By Babatunde TITILOLA

Read first part here

IN December 2023, the Executive Secretary of the Benue State Emergency Management Agency, James Lorpuu, said there were 14 officially recognised Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camps in the state, with three more expected to be inaugurated in January, 2024. Months later, both formal and informal displacement sites have increased as insecurity continues to push rural communities from their ancestral lands.

It was 3pm in Ugba IDP camp in Logo Local Government Area of the state. The sun was already at its peak, and the heat was unforgiving. The camp, located about six hours by road and another 10 minutes by water from Makurdi, the state capital, was unusually quiet inside but crowded outside.

The camp was once a functioning public primary school, but its classrooms have now been converted into living spaces for displaced families. Yet very few people stayed indoors. The heat trapped inside the old school buildings had pushed most residents outside, where families gathered under trees or sat in front of their allocated rooms, seeking relief in the afternoon breeze.

Across the camp, children played on bare ground while adults watched from makeshift seats fashioned from planks and stones. Some washed clothes by hand while others cooked in small clusters, using firewood and metal pots. The shortage of rooms was evident. With more families than available classrooms, many displaced persons had built temporary shelters on the school field.

These makeshift huts were constructed with sticks, mosquito nets layered over one another, and pieces of fabric or plastic sheets gathered from anywhere they could find. The structures were small, fragile, and barely tall enough to stand in, offering little protection from heat, rain, or insects.

A farmers’ camp

Samuel Butu, the camp manager, confirmed that the settlement currently hosts 422 families, with a total population of 1,459 displaced persons. According to him, virtually everyone in the camp is a farmer, including unmarried adults who were living independently before the attacks.

“All the families here are farmers,” he said. “They came from different villages across Logo and  surrounding areas. They lost their homes because of insecurity. None of them planned to live here.”

He explained that most residents arrived with nothing, having fled suddenly during attacks, leaving behind farmlands, houses, and personal belongings. Many have remained in the camp for years, surviving on irregular food aid, small donations, and whatever informal work they can find around nearby communities.

Butu said he fled from Ukemberega in Gaambe-Tiev, with his 15 children from two wives, although one of the marriages ended soon after the displacement.

“They attacked my village in 2014,” he said. “They killed many people and chased the rest of us out of our homes.”

Before the violence escalated, Butu said the conflict started with repeated invasions of farmlands.

“They were already coming into our farms with their cattle to eat our crops,” he explained,adding: “Whenever they destroyed our farms, we would report to the village head, and the village head would report to the police.”

But seeking justice only made things worse.

“Whenever the police arrested some of them, the ones who were not arrested would target the villagers who reported. They would attack and kill them on their way to the farms,” he recalled.

According to him, this pattern continued for two years.

“They were killing us one after the other for going to our farms. At some point, we stopped reporting to the police because of fear. We also stopped going to our farms.”

With hunger increasing and fear spreading, the remaining villagers eventually made a collective decision to leave.

Some initially sought refuge in neighbouring communities, hoping they would be safe.

“We went to another village, but about two months after, they invaded that place too and killed people,” Butu said.

That was how he and others ended up in the Ugba camp in 2018. Years later, the idea of returning home remains unthinkable.

“Some of my friends tried to go back to continue farming or even live there. They have not been heard from since then,” he said. “My elder brother also went back, and they killed him.”

As he spoke, Butu’s face remained tense, his eyes fixed on the ground, his hands tightly clasped together. His voice did not rise, but the finality in his tone was unmistakable.

“So, there is no going back,” he concluded, as he stepped away to attend to new arrivals in the camp.

Wife lost, 23 children missing – 65-year-old farmer

Another displaced farmer was Tyo Ugba, quietly eating boiled yams from a small bowl, seated on a woven mat under a large tree in the Ugba camp. Since the afternoon heat had driven most residents outdoors, and like many others, he had taken shelter in the shade.

Beside him sat a woman he later introduced as Dehemban, his youngest and last wife, with their youngest child resting close by. He ate slowly, barely lifting his head, his eyes fixed on the ground as though weighed down by thoughts heavier than the food in his hands.

Tyo is 65 years old and originally from Tse-Ugba village in Logo Local Government Area. Before the attacks, he had 5 wives and 33 children, a large household sustained by farming. Today, only one wife and 10 of his children are with him in the camp.

“I lost one wife. Three have left me and returned to their parents’ houses because of the attacks,” he said. “Out of my 33 children, I can only see 10. The remaining are scattered, and I do not know where they are.”

As he spoke, his voice remained low and steady, but his face told a different story. His shoulders slumped forward, his hands trembling slightly as he gestured toward the people around him. He paused often, as if searching for words that could explain the scale of what had been taken from him.

The attack that scattered his family happened in 2014.

“I had just returned from the farm with some of my children. We were preparing dinner when they attacked and started killing people,” he said. “Some were killed, and some were taken away, including girls.”

When the attackers eventually left, villagers who escaped returned to bury the dead.

“I lost one wife that day. I also buried five of my brothers and several other relatives,” he said.

After that night, returning to normal life was no longer possible. According to Tyo, the community was warned not to go back to their farmlands. For him, that meant losing everything he had built over decades.

“That was how I lost 28 acres of land,” he narrated. “I used to plant soya beans, groundnuts, and other crops. During harvest, I could fill at least 200 bags of different crops.”

Today, those farmlands are out of bounds. The man who once harvested hundreds of bags of produce now depends on survival strategies that barely sustain his family.

“I cannot work anymore,” he said quietly. “To survive, my wife goes outside the camp to rice mills to pack rice chaff. She sieves it and sometimes gets a bowl of rice for cooking. This is what the wives do here to feed their children.”

Occasionally, food aid arrives.

“Once in a while, the government brings food items, but they are not always enough,” he added.

Dehemban, his youngest wife, sat beside him throughout the conversation, occasionally nodding in agreement. When she spoke, her voice was firm but weary.

“We cannot go back to our ancestral homes and farms because there is no guarantee that anything good is waiting for us there, and it is not safe,” she said. “Since 2014, we have not set foot on our farms.”

“I was pregnant when I came here. Now the child has become an adult.”

‘Unholy bond’ between insecurity and IDP camps

Across the State, insecurity and displacement have become inseparable realities, feeding into each other in a cycle that has turned entire rural communities into transit points for survival. What began years ago as sporadic farmer-herder clashes has evolved into a sustained pattern of armed attacks, killings, and kidnappings that have emptied villages while steadily filling IDP camps.

In local government areas such as Makurdi, Guma, Logo, Gwer West, Agatu, and Kwande, repeated waves of violence have forced tens of thousands of residents to flee their ancestral homes.

The International Organisation for Migration (IOM) recently announced that 215 new IDP arrivals were recorded in Benue State between the 19th and 25th of January 2026.

IOM Nigeria Displacement Tracking Matrix (DTM) showed that among the new arrivals, 194 were IDPs and 21 were farmers. They were recorded at Gbajimba HC (194 individuals) and Abinsi (21 individuals) in Guma Local Government Area.

The DTM’s Emergency Tracking Tool (ETT) assessment further identified “armed bandits attacks (90 per cent) and fire outbreak (10 per cent) as the main triggers for these movements in the state,” noting that, “Among the new arrivals in Benue State, 99 (46 per cent) were children, 63 (29 per cent) were women and 53 (25 per cent) were men. The most urgent needs reported by the new arrivals include non-food items (NFIs), food, health and shelter assistance.”

Humanitarian agencies and conflict monitoring organisations also estimate that tens of thousands of civilians have been killed in Benue State over the past decade in attacks linked to armed groups operating in rural areas. Thousands more are believed to be missing, having either been killed in remote locations, abducted during attacks, or displaced without formal records.

In July, 2025, Amnesty International (AI) said as of 31st of December, 2024, “an estimated 500,182 people had fled to IDP camps in Benue state to escape years of attacks by gunmen,” with more than 10,000 additional people displaced since the beginning of 2025 following series of attacks on communities in Agatu, Gwer West, Guma, Logo, Kwande.

The Director of AI Nigeria, Isa Sanusi, said, “The rampant attacks by gunmen have deprived thousands of people of their rights to life, physical integrity, liberty, freedom of movement, and access to livelihood. Survivors of these harrowing attacks face fresh torment of being displaced in overcrowded, unhygienic camps where disease runs rampant and essentials such as food and clean water are scarce. The situation risks creating humanitarian disaster.”

At the same time, IDP camps across the state continue to grow. Facilities originally designed as temporary shelters have become long-term settlements, housing families who have spent years in displacement with little prospect of return.

Same old story at the IDP camp, Makurdi

From Ugba, the trail of displacement led back into the state capital, to another crowded settlement known as International Market IDP Camp in Makurdi local government. Like Ugba, the camp is populated almost entirely by farmers who once cultivated large expanses of land across rural communities, but now survive on small, informal jobs and humanitarian support.

Just beside the camp’s entrance, a young man was setting up a small haircut stand under a big tree. A customer sat patiently on a plastic chair waiting for a haircut. The barber introduced himself as Benjamin Nyajo, one of the many displaced farmers who now rely on menial work to survive.

Nyajo is from Nyeiv Council in Guma Local Government Area. His village was attacked on September 17, 2021. According to him, the attackers invaded the community in the night, killing residents and burning homes. “They killed my elder brother,” he said. “Nine of my relatives also lost their lives.”

Nyajo explained that he escaped with his wife and five children on the day of the attack, fleeing with nothing but the clothes they wore on that day.

Before his displacement, he was a full-time farmer cultivating 17 acres of land and planting various crops to support his family. Today, those farmlands remain inaccessible.

“We cannot go back home, and we cannot go to the farm again,” he said. “So now I do any menial job I can find. I am also a barber.” As he spoke, he returned to trimming his customer’s hair, a small act of survival in a life completely rerouted by violence.

Inside the camp, another displaced farmer, Abraham Tar, shared a similar story of loss and forced escape. Tar has two wives and six children, and his village was attacked on April 21, 2021. According to him, residents had earlier received information that armed herders were planning to invade their community, but many dismissed it as a rumour.

“A few days later, around 12 midnight, they came,” he said. “They were breaking down doors and slaughtering whoever was inside.” During the attack, his brother was killed. Tar said he and one of his wives managed to escape through the bush, eventually finding their way to the IDP camp.

Before the attack, Tar said he cultivated over 30 acres of farmland, producing food not just for his family but also for sale. Like many others, his farming life ended abruptly the night violence reached his village.

In 2025, he attempted to return to the community for the first time since the attack. But when he went to inspect his farm and do some hunting, he encountered armed men on the road.

“They told me I was lucky they were in a good mood,” he said. “They said if they had wanted, they would have killed me, and warned me never to come back to the farm.” He said he fled immediately and has not returned to the village since.

At the International Market IDP Camp, farmers have become refugees, productive lands have turned killing fields, and IDP camps are now permanent shelters with no clear path back home. The camps, once meant to provide short-term relief, now serve as long-term endpoints for people whose only crime was living and farming in contested rural spaces.

Delayed response and security vacuum

Residents across multiple communities visited during the investigation complained that security forces often arrive after violence has already ended, limiting their ability to protect residents or prevent loss of life.

In June 2025, a Benue lawmaker, James Umoru, criticised slow military response after a deadly attack in Apa Local Government Area, saying security operatives took more than two hours to reach the scene, long after villagers had buried their dead.

Other lawmakers in the state have voiced similar concerns, alleging that security operatives sometimes fail to engage attackers even when they hear gunshots that eventually lead to deaths.

Between 2016 and 2018, Amnesty International reported at least 3,641 deaths in farmer-herder clashes, many occurring while security forces were nearby but slow to intervene.

According to the organisation, “Authorities must investigate the slow response time of security forces that has resulted in shockingly high casualties. As part of this process, the security forces’ leadership should scrutinise the role of individual commanders…”

More recent conflict data underscores the scale of insecurity. Over 2.2 million civilians have been displaced in Middle Belt states, including Benue, Plateau and Nasarawa, between 2019 and early 2025, according to research firm SBM Intelligence.

Independent violent conflict tracking also shows that thousands of violent incidents have occurred across Nigeria in recent years, including scores involving farmers and herders in the North Central region. Between 2020 and 2024, a non-governmental organisation, Nextier, announced that more than 2,300 casualties were recorded in 359 such incidents, with the majority in the North Central zone.

Observers argue that these delays compound fear and displacement. When military or police support arrives long after initial distress calls, and sometimes only after villagers have fled, the message sent is one of limited protection rather than deterrence. In rural areas with poor road infrastructure, this problem is worsened, leaving farming communities exposed and helpless.

Abagena camp

Like many other IDPs camps in the state, survival in the Abagena Camp in Guma Local Government Area  has become a daily calculation. Angor Msoo, 45, leaves the camp most mornings in search of “whatever jobs” he can find.

He fled his village with only the clothes he was wearing the night his home was attacked. Though none of his nine children was killed, everything else was lost.

“We want to go back to our ancestral home,” he said, “but there is fear because they (armed herders) are still there. I had 20 acres of land, but I can never think of going back there to farm except I want to lose my life.”

A few shelters away, Steven Mom, also 45, recalled the evening his village was attacked in February 2008, around 6 p.m. He once cultivated 15 acres. Today, like Msoo, he lives displaced with his farmland out of reach.

Findings revealed that their stories are not isolated accounts of personal tragedy in the camp. They are symptoms of a long-existing crisis. It is this widening gap between livelihood and displacement that experts and analysts say now defines the security and migration landscape in Benue State.

‘Government lacks political will’

A security analyst, Anselm Ozueh, argued that the core problem is not merely tactical failure but a “lack of political will” to decisively confront insecurity.

“What we are suffering at the moment is a lack of political will to deal with insecurity in the country,” he said, stressing that the scale of displacement and hardship should ordinarily compel firmer action.

According to him, security agencies can only operate effectively within the limits of clear political direction. “The security agency cannot do much if the government has not taken full decisive action,” he said.

Ozueh called for both kinetic and non-kinetic engagement strategies but insisted that without a clear national decision, “a boundary, a line, rules of engagement,” insecurity will persist.

He warned that the absence of such clarity fuels public suspicion. “People begin to wonder if government is weak, incapable, or sympathetic,” he said, adding that no group should appear stronger than the authority of the state. “No tribe or group should be bigger than government power. It has never happened anywhere in the world.”

He described the delays as symptoms of a deeper structural problem. “If the head of a family has not taken a full decision to deal with something, nothing effective will happen,” he said, using a household analogy to explain lapses within the chain of command.

While acknowledging possible logistical and communication gaps, he maintained that decisive executive directives would automatically cascade through military and police hierarchies, from the presidency to defence chiefs, to field commanders.

“The foundation is political will,” he insisted. Without it, he argued, logistical reforms alone would not resolve recurring attacks, displacement, and the growing economic consequences, particularly for food production.

“The first essence of government is to protect life and property. In this case, government is failing in that area.”

Beyond humanitarian crisis

Advocacy groups agreed that the displacement unfolding in Benue has moved beyond a humanitarian crisis and is now reshaping Nigeria’s internal migration map in ways that may deepen economic strain.

Founder of Initiatives for Safe Migration and Social Justice, Seyi Olawuyi, explained that the displacement is causing massive entry into other parts of the country, adding that what appears as mobility is often survival migration, which is a shift from productive agricultural labour to precarious informal urban work. The country, he suggested, loses skilled farming capacity while absorbing underemployed labour elsewhere.

Olawuyi also questioned the state’s response to the violence itself. He called for “proper and thorough investigation” into allegations against individuals accused of sponsoring armed groups, noting the sophistication of weapons often used in attacks. “These issues are usually at their peak when elections are coming,” he added, pointing to patterns that demand deeper scrutiny.

“Sometimes, these herders and their cattle are arrested, but later they are released. The government needs to be serious about this.”

How insecurity impacts labour migration – Expert

A labour migration researcher and Head of Department, Communication, Media & Cultural Studies at the Pan-Atlantic University, Lagos state,  Chike Mgbeadichie, during an interview, explained that the crisis in Benue should no longer be framed as episodic violence, but as a structural disruption of labour systems, identity, and state responsibility.

Mgbeadichie noted that the state is experiencing a forced transformation of internal labour migration patterns as farmers who once cultivated dozens of acres are pushed into IDP camps or informal settlements where agriculture is no longer viable. Many, he noted, do not resume farming at all, leading to the removal of livelihood.

This shift, he argued, quietly restructures the labour economy. Displaced agrarian workers are absorbed into low-paying, informal survival jobs, menial labour, petty trading, unstable urban migration, while productive agricultural land remains inaccessible.

The researcher warned that the long-term consequences include the hollowing out of rural productivity and an unstable labour base in both origin and destination communities.

On national food security, he said that as long as farmers cannot return to their farms, there will be an imbalance in food production.

He linked the displacement crisis to broader economic distortions, including rising food prices, supply chain pressures, weakened regulatory oversight, and potential public health risks from compromised food quality.

Mgbeadichie further questioned the institutionalisation of IDP camps, noting that as long as these camps remain, the crisis will not end. argued.

“They reduce pressure on government. People stay there; multinationals and international agencies step in, but the underlying problem remains.”

For him, camps risk becoming semi-permanent administrative solutions to what should be temporary emergencies.

“The real measure is not whether people are housed in camps,” he said, “but whether they can safely return, rebuild, and resume their livelihoods.”

Without that, he warned, displacement becomes normalised, and return to ancestral homes and farmlands stays a dream.

Benue Emergency Management Agency mum

Despite multiple attempts to obtain official responses, the Benue State Emergency Management Agency did not provide comments for this investigation.

Emails were sent to the agency requesting data, clarification on the growing number of formal and informal displacement camps across the state, and its efforts to secure lives and farmlands in villages.

A follow-up email was also dispatched after no response was received.

Subsequently, calls were placed to the contact number listed on the agency’s website. A staff member identified by the call application as Mary Lorpuu advised that an email be sent. An email was subsequently sent, but not responded to.

The Head of Administration, Donald Kumbenda, also confirmed over the phone that the agency would reply. As of press time, no response had been received.

This report was commissioned with support from the Centre for Journalism Innovation and Development (CJID) under a journalism support initiative funded by the Royal Norwegian Embassy and is the second of a two-part series. Read first part here