No place to run, no place to hide,
This soil is ours—our tears, our pride.
In fields once green, now red with pain,
We stand for peace, through blood and rain.
This is our home, where fathers fell,
Where mothers knelt, too weak to yell.
We till the earth with weary hands,
But still, we rise to guard these lands.
I will not flee, I will not bend,
My heart, my strength, I will defend.
For every child with frightened eyes,
I lift my voice to drown the cries.
O Benue, land of yam and grain,
How long must you endure this pain?
Let swords be turned to farmer's plough,
Let peace be more than just a vow.
So here I stand, through flame and flood,
To end this tale of spilled-out blood.
With sweat and soul, I make this vow
This is our home. We fight. We plough.