Ashes Of Yelwata

By Erasmus Ikhide_

In Middle Belt flames, Yelwata’s churn

In Middle Belt flames, Yelwata’s charnel lies,

Fulani blades unsheathed, where politicians’ deals demise.

Over 200 souls ripped, as ethnic winds did howl,

Leaders traded whispers, while blood became their political gold.

General Musa stood guard, but resolve turned to dust,

Borders bled unsealed, as militants feasted, robust.

Armed herdsmen paraded, AK-47s in open scorn,

Citizens groaned in gutters, as politicians’ greed was sworn.

If Jihadist rage unchecked, Nigeria’s heartbeat will wane,

Porous frontiers bleed, as Sudan’s fire and Libya’s pain

Fuel Islamic terror—a conquest cloaked in Nigeria’s killing fields’ stain.

Musa opposed deals loud: “No justice, no peace,”

But dialogue won’t curb blades that cut Benue’s release.

Yelwata burned silently; locals fed the deadly guest,

As General’s failure whispered: “Leadership sold the test.”

6,000 freed, 8,000 foes fell—numbers lost in pain,

But massacres multiplied, as impunity wore a brazen chain.

From Zamfara’s thorns to Plateau’s weeping night,

The weak response echoed: “Security was a political fight.”

Politicians fueled flames, ethnic fault lines their play,

Citizens paid in tears, as votes became tomorrow’s prey.

Musa’s tenure waned, as trust dissolved like mist,

Removed he stands, leaving ruins where trust should persist.

In Benue’s blackened fields, crows feast on what’s left,

Survivors’ eyes accuse where justice was bereft.

A warning to the state: if bloodshed isn’t curbed,

Nigeria’s mosaic fades, as Jihad unthreads.

Erasmus Ikhide contributed this poem via: ikhideluckyerasmus@gmail.com.