Why Nigeria pretends there is no christian genocide by Ejuchegahi Angwaomaodoko

In December 2025, the United States designated Nigeria “a country of particular concern,” throwing the country into a negative spotlight. This came after Nigeria had suffered multiple forms of insecurity ranging from terrorism, kidnapping, to banditry. But we must be careful to generalize the situation. It is true that Nigeria faces a lot of insecurity, but perhaps naming it all as terrorism is an understatement. While nearly every state in Nigeria faces some form of terrorism, certain states such as Ondo, Plateau, Benue, and Kaduna suffer a more specific insurgency that the term terrorism wouldn’t quite capture.

First, let’s differentiate the terms to better understand this assertion because we tend to conflate terrorism, banditry, and kidnapping as though they mean the same thing. Terrorism is the use of violence and intimidation, typically for political, religious, or ideological aims, often targeting civilians to instill fear and force a specific outcome. Groups like Boko Haram and ISWAP fall under this category, as their attacks are driven by an extremist ideology and a desire to control territories. Banditry, on the other hand, is largely criminal rather than ideological. Armed groups, often operating in the North-West, attack communities, rustle cattle, and kidnap for ransom, driven primarily by financial motives rather than any political or religious agenda. However, kidnapping is simply a tactic, not a category of its own. Kidnapping is used by both terrorists and bandits alike, but the motivation behind it differs sharply depending on who is doing it and why.

Then there’s the fourth term, genocide which many people do not like to hear. Genocide, as defined by the United Nations, refers to acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial, or religious group. This is a critical distinction, because unlike banditry or even conventional terrorism, genocide requires a demonstrable intent to eliminate a specific group based on identity. This is precisely why the killings in states like Plateau, Benue, and parts of Kaduna deserve a closer scrutiny than the blanket term such as “terrorism,” farmer-herder clashes” or “banditry” affords them. In these states, the pattern is not random, it is rather a repeated, targeted destruction of predominantly Christian communities and farms, often accompanied by the burning of churches, the killing of pastors, and the displacement of entire villages that never return.

To call what is happening in these specific states “genocide” is to admit that religious identity is a central factor in the violence. It is not incidental and this admission carries consequences. It implicates failures in governance, security response, and political will. Moreover, it is very convenient to put these killings under a simpler, broader, and vaguer narrative of insecurity. Let’s be clear, insecurity is a big word and a term broad enough to include everything from fuel scarcity protests to armed robbery. It does not confront the specific, targeted nature of what communities in Plateau and Benue have endured for over a decade.

Take for instance, the Owo attack that happened on the 5th of June 2022, when gunmen attacked St. Francis Xavier Catholic Church during a live Mass. A total of 41 worshippers were killed, while many others sustained injuries and some were abducted in the chaos that followed. Now, let us look closely at the nature of this incident using the definition of genocide. We cannot claim genocide without talking about intent, the intent to eliminate a certain group based on identity. In the case of the Owo massacre, the attack does not appear random or opportunistic. Rather, it appears to have been carefully planned and directed at a specific place of worship during a time when it would be filled with worshippers. They attacked a church during a live service, knowing fully well that the people gathered there were worshippers. This raises an important question: was the choice of target merely incidental, or did it reflect an intention to attack a community identified by its religion?

If we claim terrorism here because we see violence play out here, can we also say such violence was intended to force a specific political, ideological, or strategic outcome? If so, what exactly was that outcome? The most immediate and visible result was the killing of worshippers who had gathered solely to practise their faith. In the same vein, banditry, which is largely driven by financial motives such as ransom or theft rather than a political or religious agenda, also does not neatly fit this scenario. While the attackers reportedly abducted some victims, the scale of the killings and the deliberate targeting of a church during worship make the incident difficult to explain through the usual lens of banditry or terrorism alone. This is why intent becomes so important. If a coordinated attack is carried out against a church during a live service, where worshippers are deliberately targeted and many are killed, then it is reasonable to ask whether the attack should be understood as more than ordinary terrorism or criminal banditry. It is this question, and the pattern of similar attacks that continues to fuel the argument that Nigeria may be confronting a form of religiously targeted violence that is too often explained away under the broader labels of banditry and terrorism.

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If we also argue that the Owo attack was a one-time incident and cannot establish a significant pattern of attacks on churches or Christian communities, then let us take a look at the Palm Sunday attack in Jos, Plateau State. While other groups may have suffered the attack, this incident occurred in a predominantly Christian community, where eyewitnesses described what they called a 15-minute shooting spree by gunmen who opened fire on crowds gathered to celebrate Palm Sunday on the 29th of March 2026. Once again, the location, timing, and victims raise serious questions. The attack did not happen in the middle of an armed confrontation or during a clash between rival groups. It happened while people had assembled for a religious celebration. When attacks repeatedly occur in places where Christians gather to worship or commemorate important events in their faith, it becomes increasingly difficult to dismiss every incident as isolated or entirely random. While one attack may be explained away on its own, multiple incidents targeting similar communities begin to form a pattern that deserves closer examination rather than quick dismissal.

Even more recently was the attack on the family members of Rev. Ezekiel Dachomo on 12 July 2026. Nine members of his extended family were reportedly killed during an overnight attack on the Kum community in Plateau State. According to reports, the gunmen arrived at the compound specifically asking for Rev. Dachomo before carrying out the attack. That detail alone is difficult to ignore. It suggests that this was not merely an opportunistic raid on a vulnerable village but an operation in which the attackers appeared to know who they were looking for. Whether they ultimately found him or not, the decision to first ask for him before launching the attack raises serious questions about motive, planning and intent.

Rev. Dachomo is widely known on social media for consistently speaking out against the persistent killings of Christian communities and attacks on churches. For years, he has used his platform to document attacks, mourn victims and call for greater government intervention. If reports that the attackers specifically sought him are accurate, then the killing of his family cannot simply be brushed aside as another unfortunate casualty of Nigeria’s wider insecurity. It would suggest that his identity, his advocacy and his public voice may have made him a target. Once violence begins to follow not just communities but also individuals who openly defend those communities, it becomes increasingly difficult to argue that every attack is entirely random or devoid of a broader objective.

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On its own, this attack is tragic. However, no serious analysis should examine it in isolation. It joins a growing list of incidents involving churches attacked during worship, Christian villages raided at night, religious celebrations turned into scenes of mourning, and communities repeatedly displaced from their homes. Two attacks may still be dismissed as coincidence. But when similar incidents continue to emerge across the same regions and involve many of the same kinds of victims, it becomes reasonable to ask whether what we are witnessing is not merely a collection of unrelated crimes but a recurring pattern. This is why we must question whether the language of terrorism, banditry or communal conflict fully captures what is happening in parts of Plateau.

Another critical example is the attack on Mbalom community, a Christian dominated community in Gwer East Local Government Area of Benue State on the 5th of April, 2026. Local sources report that 17 people were killed and that day which coincided with Easter celebration. It is also interesting to know that the same Mbalom community had suffered a previous attack where gunmen killed 2 priests, Rev. Fr. Joseph Gor and Rev. Fr. Felix Tyolaha during a morning mass in April 2018. This predominantly Christian farming community has endured repeated attacks that have left their homes destroyed, families displaced and thousands forced into internally displaced camps.

For many residents, these attacks are no longer viewed as isolated security failures but as recurring assaults on communities whose identity appears to make them particularly vulnerable. While different explanations have been offered such as land disputes and ethnic tensions, the lived reality for many affected communities is that they have watched entire villages emptied and churches abandoned after successive attacks.

Should we also talk about the Ariko community in Kachia Local Government Area, Kaduna State, where gunmen attacked two churches, First ECWA Church and St. Augustine Catholic Church, on Easter Sunday, April 5, 2026, killing and abducting several worshippers? In another recent attack, at least 30 people were killed in Naridon community, Kauru Local Government Area of Kaduna State, on Sunday, July 26, 2026. Can we see the pattern in these recurrences? They’re not random but appear specific and targeted.

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The numbers that make it to social media cannot capture the true reality of how many Northern Christians have lost their lives simply because of their identity. Some of these stories never make it to the media, while those that do are rarely taken seriously or often waved off as “insecurity.” On January 15, 2023, Rev. Fr. Isaac Achi, parish priest of Saints Peter & Paul Catholic Church in Kafin-Koro, Niger State, was burned alive in his rectory by bandits. His colleague, Rev. Fr. Collins Omeh, managed to escape but sustained gunshot injuries. Another Catholic priest, Rev. Fr. Vitus Borogo, chaplain of the Catholic church at Kaduna Polytechnic, was murdered when armed men raided the Prison Farm in Kujama, Kaduna State, on June 25, 2022. Meanwhile in Niger State, Rev. Fr. John Gbakaan Yaji was tortured to death, his body found on January 17, 2023. The truth is, many Christians in this part of the country continue to live in fear, forced to stay indoors and cut back on activities like vigils.

So bringing all these attacks under one umbrella of terrorism, banditry, insecurity or farmer-herder conflict risks understating the gravity of what many affected communities believe they are experiencing. Terrorism and banditry are real, and they continue to affect Nigerians across every region of the country. Kidnapping, insurgency and organised criminal violence have spared neither Muslims nor Christians. Yet acknowledging that broader reality should not prevent us from asking whether certain states exhibit a more specific pattern of violence against particular communities. Treating every attack as though it belongs to the same category may make official reporting simpler, but it does little to explain why similar communities continue to bear the brunt of repeated assaults.

The words we choose determine not only how we understand violence but also how we respond to it. If every massacre is described as terrorism, then responsibility becomes shared even where the facts may point elsewhere. If every organised attack on a Christian community is labelled “banditry,” then questions about motive are never seriously investigated.

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And if every assault on a place of worship is placed into the broad category of “insecurity,” then the possibility that a particular religious community is being deliberately targeted is never fully confronted. When incidents are repeatedly described in the broadest possible terms, public outrage fades more quickly, investigations lose urgency and those responsible become harder to identify.

But one can understand why governments and media would be reluctant to describe these attacks as genocide. The word itself carries enormous legal, diplomatic and political weight and this is why Nigeria pretends there’s no christian genocide. A government that publicly acknowledges the possibility of genocide is, in many ways, admitting that it has failed in one of its most fundamental responsibilities: protecting the lives of its citizens.

Such a label would inevitably attract greater international scrutiny, invite uncomfortable questions about accountability and expose the country to increased pressure from foreign governments, international organisations and human rights bodies. Beyond that, there is also the fear that framing the violence through a religious lens could deepen existing tensions in an already fragile nation where Christians and Muslims have lived side by side for generations. From the government’s perspective, broad labels such as terrorism, banditry or communal conflict may appear to be the safer political language.

Nigeria may deny the reality of what’s happening, but the world is certainly watching. International Christian bodies, and even the US Congress, have shown more concern for these attacks than the Nigerian government itself. While the Nigerian government continues to reject claims of a Christian genocide, individuals like Rev. Dachomo and Bishop Anagbe, the Catholic bishop of the Makurdi Diocese, Benue State keep using their voices and platforms to speak for persecuted Christians in Nigeria.

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Bishop Anagbe, especially, has been instrumental to US concerns about these attacks, testifying multiple times before the US House Subcommittee on Africa. According to him, “17 parishes have been closed since 2018” because of the continued attacks on Christians. To say this evidence is not enough is to pretend about the actual reality.

If the language used to describe these attacks is driven more by the desire to preserve Nigeria’s image than by the reality experienced by victims, then the country risks solving a public relations problem while leaving the actual problem untouched. National unity cannot be built on carefully chosen words that minimise the suffering of particular communities.

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Nor can lasting peace be achieved by avoiding difficult conversations simply because they are politically uncomfortable. If anything, refusing to honestly examine whether certain communities are being systematically targeted only deepens mistrust, weakens confidence in public institutions and leaves survivors feeling that their pain is being managed rather than acknowledged.

A nation does not become stronger by refusing to name what it sees; it becomes stronger by confronting it, however uncomfortable that truth may be. Nigeria must find the courage to name the pattern as it is, acknowledge the specific targeting of Christian communities, and confront the truth regardless of the political discomfort it creates. However, pretending the reality is something else does not make the crisis disappear but only ensures that the cycle of violence continues.

Author 

Ejuchegahi Angwaomaodoko, founder of Ejuchegahi Angwa Foundation and scholar at Kean University, writes via ejuchegahi.angwaomaodoko@gmail.com