BY Fr. Joshua Yima Achir
Kaduna
I did not choose to write out of convenience, I write out of pain, out of anger, and out of a deep sense of responsibility. What recently happened in Jos broke something in me. And the painful truth is, this is not the first time and tragically, it may not be the last. To begin to itemize the countless ugly incidents across this country is to commit oneself to sleepless nights for an entire year. The scale of suffering is overwhelming, almost beyond comprehension.
But one image refuses to leave me: a young mother, cradling her lifeless son, his body lying in a pool of blood after a brutal attack. Her grief was not just personal it was a mirror reflecting the agony of a nation. I found myself in tears, not just for her, but for Nigeria. If this does not shake us, then what will? This is a painful reminder that we are not out of the woods yet. But for how long must we continue like this? How long shall a people live in fear in their own land? How long shall a nation bleed while those entrusted with its care pretend not to see?
Nigeria today is not merely struggling it is gasping for breath. What we see is no longer a nation in decline, but a nation on its knees. Insecurity, banditry, and insurgency have torn through the fabric of the Nigerian society, leaving behind blood, ashes, and broken lives. Those who swore to protect life and property have, in too many instances, chosen silence, inaction, or indifference.
Every day brings fresh horror. Every sunrise carries new grief. People no longer sleep, they wait for the next attack. Fear has become a permanent resident in our homes. So-called “unknown gunmen” continue their reign of terror while the authorities offer a little more than empty assurances. Our land once full of promise has become a large killing field; a field soaked in innocent blood.
And as if violence were not enough, hunger now stalks the land with equal cruelty. The rising cost of petrol has crippled livelihoods. Food prices have soared beyond the reach of ordinary citizens. Families are no longer planning for the future they are fighting to survive the present. Parents go to bed hungry so their children might eat, and even that sacrifice is often not enough. This is not just economic hardship it is a slow, grinding suffocation of the people.
While citizens starve and die, political leaders are busy with campaigns, alliances, and power games. None of them is thinking about the next generation. All of them are thinking about the next election. Their speeches grow louder, but their compassion grows quieter. Governance has been replaced with ambition; service has been sacrificed on the altar of self-interest.
Villages are razed. Communities are displaced. Families are torn apart. The kidnapped are subjected to horrors too painful to recount: beaten, dehumanized, reduced to bargaining chips. Their loved ones, desperate and broken, are forced into humiliation, begging and borrowing to pay ransoms with no guarantee of reunion. And even when some return, they do not return whole. They come back with shattered and traumatized minds, wounded bodies, and scars that may never heal. Others never return at all swallowed by a system that has failed to protect them.
But what cuts deepest is the betrayal from within. Where are the traditional and religious leaders who once stood as the voices of the people? Where are the custodians of our collective conscience? Too many now sit comfortably at the tables of power, dining with those they should be questioning. Their silence is no longer neutrality it is complicity. The people wander like sheep without a shepherd or worse, like sheep abandoned by those who once promised to guide and protect them. Even some who once spoke boldly have fallen quiet. Their voices, once strong, have been traded for comfort, access, or survival. But silence in times like this is not harmless, it is deadly.
So we ask again, with anger and anguish: When will this end? Are we to believe that our cries no longer reach heaven? Or that we, as a people, have been abandoned to suffer without mercy? Could this be our fate? No. We must refuse to accept it.
This is not just a time for mourning it is a time for awakening. Let God arise and let His enemies be scattered! Let justice break forth like fire. Let courage rise in the hearts of the people. Let truth return to our lips, even if our voices shake. Let those who have chosen silence find their conscience again or be exposed for what they are.
Nigerians must not die in silence. We will not accept fear as normal. We will not accept hunger as destiny. We will not accept betrayal as leadership.
And to those in positions of authority, this is a final appeal: Remember the promises you made. Remember the trust placed in your hands. Power is transient, it does not last forever. Today you lead; tomorrow you will answer, not just to history, but to God.
We are all pilgrims on this earth. No office, no title, no privilege will follow you beyond the grave. What will remain is your legacy whether you chose courage over silence, service over self, and justice over indifference.
Power is transient.
Consequences are real.
Death awaits us all.
Though the night is dark and heavy, we will not stop crying out, we will not stop demanding justice, and we will not stop believing that one day this nation will rise from its knees.
