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

Bukar Sukar Dimka: The Soldier Who Shook a Nation

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.

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

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.

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.

 

Waiting for Duncan Mighty: A Reflection on Music, Memory, and Unread Messages

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 Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B004H4XQAQ