Communities across Nigeria’s Nasarawa State, particularly in the Southern Senatorial District, are gripped by growing alarm as a wave of aggressive land-grabbing incidents has triggered violent attacks, kidnappings, and the killing of innocent farmers and residents. Elders, youths, traditional rulers, and other concerned stakeholders have raised their voices in unison, warning that the systematic dispossession of ancestral farmlands is not only robbing indigenous people of their livelihood but also creating safe havens for armed criminals, deepening insecurity in an already fragile region.
The crisis has affected dozens of rural communities, turning once-peaceful farming settlements into zones of daily terror. Among the worst-hit areas are Sarkin Noma, Kadarko, Kwara, and Giza in Keana Local Government Area; Doka and Agbashi in Doma LGA; Duduguru in Obi LGA; and numerous villages spread across Lafia and Awe Local Government Areas. Residents report that hardly a week passes without news of fresh attacks, abductions, or gruesome murders linked directly to disputes over land ownership.
Isaac, a community leader who spoke on condition of anonymity for fear of reprisals, painted a grim picture of the situation. “Most farming communities in the southern senatorial district are bleeding. Farmers are being killed in their own fields, women are afraid to go to the farm, and children can no longer play freely. The land that has fed our people for generations is being taken away right before our eyes, and anyone who dares to protest or farm on what remains is marked for elimination.”
The methods of land acquisition are varied but follow a disturbingly similar pattern. In many cases, government officials or their agents allocate large tracts of ancestral farmland to outsiders—often described as “investors” or “businessmen” from outside the state—who then arrive with armed escorts to enforce their claims. Farmers who return to their fields are met with violence, ranging from beatings and threats to outright murder. In other instances, private companies and wealthy individuals purchase vast expanses for commercial agriculture, mining, or fish farming, effectively fencing off entire communities from the land they have depended on for centuries.
Haruna Ogoshi, a farmer and community elder from one of the affected areas, highlighted the broader implications of this trend. “These large-scale acquisitions are not just about farming or mining,” he said. “They are creating hideouts deep in the bush where criminals operate with impunity. Kidnappers now have permanent camps in these seized territories. They bring victims there, negotiate ransoms, and sometimes kill them when the money is not paid fast enough. These places have also become armouries—dangerous weapons are stockpiled there, ready to be used against innocent citizens at any time.”
The fear that deserted farmlands and abandoned villages could become permanent bases for banditry and insurgency is shared by many. With the original inhabitants chased away or killed, the seized territories become lawless enclaves far from the reach of security forces, providing perfect cover for criminal gangs who launch attacks on surrounding communities and retreat into the bush before troops can respond.
Mohammed Illiyasu, another stakeholder, warned of a looming demographic disaster. “Our population is growing rapidly, but the land available for farming and settlement is shrinking by the day,” he said. “If this continues unchecked, we are heading toward a catastrophe. Future generations will have nowhere to farm, nowhere to build, nowhere to call home. We are mortgaging their future for a few naira today.”
Perhaps the most insidious tactic, according to residents, is the use of local fronts to acquire community land. Unknown outsiders allegedly hire willing indigenes to purchase large parcels on their behalf. The transactions are initially presented as normal sales between community members, lulling traditional rulers and families into a false sense of security. Months or years later, the real buyers—complete strangers to the area—arrive with documents and armed security to claim ownership. When the original owners protest, violence erupts.
Youth leader Mr. Ayatse James minced no words in his appeal to the Nasarawa State Government. “We are sitting on a powder keg,” he declared. “If the government does not intervene urgently, these killings will escalate into full-scale reprisal attacks and communal clashes that may consume the entire zone. We are calling on Governor Abdullahi Sule to act decisively—set up a high-powered judicial panel, halt all questionable land allocations, and order security agencies to deploy permanently to the affected communities.”
Mr. James also issued a stern warning to landowners and community leaders tempted by quick money. “Stop selling ancestral land indiscriminately. Think of your children and grandchildren. There will come a time when there is no land left to farm or build on. What will you tell them then?” In a memorable proverb that has quickly spread across the affected communities, he asked: “If you sell your father’s land to buy a trumpet, on whose land will you stand to blow the trumpet?”
Dr. Jonathan Okori, an academic and indigene of the state, framed the crisis in even broader terms. “Land is more than just soil,” he said. “It is identity. It is security. It is legacy. It is the only thing that ties us to our ancestors and guarantees a future for our children. When a people lose their land, they lose their sense of belonging. They become refugees in their own homeland. The indigenous communities of Nasarawa State must rise up and defend their inheritance before it is too late.”
As the cries for help grow louder, residents say time is running out. Without swift and decisive intervention from the state government—ranging from a comprehensive audit of recent land transactions to the deployment of special security task forces and the enactment of stronger legal protections for communal lands—the Southern Senatorial District risks descending into a cycle of bloodshed and displacement from which it may never recover.
For now, farmers till their fields with one hand on the hoe and the other clutching a phone, ready to call for help at the first sign of danger. Mothers keep their children indoors after dusk. And elders gather nightly under the moonlight, praying that the land their forefathers defended with bows and arrows will not be the same land that consumes their grandchildren in the fire of greed and violence.
