers a whisper.

The violence is often misrepresented as “herder-farmer clashes,” a phrase that hides the reality: well-armed militias, often suspected to be Islamic Fulani jihadists, are systematically attacking Tiv villages with impunity. Far from being random, these are coordinated offensives. Survivors speak of late or non-existent military responses—and in some instances, complicity.

Nigeria, Africa’s largest economy, is considered too geopolitically important to confront honestly. Western governments tiptoe around uncomfortable truths, preferring diplomacy and trade to human rights. Even within Nigeria, the media too often frames these massacres as isolated incidents, refusing to connect the dots. And in a world gripped by high-profile conflicts the plight of the Tiv is buried beneath the news cycle.

The post-colonial wounds of Nigeria have never healed. Policies like the controversial Grazing Routes Bill have only deepened ethnic fault lines. There are communities who feel emboldened to occupy and dominate others, not through dialogue, but through terror. This is not about coexistence—it’s about erasure.

What Dr. Yongo understood, and what the Tor Tiv declared, is that genocide is not only about bodies—it is about memory. It is about language, story, and spirit. If the Tiv vanish, a piece of Africa vanishes with them. And what replaces it? A landscape devoid of its original soul. A land where only the powerful survive.

That is not progress. That is cultural death.

This is why we must care.

Because the Tiv are not just “another tribe.” They are a people with a rich history, creativity, and dignity. Their identity matters. Their children matter. Their future matters. To lose them is to lose a chapter of Africa’s heritage—a chapter that deserves to be written, not erased.

In honour of Dr. Yongo’s memory, in solidarity with the Tor Tiv’s fearless stand, and in love for the people who welcomed me as one of their own, I say this: We must not be silent.

We must amplify the truth. We must protect the vulnerable.

Africa does not need uniformity. It needs authenticity.

The blood of the Tiv has soaked the soil of Benue—men, women, and children sacrificed not in silence, but in sorrow and strength. Their tears have mingled with their prayers, rising like incense to the heavens. These sacrifices will not be forgotten.

The Tiv will not vanish. They will fight on—through every burning village, every stolen field, every displaced child—because their hope does not rest in man, but in Almighty God. And with that faith, they will endure. They will rise. And they will never be conquered.

Where Is Leah Sharibu?

As she turns 22 in captivity, the world must break its silence.

Birthdays cards have been coming in from around the world.

On May 14th, Leah Sharibu will mark her 22nd birthday.

There will be no cake. 
No candles. 
No singing voices rising around her. 
Only silence.

The same silence that has surrounded her for six long years. 
A silence that has become more than absence—it has become complicity.

Leah was just 14 when she was taken.

On a quiet February day in 2018, militants from Boko Haram raided the Government Girls’ Science and Technical College in Dapchi, Yobe State, in northeast Nigeria. Over 100 girls were taken including Leah.

Many were released within days. 
But Leah was not.

Her captors gave her one condition: deny her Christian faith and she could go home.

She refused.

“I will not deny Jesus,”- she is believed to have said.

And with that, Leah vanished.

Out of the headlines. 
Out of the world’s conversation. 
But not out of our memory.

The Sound of Silence

Since Leah’s abduction, we have heard very little. 
A voice recording. A rumour. A name in a passing news article.

There are whispers of forced marriage, of children born in captivity, of being transferred between groups. 
But no confirmation. No accountability. No rescue.

There has been no urgent international outcry. 
No UN commission. 
No statement from Downing Street or the White House. 
No serious diplomatic effort to demand her release.

It is not that the world cannot speak. 
It is that the world has chosen not to.

That is why, at Kerygmos, we are refusing to be silent. 
This May, we launched the “Where Is Leah Sharibu?” campaign—not just to remember Leah’s birthday, but to confront the global indifference surrounding it.

We began with children.

Through our Leah Birthday Card Campaign, young people from around the world have begun to write. 
They are creating cards for Leah—cards full of colour, prayer, sorrow, and defiant hope.

“You are not forgotten.”
“We are praying for you.”
“We love you.”

Some children draw her smiling. Others simply ask:

“Where is Leah?”

We have been speaking about Leah to anyone who will listen.

From Parliament to the People

This campaign is not just symbolic—it is strategic.

We have written to over 600 Members of Parliament, urging them to speak Leah’s name in Parliament on May 14th, the day of her birthday at Prime Minister’s Questions. 
We are asking them to raise a simple but urgent question:

What is the UK Government doing to ensure that Leah—and girls like her—are not forgotten?

Because while Leah is a Christian girl who refused to convert, 
we recognise that many Muslim girls too have been abducted, violated, and abandoned.

This is not just a Christian issue. 

It is a human one.

What You Can Do

We believe somebody, somewhere knows where Leah is.

Pray for her release, pray someone somewhere will come forward.

Write to your elected local politician - ask them for government to intervene.

We now have a dedicated WhatsApp line for this purpose if you would rather contact us.

📱 WhatsApp +1 646 787 8334
📧 leah@kerygmos.com

You can use these channels to:

Write a message of hope or a prayer to her and her family.
Share birthday wishes, however simple they may be.

Join a global day of prayer for Leah on her birthday organised by the Gideon and Funmi Para Mallam Foundation - contact us for details.

Let This Be the Day the Silence Breaks

The world may have forgotten Leah. 
But we haven’t.

And we won’t.

Not when she had the courage to say "no" when the price of truth was captivity. 
Not when her story still echoes in churches, mosques, schools, and refugee camps. 
Not when children are still drawing her face—six years after the world stopped looking.

Join us. Speak her name. Ask your MP to act. Pray. Write. Share.

Because this May 14th, Leah Sharibu turns 22. 

And with your help, it could be the day the silence ends.

Beyond Tribute: Why Leah’s Birthday Must Break the Silence

Earlier this week, The International Catholic Tablet published my reflection on Pope Francis and his legacy as a shepherd to the suffering. You can read that piece here:

In it, I wrote: “Unity is not sentiment. It is sacrifice. For Pope Francis, Christian unity was not a polite handshake between traditions — it was a call to bleed together for the Gospel.”

It’s with that same spirit — that same call — that I want to talk about Leah Sharibu.

On May 14th, Leah Sharibu will mark yet another birthday in captivity. Abducted at just 14 years old by Boko Haram from her school in Nigeria, Leah was the only girl not released because she refused to renounce her Christian faith. Her story has become a powerful symbol of courage and conviction, but symbols are easily forgotten—especially when the person behind them is young, far from the headlines, and far from home. Leah’s ongoing captivity is not just a personal tragedy, but a profound indictment of global indifference toward persecuted Christians.

Why Doesn’t She Matter? Leah Sharibu’s story forces us to ask hard questions. Not about what happened — but about what hasn't. Why has her name faded from our headlines? Why do her birthdays pass in silence? Why is the world so quick to forget a girl who showed more courage than most of us will ever be asked to? We amplify stories that feel close to us — familiar, safe, headline-ready. But Leah’s story sits at the margins: a girl of faith, from a part of the world we rarely see unless it bleeds. And when it does, it often goes unnamed. This is not just about media bias — it’s about narrative fatigue. The world has grown used to the suffering of others, especially when it’s quiet, complex, and far from view. But the Kingdom of God doesn’t work like that. It remembers the “least.” It prioritises the unheard. And it refuses to accept the logic of the world that says 'some stories matter more.'

We must confront our collective apathy, the numbness that creeps into our hearts when confronted by suffering that does not directly affect us. We must challenge the quiet resignation to injustice that pervades even our churches and communities. Leah Sharibu’s continuing captivity is not just her burden to bear; it is ours as well, a reflection of our values, our compassion, and our commitment to justice.

At Kerygmos, we don’t exist to follow the media cycle. We exist to proclaim what must not be forgotten. We will say Leah’s name. We will mark her birthday. We will raise our voices — not because it’s trending, but because it’s true. Her courage deserves witness. Her captivity deserves interruption.

That’s why we’re launching 'A Card for Leah' — a campaign inviting children across churches, Sunday schools, and classrooms to create birthday cards for Leah. A drawing, a prayer, a message of hope. We’re opening a WhatsApp line where people can send Leah birthday messages and prayers. We’re emailing MPs and church leaders to speak out on her behalf. And on May 14, we’ll release a visual wall of messages and cards that declare, together: You are not forgotten.

How to Take Part If you’re a teacher, pastor, parent or youth leader:

• Invite your group to create birthday cards for Leah

• Send photos or scans to hello@kerygmos.com

• Share the campaign across your networks

• Post, pray, speak Leah’s birthday is May 14. Let’s make the silence loud.

From Ashes to Code: The Evolution of Kerygmos.

A Week of Horror.

This past week, once again, the soil of Plateau State in Nigeria was soaked with blood. Entire families were wiped out, homes burned to the ground, and futures shattered in a matter of hours. The world barely blinked. The headlines, if they existed at all, passed in silence.

But silence is not an option anymore. That is why Kerygmos was born.

“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute.” — Proverbs 31:8.

Why We Had to Evolve

Kerygmos isn’t just a new name. It’s a necessary evolution. Kingstead International began with heart — we launched with a desire to speak for the persecuted, to advocate for the forgotten. But the world changed. Terror became smarter. More coordinated. And heartbreakingly more ignored.

Kingstead, in its original form, was not enough. After internal struggles, disillusionment, there came a point when I considered walking away entirely. But then came the still voice — a reminder of the ‘why.’

Kerygmos is that reminder.

It’s leaner. Sharper. Strategic. It is unapologetically faith-rooted, but forward-facing — a response designed not to appease institutions, but to disrupt the machinery of violence and the apathy that enables it.

Our Four Pillars: Advocacy, Aid, Education, Rebuilding Communities

Kerygmos is built on four essential pillars that shape our response to violence and terror:

1. Advocacy — Telling the truth when the world won’t.

At Kerygmos, we speak up where others stay silent. We challenge the global indifference that allows terror to thrive. Through survivor testimonies, frontline stories, and hard data, we confront distortion and amplify the voices the world is too comfortable ignoring. Advocacy isn’t optional — it’s foundational.

2. Intelligence — Making the invisible visible.

We believe that technology can change the outcome. We’re developing AI-informed tools, data models, and mapping systems to anticipate threats and protect the vulnerable. Intelligence for us isn’t about surveillance — it’s about survival. It’s about giving communities the foresight others take for granted.

3. Education — Restoring life chances.

Terror doesn’t just destroy buildings — it erases futures. Schools are burned, classrooms are emptied, and hope is often the first casualty. We believe education brings it back. Whether it’s young people shut out of school or adults who’ve lost livelihoods and limbs, we work to restore access to learning and skills. A man with no hands can still code. A woman driven from her home can still lead. We exist to see that happen.

4. Rebuilding — Responding with compassion and commitment.

After the gunfire fades, the real work begins. We support communities as they recover — emotionally, economically, spiritually. That includes our commitment to trauma care and what we call the Golden Hour Response: equipping churches and community hubs with trauma kits to respond when violence strikes. Rebuilding means more than physical restoration — it means helping people believe that life is still worth living.

Tech + Truth = Disruption

The old models of aid can no longer meet the scale or sophistication of the crisis we face. We don’t need just another charity handing out blankets after the next massacre. We need tools that can anticipate and prevent.

In many Middle Belt states — Plateau, Benue, and Nasarawa — and across the wider Sahel region, communities face coordinated violence with little to no access to digital infrastructure, data analysis, or predictive models. That’s the technology gap.

We believe AI and machine learning can help bridge that gap. Our long-term goal is to support communities with:

• AI-powered early warning systems

• Data modelling to detect attack patterns

• Digital mapping of at-risk areas for better resource deployment

This is about moving from reaction to foresight. From being victims to being equipped.

Plateau Is the ‘Why’

For many, the Middle Belt of Nigeria is just a place on the map. For us, it’s the front line of a spiritual and humanitarian crisis. Islamist militias continue their quiet genocide, and the world looks away — or worse, rationalises it as a climate issue.

Kerygmos exists to tell the truth, back it with data, and build systems that protect the most vulnerable.

We’re not here to maintain a system. We’re here to shake one.

The Cost of Entry

Let’s be honest — breaking into this space has not been easy. It’s come with suspicion, resistance, and at times a sense of isolation. But Kerygmos is not about me. It’s about serving. It’s about showing up where too few are willing to go. My heart is to listen, to build trust, and to serve alongside those already standing in the fire.

Moving Forward

This section will serve as a living journal of our work, our ideas, and our battles — internally and externally. It will cover everything from emerging tech and geopolitical blind spots, to personal reflections and field updates.

And soon, we’ll be sitting down with friends of Kerygmos — like Canon Andrew White, the Vicar of Baghdad — to talk about faith, conflict, and what peace really costs.

If you’re reading this, you’re part of the story now.

This is only the beginning.

Kerygmos. Speak Truth. Disrupt Violence. Rebuild Hope.