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.
