For more than two decades, Northern and Central Nigeria have witnessed recurring waves of violence in which thousands of Christians and other civilians have lost their lives. From the early riots of 1999 to the Boko Haram insurgency and the continuing attacks in the Middle Belt, these tragedies have scarred communities and deepened divisions. This compilation presents a factual record of major incidents affecting Christian populations across the region since 1999 — not to inflame old wounds, but to preserve memory, promote accountability, and call for justice, peace, and reconciliation. Download the pdf in table form here
Oct 20, 2025
A Chronicle of Faith Under Fire: Documenting Christian Persecution in Northern Nigeria (1999–2025)
For more than two decades, Northern and Central Nigeria have witnessed recurring waves of violence in which thousands of Christians and other civilians have lost their lives. From the early riots of 1999 to the Boko Haram insurgency and the continuing attacks in the Middle Belt, these tragedies have scarred communities and deepened divisions. This compilation presents a factual record of major incidents affecting Christian populations across the region since 1999 — not to inflame old wounds, but to preserve memory, promote accountability, and call for justice, peace, and reconciliation. Download the pdf in table form here
Oct 18, 2025
Bukar Sukar Dimka: The Soldier Who Shook a Nation
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Lat Col. BS Dimak |
In the dramatic story of Nigeria’s military era, few names evoke as much curiosity, controversy, and reflection as that of Lieutenant Colonel Bukar Sukar Dimka. He was a man of courage and conviction, a soldier who loved his country but whose fateful choices placed him at the center of one of the nation’s darkest political episodes—the failed coup of February 13, 1976. To understand Dimka is to understand the tension between patriotism and ambition, between loyalty and disillusionment, that defined much of Nigeria’s military politics in the 1970s.
Bukar
Sukar Dimka was born in 1934 in Numan, in present-day Adamawa State,
then part of the Northern Region of colonial Nigeria. Like many young men from
the north at the time, he was drawn to the Nigerian Army—a path that promised
honor, discipline, and a chance to serve. Dimka joined the military in the
1960s, a period of deep transition as Nigeria moved from colonial rule to
independence. He trained both in Nigeria and abroad, acquiring a reputation for
fearlessness and outspoken integrity.
Dimka’s
early military career coincided with one of the most turbulent periods in
Nigeria’s history. The nation’s young democracy had been shaken by coups,
counter-coups, and the tragic civil war (1967–1970) that left scars across the
federation. Many officers of Dimka’s generation were idealistic but
disillusioned—they had witnessed corruption, tribalism, and the erosion of the
military’s professionalism. Among them, Dimka stood out as a bold and sometimes
defiant personality, unafraid to voice his opinions even when they challenged
authority.
During
the post-war years, Dimka rose through the ranks, eventually becoming a Lieutenant
Colonel and serving as an instructor at the Nigerian Defence Academy (NDA)
in Kaduna. There, he was known as an intelligent but strict officer, respected
for his tactical knowledge and stern discipline. Yet, beneath that military
confidence lay a growing frustration with what he perceived as the decline of
moral and political leadership in the country.
That
frustration would eventually push Dimka into the pages of history. On February
13, 1976, he led a group of soldiers in a coup attempt aimed at
overthrowing the government of General Murtala Ramat Mohammed, who had
come to power the previous year through another military coup that ousted
General Yakubu Gowon. Murtala’s government, though popular for its reformist
zeal, had taken tough decisions—retiring senior officers, dismissing corrupt
officials, and reshuffling the army hierarchy. These rapid changes created
resentment among certain officers who felt marginalized or unfairly treated.
In the
early morning of that fateful day, Dimka and his co-conspirators struck in Lagos,
the then capital of Nigeria. General Murtala Mohammed, known for his habit of
moving without a convoy, was ambushed and assassinated in his black Mercedes
Benz at the junction near the Federal Secretariat, Ikoyi. The coup plotters
quickly seized the Federal Radio Corporation of Nigeria (FRCN) station, from
where Dimka broadcast his now infamous announcement. In that speech, he accused
the Murtala government of corruption, dictatorship, and injustice—ironically
echoing some of the same ideals Murtala himself had championed.
For a few
tense hours, confusion gripped the nation. But unlike previous coups, this one
collapsed almost as soon as it began. The loyalty of the majority of the army
remained with the government. General Olusegun Obasanjo and Lieutenant
General Theophilus Danjuma swiftly mobilized loyal troops to restore order.
By the end of the day, the coup had failed, and the conspirators began to
scatter.
Dimka
fled Lagos, setting off a nationwide manhunt. For nearly three weeks, he evaded
capture, reportedly moving through parts of the Middle Belt and Northern
Nigeria where he had friends and sympathizers. Eventually, on March 6, 1976,
he was captured in Abakaliki, in present-day Ebonyi State, after being
recognized and reported.
His
arrest marked the beginning of one of the most publicized military trials in
Nigeria’s history. A Special Military Tribunal was convened to
investigate the coup. Dozens of military and civilian figures were
interrogated, including Jonah Deshi Gomwalk, the former Governor of
Benue-Plateau State, who was accused of complicity. Dimka, known for his
boldness, remained defiant during interrogation, admitting his role but
insisting that his intentions were patriotic. He claimed to have acted out of
frustration with corruption and mismanagement in government.
Nevertheless,
the tribunal found him guilty of treason. On May 15, 1976, Lt. Col.
Bukar Sukar Dimka, along with several others, was executed by firing squad at
the Kirikiri Maximum Prison in Lagos. His death closed a violent chapter in
Nigeria’s military politics but opened decades of debate about his motives and
legacy.
In the
years since, opinions about Dimka have remained divided. To some, he was a reckless
mutineer whose actions robbed Nigeria of one of its most visionary leaders,
General Murtala Mohammed, and nearly plunged the country back into chaos. To
others, he was a misguided idealist—a soldier who wanted reform but
chose a tragic and self-defeating path.
Whatever
one’s view, Dimka’s story reflects the turbulent nature of Nigeria’s early
post-independence years. It was a time when idealism and ambition collided,
when soldiers often saw themselves as the guardians of the nation’s destiny.
Dimka was a product of that era—brave, restless, and ultimately consumed by the
politics he tried to reshape.
Today,
nearly fifty years after his death, Bukar Sukar Dimka remains a cautionary
figure in Nigeria’s history. His name serves as a reminder that even noble
intentions, when pursued through violence, can lead to destruction. Yet, his
story also speaks to the complexity of patriotism—the fine line between reform
and rebellion, between courage and tragedy.
In the
long sweep of Nigeria’s nation-building, Dimka’s life is both a warning and a
lesson: that the true strength of a soldier lies not only in his weapon, but in
his wisdom—the ability to fight for justice without destroying the very nation
he seeks to defend.
D. B. Zang – The Reluctant King of Tin
D B Zang. Source: Zang's family library
In the heart of Plateau, among the highlands that once glittered with tin
and promise, rose a man who defied convention, beat the odds, and carved his
name into the annals of mining history—D. B. Zang.
What makes Zang’s story extraordinary isn’t just the fortune he built or the
empire he commanded—it’s the journey he took without formal education, without
privilege, and without ever leaving behind his roots. His life is a testament
to raw ambition, street-smarts, loyalty, and contradiction.
The Self-Made Mogul D. B. Zang came from humble beginnings. He had no
academic degrees to hang on his wall, no formal training in business or
geology. Yet, in a state historically known for its rich tin deposits, Zang saw
opportunity where others only saw hardship. With grit and intuition, he worked
his way through the ranks—from the dusty periphery of Plateau’s mining fields
to becoming the biggest mining mogul in the state.
While other businessmen operated from city centers and global connections,
Zang built his fortune from the ground up—literally. His mining ventures
thrived, and at his peak, he commanded not only wealth but influence, respect,
and fear in equal measure. He employed hundreds and impacted thousands, providing
livelihoods in communities where the government barely reached.
A Man of Contrasts Zang was not a conventional man, nor did he try to be. He
was a polygamist in the traditional sense, married to several women. Yet among
them, one stood apart: his light-skinned wife, whom he openly favored—a fact
that stirred emotions both inside and outside his household. She was not just
his companion, but a symbol of his preference, perhaps even his soft spot in a
life otherwise ruled by steel will and discipline.
Despite his fortune, Zang refused to leave his ancestral home. Where others
would have moved to mansions in Jos or even Abuja, he stayed firmly rooted in
his village. His compound was modest by the standards of his wealth, but it was
his kingdom. The tin king chose tradition over luxury, familiarity over
flamboyance.
Those who visited him were often struck by this paradox—a man of enormous
means living among his people, hosting business partners and dignitaries from
the same compound where he played as a child.
The Final Chapter D. B. Zang passed away in 2008, but his story continues to
echo through Plateau State. He left behind not only wealth, wives, and
children—but a legacy of possibility. He proved that success doesn’t always
wear a suit or speak English fluently. That a man with no formal education
could outmaneuver trained professionals, and that you don’t have to leave home
to build an empire.
In many ways, Zang embodied the soul of Plateau—rich, grounded, resilient,
and unpolished. His life is both a celebration and a caution, depending on
which part of it you focus on. But no matter where you stand, one thing is
certain:
D. B. Zang was no ordinary man.
He was one of the Extraordinary Men of Plateau.
Oct 9, 2025
The Burden of a Legacy: Is Kenyata Hills a "Deadbeat" or a Musical Son Keeping the Flame Alive?
A-I illustration of Joseph and Kenyata Hills
The world of music was struck by a profound loss with the
passing of Joseph Hills, the iconic voice and spiritual anchor of the reggae
band Culture. His death while on tour in Germany was a tragedy that echoed
across the globe, leaving a void in the hearts of reggae lovers. In that moment
of crisis, a figure stepped from the shadows into an almost impossible
spotlight: his son, Kenyata Hills. Taking the microphone, he helped steer the
grieving tour to its completion, a move seen by many as an act of profound
courage and filial duty.
Yet, recently, a harsher, more dismissive label has been
hurled at Kenyata: "deadbeat." The accusation, often reserved for
those who shirk parental or financial responsibilities, seems jarringly out of
place when applied to a musician carrying his father's torch. This provokes a
necessary debate: what exactly do we owe our parents' legacies, and by what
measure do we judge a son like Kenyata?
Those who level the "deadbeat" criticism, while
perhaps using inflammatory language, are likely speaking to a deeper, more
nuanced disappointment. Their argument hinges on a specific definition of
respect for a legacy: preservation, not evolution.
From this perspective, Joseph Hills was not just a singer;
he was a vessel for a message. His songs, like "Two Sevens Clash" and
"International Herb," were anthems of Rastafari, social justice, and
spiritual awakening. The fear is that by simply performing these songs, Kenyata
risks reducing a sacred canon to a cover act. Is he interpreting the message
with the same lived experience and revolutionary fire? Or is he trading on his
father's name, commercializing a legacy that was built on anti-commercial
principles?
The term "deadbeat" here is a crude shorthand for
the accusation that he is failing in his duty to be a true *custodian*—that he
is benefiting from the inheritance without adding the sweat equity of original
creativity that made that inheritance valuable in the first place.
To dismiss Kenyata Hills as a "deadbeat" is to
ignore the immense weight of the responsibility he shouldered at his father's
lowest moment. When Joseph Hills passed, the tour—and the livelihoods tied to
it—faced collapse. Kenyata did not run from this crisis; he embraced it. His
decision to continue was not an act of opportunism, but one of necessity and respect
for the band, the crew, and the fans who had traveled to see Culture.
Furthermore, what is the alternative? Should the music of
Joseph Hills fall silent? For countless fans, Kenyata’s performances are a
living memorial, a chance to experience the power of his father's words in a
live setting, delivered by the one person with a biological and spiritual claim
to them. He is not merely a tribute act; he is a direct lineage, a thread
connecting the past to the present.
In many cultures, particularly those with strong oral
traditions, it is the duty of the child to preserve and share the stories and
wisdom of their ancestors. By keeping these songs alive, Kenyata is fulfilling
a sacred filial role. He is ensuring that new generations can discover the message
of Culture, a service far from the idleness implied by "deadbeat."
The accusation of being a "deadbeat" is not just
harsh; it is fundamentally misplaced. It conflates financial or parental
neglect with a complex artistic and filial dilemma. Kenyata Hills is
demonstrably not idle; he is working, touring, and performing under the immense
pressure of a legendary name.
However, the sentiment behind the criticism should not be
entirely dismissed. It speaks to a fanbase’s deep love for Joseph Hills and a
protective fear that his message might be diluted. The challenge for Kenyata is
not to prove he isn't a "deadbeat"—a task he has already accomplished
through his actions—but to navigate the delicate balance between preservation
and personal expression.
Perhaps the path forward is one of gradual evolution. Maybe
his ultimate tribute will be to use the platform his father built to eventually
weave his own voice and his own messages into the fabric of the performance,
honoring the past while proving he has his own unique contribution to make.
In the end, Kenyata Hills is not a deadbeat. He is a son who
answered the call in a moment of tragedy and continues to serve as a keeper of
the flame. The debate around him is less about his work ethic and more about
the eternal question that haunts all children of icons: How do you walk in a giant's
shadow without disappearing into it? That is a journey he is still on, and one
he deserves to undertake without the burden of a deeply unfair and simplistic
label.
Check out my book, How to Become a Music Maestro: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B004H4XQAQ
Oct 7, 2025
Afrobeats Slows Down
By Yiro Abari High
Afrobeats, a contemporary West African music genre that emerged around 2010, quickly expanded its reach to every corner of the globe. It introduced international music fans to artists like Omah Lay, Burna Boy, and Wizkid.
For
those who had only heard of new music genres being born but had never witnessed
the phenomenon, Afrobeats provided a front-row seat. The genre's simple, fun,
and relatable vibe—both in its songs and its dances—captivated fans worldwide.
With this appeal, it launched a fiery competition to challenge dominant
American genres, taking over nightclubs, radio stations, and concert halls. It
generated significant revenue for artists, producers, promoters, streaming
sites, and tax authorities.
About
a year ago, I watched a YouTube video where the host observed that Afrobeats
was slowing down. At the time, I didn't share his perspective, but I now
recognize his sagacity. A year later, his prediction has become a reality. To
our disappointment, Afrobeats is sliding into obscurity.
Keen
observers are asking what went wrong. There are two plausible explanations.
First,
Afrobeats is a genre that evolved very rapidly. While evolution is necessary to
keep fans engaged by moving away from boring old vibes toward fresh, exciting
ones, the genre's last major evolutionary milestone was borrowing from South
Africa’s Amapiano. This borrowed element—largely the log drum, with its
pounding, infectious groove that drives nightclub crowds wild—has now outlived
its novelty. As fans began to expect something new, the tide started to recede.
This is one reason Afrobeats has moved from the center stage to the sidelines.
Several
months ago, I saw a video interview with Timaya, one of Afrobeats' greats. He
observed that it now costs somewhere in the neighborhood of $100,000 to promote
a new song. My initial reaction was that this figure was preposterous. If true,
however, it explains why new artists are struggling to break through, leading
to a thunderous silence across the industry. The moment people saw how much
money could be made, everyone raised their fees. This has instilled fear in the
minds of record labels, who are now reluctant to gamble such a large sum on an
unproven artist, since not every investment pays off. In this way, the industry
has tightened the noose around its own neck. This theory is supported by the
sudden inactivity of recording labels, which are no longer signing new artists
at their previous rate. Of course, new talent will always emerge as long as
mothers continue to conceive. The question is whether the industry will still
be able to hear them.
This topic is explored further in my book, How to Become a Music Maestro, available on Amazon.
Sep 13, 2025
Troost-Ekong Remains a Great Player Despite Own Goal
William Troost Eking. Source: Ekong's Instagram Page |
The recent World Cup qualifying match between Nigeria’s Super Eagles and South Africa’s Bafana Bafana ended in a 1–1 draw, with the Nigerian goal coming from an unfortunate own goal by team captain William Troost-Ekong. For some, the incident became a talking point, sparking debate over his legacy.
Yet to seasoned football observers, an own goal
is a routine accident—part and parcel of the game. It does not diminish Ekong’s
reputation or his contributions to Nigerian football. To suggest otherwise, as
one social media commentator did, is to overlook the deeper issues confronting
the Super Eagles.
Nigeria’s struggles in the qualifiers cannot be
pinned on one player. From the onset of the campaign, the team has faltered
against smaller African sides, finding itself near the bottom of the table. The
draw in South Africa, if anything, was a positive result, given the
circumstances. South Africa’s squad, drawn largely from its domestic league,
benefits from greater cohesion and familiarity. This approach has proven
successful across the continent. Egypt, for example, built its dominance on
players from Al Ahly and Zamalek, a formula that has delivered seven Africa Cup
of Nations titles. Nigeria, by contrast, has won the tournament only three
times, the last under the late Stephen Keshi, who relied heavily on home-based
talent.
Today’s Super Eagles, composed largely of
diaspora players, reflect a different philosophy—one that has not yielded the
same results. The issue is not Ekong’s isolated mistake, but a broader structural
weakness in Nigerian football.
At the center of this problem lies the
Nigerian Football Federation (NFF). The body has long faced criticism for
administrative lapses, opaque hiring practices, and persistent financial
irregularities. Stories of unpaid salaries, delayed bonuses, players reusing
jerseys, and ex-players funding basic logistics have damaged the credibility of
the federation.
Talent development has also suffered. In
earlier decades, when Nigeria excelled at youth level, coaches scouted talent
nationwide, uncovering players who rose to prominence on the international
stage. Today, screenings are centralized in Abuja and compressed into a week,
excluding many young players from disadvantaged backgrounds. This system
inevitably narrows the pipeline of talent available to the national team.
If Nigerian football is to reclaim its former
glory, reforms at the NFF are essential. Without transparency, accountability,
and investment in grassroots development, the same challenges will persist
regardless of who wears the captain’s armband.
William Troost-Ekong remains a distinguished
professional who has represented his country with pride and consistency. His
career should not be overshadowed by a single own goal. Instead, recognition
must be given where it is due—both to his leadership on the field and to the
urgent need for systemic reform off it.
Sep 6, 2025
Waiting for Duncan Mighty: A Reflection on Music, Memory, and Unread Messages
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Duncan Mighty. Source: Duncan Mighty's Instagram Library |
Duncan Mighty is a Nigerian artist whose name I first encountered through his single Port Harcourt First Son. In the song, he acknowledges prominent figures from Rivers State, his home region, thereby establishing both his identity and his connection to his roots.
I first saw him perform during former President
Goodluck Jonathan’s campaign tour, shortly after the passing of President Umaru
Musa Yar’Adua. The rally took place at the Rwang Pam Township Stadium. Before
any political speeches were delivered, Duncan Mighty opened the event with a
performance of Port Harcourt First Son. It
was evident that the performance served a dual purpose: to entertain and to
promote his music. There must certainly have been fees involved, as Jonathan
was well known for supporting Nigerian artists. Timaya, another Port Harcourt
musician, has often spoken in interviews about being a beneficiary of this
generosity.
On that day, Duncan Mighty left a lasting
impression. With his long dreadlocks, black leather jacket, and denim jeans, he
commanded the stage. His performance was energetic and expressive—at one point
he clenched his fists, thrusting them to the left while extending one leg
outward, the other firmly grounded as if anchoring him to the stage. It was an
arresting dance move that conveyed passion and intensity. That was the moment
he etched himself indelibly in my memory.
Over time, I developed my own skills in music
production, with a particular focus on reggae. While reading Duncan Mighty’s
Wikipedia profile, I discovered that his music also bears reggae influences.
Inspired by this, I experimented with his work, using a stem-splitter to
isolate the vocals of Port Harcourt First Son
and reworking it into a reggae version.
Because of my personal connection to Port
Harcourt—I lived there for six years—the song holds special significance.
Naturally, I wanted my reggae version to gain visibility. I initially shared it
with friends in Port Harcourt via direct messages, but they were too
preoccupied with their own concerns to respond. As a result, I decided to
approach Duncan Mighty himself by sending him messages on Instagram.
Unfortunately, as is often the case with such platforms, a recipient must first
accept a message before it can be read. If only he would accept and listen, the
remix might reach a wider audience and even go viral.
For now, however, I remain waiting.
Yiro Abari is the author of How to Become a Music Maestro: a Handbook for Intending Music Artists. By it on
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