A nation misdiagnosed: Why Nigeria’s violence is not genocide

There is something dangerously comforting about a simple explanation for a complex problem. It offers clarity where there is confusion, certainty where there is doubt, and a clear enemy where reality offers none so neatly. That is why the phrase “Christian genocide in Nigeria” has gained traction in some circles. It is powerful, emotionally compelling, […]

There is something dangerously comforting about a simple explanation for a complex problem. It offers clarity where there is confusion, certainty where there is doubt, and a clear enemy where reality offers none so neatly. That is why the phrase “Christian genocide in Nigeria” has gained traction in some circles. It is powerful, emotionally compelling, and demands action. But it is also, on closer scrutiny, deeply misleading.

Genocide is not a casual accusation. It is the gravest crime in international law, defined not just by violence but by intent—the deliberate effort to destroy a group because of who they are. This is what distinguishes it from other forms of mass violence. When that standard is applied to Nigeria, the narrative begins to unravel.

Nigeria is indeed experiencing serious and disturbing patterns of violence, including attacks that sometimes align with religious identity. These patterns, combined with weak protection and inconsistent accountability, understandably raise concern. However, pattern—no matter how troubling—without demonstrable intent to destroy a group remains a different legal and moral category. Confusing the two risks misdiagnosis.

Consider the North-West. Zamfara, Katsina, Sokoto, Kebbi, Kano, and Jigawa are overwhelmingly Muslim societies shaped by centuries of shared history, trade, and intermarriage. Yet they are among the most violent parts of the country today. The victims are largely Muslims—farmers, traders, women, and children living under banditry.

So, who is committing genocide against whom?

What is unfolding in Zamfara is not ideological extermination but the collapse of order. Armed groups tax villages, abduct civilians, and control territory with ruthless efficiency. Violence follows opportunity, not doctrine. Where the state is weak, criminality thrives. Religion is incidental, not causal.

Even within the region, patterns vary. Katsina has seen fluctuating violence, with periodic government-brokered truces that often collapse. Sokoto and Kebbi experience lower intensity, while Kano and Jigawa remain relatively stable. This is not how genocide behaves. It does not vary by administrative boundaries; it follows intent—and intent is absent here.

The Middle Belt presents a more complex picture, but not one that supports the genocide narrative. Plateau and Benue are often cited as epicentres of anti-Christian violence. Yet the conflict is rooted in land disputes, historical settlement patterns, and the indigene-settler divide.

Violence here is cyclical and retaliatory. Muslim communities have suffered deadly attacks in places such as Yelwa and Kuru Karama, just as Christian communities have endured devastating massacres in areas like Dogo Nahawa. Each episode feeds the next, creating a cycle of grievance and reprisal.

What sustains this cycle is not ideology but impunity—and increasingly, belief.

A sensitive dimension in parts of the Middle Belt is the perception—rightly or wrongly—that governance structures do not reflect the diversity of affected communities. Public discourse, particularly in Plateau, has at times highlighted the composition of political appointments and security leadership as evidence of imbalance. Whether empirically precise or not, such claims influence how communities interpret events.

In conflict environments, belief can be as consequential as fact. Where people feel excluded, they are more likely to interpret violence as deliberate. Where they perceive limited representation, they are more likely to distrust security responses and judicial outcomes. Over time, grievance reinforces narrative, and narrative deepens grievance.

This is where the genocide narrative finds traction. It feeds on distrust. Incidents are filtered through suspicion, and delayed justice reinforces perceptions of bias. In such conditions, localized violence can be recast as systemic persecution.

Yet the evidence still resists that conclusion. The Plateau crisis reflects reciprocal violence rather than coordinated extermination. That distinction is critical.

The deeper issue is unresolved injustice. For years, many cases have lingered without credible resolution. Communities remember events but do not see justice. In that vacuum, memory hardens into conviction.

The killing of Major General Idris Alkali—a senior military officer who disappeared in Plateau in 2018 and whose remains were later recovered after a major search—highlighted how deeply mistrust had taken root. Attacks on travellers in different parts of the region further show how identity can trigger violence in an already fragile environment.

These incidents are deeply troubling, but they do not indicate a coordinated plan of religious extermination. They point instead to institutional weakness, erosion of trust, and normalization of retaliation.

International narratives have not always helped. Advocacy groups and media platforms, often driven by genuine concern, sometimes present selective accounts that emphasize one dimension of the crisis while overlooking others. The designation of Nigeria as a Country of Particular Concern by the United States in 2020 reinforced this perception, even though its later reversal suggested a more complex reality.

More importantly, such narratives have implications for sovereignty. When external actors adopt simplified frameworks, they begin to shape international policy responses. Recent travel advisories warning against visits to multiple Nigerian states, including Plateau, and guidance affecting non-essential diplomatic personnel are signals of how Nigeria is being assessed externally.

Even where such advisories are based on legitimate concerns, their cumulative effect can validate simplified interpretations of the crisis. Over time, perception hardens into accepted truth, shaping diplomacy, investment, and external engagement.

A nation that does not define its own challenges risks having them defined by others.

The danger here is not just misrepresentation—it is misdirection. When a crisis is framed incorrectly, solutions will inevitably miss the mark. Calls for external intervention based on a genocide narrative risk overlooking the real drivers of violence: land disputes, governance deficits, economic pressures, and the erosion of traditional conflict-management systems.

Nigeria does not need salvation from a genocide that does not exist. It needs the courage to confront the crisis it actually faces.

That begins with restoring trust in governance. Representation must not only be fair but seen to be fair. Inclusivity in appointments, transparency in decisions, and balance in security deployment are not just ideals—they are stabilizing tools.

It must also include accountability. Justice cannot be selective or delayed. Every unresolved case fuels the next conflict. Every unpunished crime reinforces the belief that violence works.

And above all, it requires honesty. Nigeria’s crisis is not one of systematic extermination. It is a far more difficult story—of shared failures, competing grievances, and institutions struggling to keep pace with a changing society.

This complex nation, with all its contradictions and resilience, deserves better than the comfort of convenient lies. If we continue to mislabel our problems, we will continue to miss the solutions—while the country we all claim to defend slowly slips through our fingers.