The sun still rises over hills,
But fear walks first through farms and mills.
The market stalls are half-abandoned,
Eyes scan roads once taken for granted.
In Guma's fields and Logo's plains,
Hope withers under unmarked chains.
A knock at night, a sudden sound
Each heartbeat pounds like war drums now.
Children learn to run before they read,
Mothers pray more than they feed.
Men who once knew soil and sweat,
Now know the grip of silent threats.
We speak in whispers, guard our doors,
No one's sure what fate still stores.
Strangers pass and are not named,
Familiar faces now feel strange.
The herds still roam, the borders blur,
Justice sleeps, its conscience slurred.
Who holds the gun, who draws the map?
Who profits from the farmer's trap?
But still, within each broken fence,
A seed survives, a stubborn sense
That peace is more than just a word
It's action loud, not silence heard.
Benue bleeds but will not fade,
Its spirit carved in hoe and blade.
One day these hills will sing again
Not of loss, but of regained reign.