We used to be the home of peace and tourism.
Blood now runs down our mountains; death hovers in our fields.
We live in fear. We, whose only crime is being Nigerian. We, who have but a piece of farmland to our name. We, who have no voice.
At night, we wait anxiously for the break of dawn, fathers feigning courage, mothers holding the little ones firmly by their sides. When it dawns, this fear is not abated.
Our lands we cannot till, for fear of being killed.
It was only last week Panshak went to check the potatoes, he is yet to return.
Pa, still sits on the low stool outside hoping somewhere in the distance he'd hear Panshak whistling, like he always does as he strolls back. Pa, barely goes anywhere these days. With Ma killed and his right leg being amputated after the last clash, he has been almost entirely dependent on Panshak, until last week.
Now he just sits there, watching and waiting.
Our children used to go to the school just after the footpath across the stream. Now they are afraid to leave their houses without company.
Children should not have these horrid images of death, maimed bodies imprinted in their minds.
We are a people, living but barely surviving, crying and hoping someone's listening.
We should not be just statistics. Our lives should matter. Their deaths should matter.
We don't ask for much. Security, justice, peace.
Lend your voice. Speak for us. Save our souls.
We are Plateau.