On the morning of 24 December, as much of the world prepared to celebrate Christmas, the quiet villages scattered across Bokkos Local Government Area of Plateau State awoke to a horror that would forever alter their lives. For residents of Maiyanga, a small agrarian community tucked among the rocky hills of central Nigeria, the day that was meant for joy and thanksgiving became one of fire, death, and displacement.
The attack, part of a wider wave of violence that swept through more than 11 villages, left over 150 people dead in a single day. Survivors have been left in ruins; grieving loved ones, nursing injuries, and searching through the ashes of their homes for any trace of normalcy.
Among those struggling to make sense of the carnage is Reverend Yakubu Mutang, a pastor with the Church of Christ in Nations, whose voice trembles as he recalls what happened. Standing amid the blackened remnants of his home and church, he speaks softly, as though still coming to terms with the devastation.
“So I am Reverend Yakubu Mutang. I'm a pastor for the Church of Christ in Nations. But this is my village. This is Maiyanga. Maiyanga is in Bokkos Local Government Plateau State of Nigeria,” he begins.
He pauses, glancing over the ruins. “What really happened here is not only in this village that were affected by this crisis. We were affected by more than 11 villages, which Maiyanga happens to be one. And in these villages, it is the same method of attack that was conducted. It is the killing, the maiming of people, slaughtering them, and burning of their houses and their foodstuffs and properties.”
Reverend Mutang’s words describe a pattern of violence that Plateau State has endured for years—attacks that often unfold in silence, far from the national spotlight. In community after community, the story is the same: late-night raids, gunfire, screams, and the smell of burning homes.
“So by now, by the record we have already collected, we have over 150 people that are killed in one day. That is on the 24th of December. That is the Christmas was just not a Christmas to us, like to celebrate. It was a mourning Christmas because of what happened to us.”
“Everything Is Destroyed”
The Reverend’s own home, once a place of comfort and family gatherings, now stands as a charred shell. The air around Maiyanga still carries the acrid scent of burnt wood and ash. Across the village, heaps of debris mark where family compounds once stood. For many, their only possessions now are the clothes they fled in.
“As you could see, I'm standing here. This is my house in my village and I lost everything that was in the house, both foodstuff, clothing and whatever. It was a furnished house but it is burnt. And even the church that is by my side was burnt and the pastorium is burnt. Everything about us here in this village is confused. As you could see that everything is destroyed. But we thank God that some of us are alive.”
In the ruins beside him lies what was once the village church. Its roof has caved in; the walls are cracked and blackened. The pastorium, where Reverend Mutang and his family lived, was also set ablaze. Yet even in loss, he expresses gratitude for survival, clinging to faith in the midst of despair.
“And at the cost of this, like me now, I lost seven of my brothers at the cost of this crisis that happened. Thank you.”
A Landscape of Silence and Survival
In the days following the massacre, the survivors of Maiyanga and neighbouring communities have struggled to bury their dead and to care for the wounded. Many fled to nearby towns like Bokkos and Barkin Ladi, seeking safety in makeshift camps and church halls. Food and medical supplies remain scarce. Children, many of whom witnessed the violence firsthand, now sit quietly under trees, too traumatised to speak.
Humanitarian workers say the crisis in Plateau has deepened over the years, with persistent clashes between farming communities and armed groups driving thousands from their homes. Villages that were once self-sufficient have been reduced to ashes, their farmlands abandoned.
While the government has repeatedly condemned such attacks and promised to restore peace, communities like Maiyanga say the pledges have done little to change their reality. The lack of security presence in remote areas means that survivors often live in fear of fresh assaults.
For Reverend Mutang, rebuilding will take more than bricks and mortar. It will require hope, trust, and a sense of safety; commodities that have become scarce across much of rural Plateau.
“We thank God that some of us are alive,” he repeats quietly, gazing at the distant hills. “But everything about us here in this village is confused.”
In Maiyanga, Christmas is now remembered not with hymns and laughter, but with ashes and silence.