They called it “home” before they ever called it “Benue.”

It was a land of red earth and green fields, of yam mounds and cassava stems, of children’s laughter and elders’ blessings at sunset. It was where our Tiv fathers told stories under the moonlight, where our mothers sang as they stirred the pots, and where every path had a memory and every tree had a name.

Then the killers came.

The same way they came to the communities of Christians in Plateau, Southern Kaduna, Southern Nasarawa, Taraba, Adamawa, Borno, Katsina, et al.

Like Pharaoh’s chariots in the days of old, the Fulani terrorists swept into our villages with guns and machetes, casting a long shadow of fear over our people. Homes were burned, farms were abandoned, and the soil that once fed us began to drink our blood. The same land that had always embraced us suddenly became fields for the terrorists.

In the Bible, the children of Israel cried out under the weight of Pharaoh’s oppression, and God heard their groaning. They left Egypt not in comfort, but in haste—carrying what they could, stepping into a wilderness they did not fully understand, trusting that God would lead them to a promised land.

Today, in Benue State, our own people are walking their exodus.

Look at my Tiv brethren in this picture from Logo: men, women, and children, carrying loads on their heads and babies on their backs, leaving behind their ancestral homes and walking into the unknown. They are not fleeing slavery, but fleeing slaughter. They are not going from suffering to comfort; they are moving from the comfort of their homes into the suffering of IDP camps—crowded tents, long queues for food, sickness, trauma, and the constant question, “When will we go back?”

Yet, like Israel in the wilderness, they are still a people of promise.

In every tired step, in every child’s cry, in every mother’s silent tear, there is a prayer rising: “Lord, deliver us from our Pharaohs. Do not forget us in the camps. Lead us back to our land in safety and peace.” Our exodus is not just a story of escape; it is a cry for justice, a plea for protection, and a declaration that we refuse to disappear from the land our ancestors tilled and defended.

As you look at this picture—our people on the move, with their whole lives balanced on their heads and hope burning quietly in their hearts—remember: the God who heard Israel in Egypt still hears the cries from Benue. The God who parted the Red Sea can still open a way where there seems to be none.

Pray for our people. Speak for our people. Stand with our people.

Our exodus is not the end of our story.

We shall rise!

=Franc Utoo, Esq. KofC
Native Yelewata