By Terna Chikpa, Taraba
Fear wakes before the people of Chanchanji in Takum Local Government Area of Taraba State. The once-peaceful farming communities now lie in ruins, reduced to ashes, while thousands of displaced families crowd into makeshift camps where hunger, disease, and uncertainty hover like a second wave of violence. The pathetic situation needs urgent attention, Terna Chikpa writes.
At one of the Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camps in Amadu along the Takum–Wukari highway, an old woman holds a blood-soaked shirt as if it were the last thread tying her to life. Under a mango tree that barely shields her from the sun, 82-year-old Mama Martina Yev sits among hundreds of displaced people and repeats the same sentence every few minutes: “They killed my child in my hands,” she whispers.
Her only surviving grandson—the boy who carried her to church, brought her water, and was the last living branch of her family tree—died trying to save her during an early November attack on their village in Unom, near the TY Danjuma farm in Takum.
“He lifted me and ran,” she said, tears sliding through her wrinkled fingers. “I told him to leave me, but he refused. They caught us. They cut him. He held me until he stopped breathing. I begged them to kill me too, but they walked away.”
With all five of her children already buried, the boy was “the last piece of my blood.” Now, in a makeshift camp where she sleeps on bare ground and survives on handouts, she waits for dawns that bring no comfort—only the fear of the next attack.
Across southern Taraba, her story is not unique. It echoes in shattered communities, abandoned churches, and fields reduced to ash. More than 50 people have been killed in recent weeks; hundreds injured. Thousands have been displaced from over 300 communities in what locals now describe as “a war with no name, no warning, and no end.”
Fear without a refuge
Everywhere The Nigerian Tribune visited—Chanchanji, Takum, Wukari—families wandered like shadows, clutching bundles that held their last belongings. Cooking pots warped by fire lay scattered among ruins. Smoke hung low in the air, mingling with the sour smell of panic.
“They destroyed everything—our houses, our crops, our churches,” said Simon Terhemba, district head of Mberev. “The people are completely exposed to disease, to hunger, to more attacks.”
He paused, staring at a group of children poking at a burnt cooking pot. “The fate of these displaced people hangs in the balance,” he said quietly.
This wave of violence did not erupt without signs. By late October, villagers noticed unusual cattle movements and unfamiliar faces near farmlands. Meetings were held. Peace agreements were drafted. Nothing changed.
First came crop destruction. Then compensation demands. Then targeted killings—particularly of those who accepted compensation.
Fulani leader Mallam Sanusi Umar insisted the attackers were “outsiders,” not locals.
“People accuse any Fulani man they see,” he said. “Sometimes their enemies pursue them here, and we are blamed.”
But local leaders say the raids—timed, coordinated, heavily armed—tell another story entirely.
Within the Catholic Diocese of Wukari, the devastation is staggering.
“Over 335 churches have been destroyed,” Bishop Mark Nzukwein told Nigerian Tribune. “More than 80,000 of our members displaced. Over 300 communities wiped out. It is tragic.”
He sighed deeply. “This is harvest season. Instead of thanksgiving, we are mourning. Instead of weddings, we are burying. These attackers are not locals—they come heavily armed, strike, and vanish.”
The Diocese has repeatedly notified the military, but responses, he said, are sporadic at best.
“We understand their challenges. But our people are dying. Over 300,000 displaced—how do you manage that?”
Attacks that follow the displaced
Even displacement has offered no safety. Just two days ago, armed herders invaded Amadu community along the Takum–Wukari road, where hundreds of IDPs had been taking refuge. Six people were killed, forcing already traumatised families to flee yet again—this time with no idea where they might end up.
The victims—Terfa Terhemen, Tyoyinga Ngunan, Sondongu Hangem, Aondoso Tsea, Aondona Mteroga, and Onov Nyoko—were mostly young men between 27 and 35. One was over 60.
At dawn the next morning, the women of Amadu poured into the streets, beating on pots, wailing, demanding help. No official came. No one addressed them. But anger swept through the community.
“We want peace, but government must protect us,” said Titus Himanyian, one of the protesters. “We cannot continue running like animals.”
Tension in the area had already been rising. Earlier in November, residents in Chanchanji ward raised alarms after seeing armed herders moving in from neighbouring Donga.
“They are planning coordinated attacks on Peva-Chanchanji and Kufai Ahmadu,” resident Terkula Yooso warned. “We cannot survive another round.”
The Holy Family Catholic Parish in Takum had also issued multiple warnings of a “widening security breach.” Farmlands were being destroyed. Settlements emptied. Government responses delayed.
“We are being surrounded,” Yooso said. “If nothing is done, we will all be wiped out.”
Life inside the camps
Even in the relative calm of IDP camps, survival is a daily gamble.
Children with gaping wounds pour hot water over their injuries. Mothers share one bowl of garri among five children. Families sleep fully dressed, with their shoes on, because they fear night raids.
“We have been abandoned,” said Paul Tyo, district head of Mbatyula. “The outgoing council chairman refused to see us. Security agents don’t stay. No NGO has come. Nothing.
“We are hardworking farmers, not beggars. If government gives us security, we can feed ourselves. But we are tired. We are broken. And we are being pushed to the wall.”
‘This is not a normal conflict’ — Police
The Taraba State Commissioner of Police, CP Betty Otimenyin, told our correspondent that the nature of the attacks makes them extraordinarily difficult to contain.
“This is not a clash between two communities,” she said. “These attackers strike and retreat quickly. We cannot permanently station officers in hundreds of remote villages.”
She denied allegations of police complicity.
“No officer is collaborating with attackers. Our challenge is mobility and intelligence. But we are intensifying surveillance to identify where they emerge from and where they escape to.”
Back at the camp, Mama Martina still sits beneath the mango tree, turning her grandson’s stained shirt in her hands. She runs her thumb across a seam as though feeling for a heartbeat.
“If God wants to take me, let Him take me,” she murmured. “The child who fetched water for me, who held my hand, is gone.”
Around her, children chase each other briefly before their laughter fades into the heavy silence of uncertainty.
Across southern Taraba, the word “tomorrow” no longer promises safety. Nightfall brings fear. Sleep is a risk. And for thousands like Mama Martina, one truth remains: they sleep with their shoes on because the next attack may come before dawn.
