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Samuel Okike
Student, Copywriter, Photographer, Poet, Philosopher @ Ibadan
"The Night the Criers Went Silent"
<p>It was a quiet evening in Umoke village. The crickets sang their lullaby and children played under the pale orange sky. Mothers cooked by firelight, and old men sat under the iroko tree, speaking in low, contented tones. The village was small but peaceful, cradled by hills and watched over by ancient spirits—or so the elders believed.</p><p>But peace ended that night.</p><p>Around midnight, when the stars shone like silver nails in the sky and even the wind held its breath, they came—silent as death itself. Fulani herdsmen, armed with machetes, rifles, and hatred, crept through the bush like shadows. No dogs barked. No one stirred. It was as if the village had been cursed into slumber. The first screams came from the northern edge—cut short by gunfire.</p><p>Then, like wildfire, chaos erupted. Huts were set ablaze. Children were dragged from beds and cut down before they could cry. Mothers ran with babies on their backs, only to fall with bullets in their spines. The air reeked of blood and smoke, and the stars vanished behind dark clouds.</p><p>Some died in their sleep. Others died begging. A few tried to fight, wielding sticks and farming tools, but they were no match.</p><p>By dawn, Umoke was a graveyard.</p><p>The few who escaped stumbled into neighboring villages with stories too gruesome to repeat. They expected sirens. Soldiers. Helicopters. Justice.</p><p>But the government said nothing. No statement. No arrests. Only silence—thick, hollow, and damning.</p><p>The survivors buried their dead with trembling hands. And at night, the village paths remained deserted. The children, those who remained, no longer played. Even the crickets forgot their song.</p><p>And in the ashes of Umoke, the wind still whispers the names of the slain—names the world chose to forget.</p><p><br/></p><p><br/></p>
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