Unveiled Graves: Gumi’s Hollow Denial

Beneath the scarred hills of Nigeria’s fractured core, where the silenced screams of the blameless reverberate like echoes in a forsaken canyon, another veil of malice descends. Sheikh Abubakar Gumi, that unyielding harbinger of discord, strikes yet again at the raw nerves of a country hemorrhaging from relentless savagery.

With the brazenness of one who has long trampled upon the sepulchers of the lost, he now declares that the coffins consigned to the hallowed ground of Plateau hold nothing but voids. Voids, he asserts, bereft of the Christian souls extinguished by blades and gunfire under night’s merciless shroud.

Voids, he sneers, staged to stoke emotions. As though the crimson-drenched meadows of Mangu, Bokkos, and Barkin Ladi were mere sets for a grotesque farce, and the anguished howls of bereaved kin nothing more than rehearsed lamentations.

This is no unwitting blunder, no inadvertent blasphemy spawned from folly. Gumi’s rejection of reality is calculated, a blade honed to carve away at verity with ruthless intent.

He maintains, with the zeal of a fanatic, that these are not receptacles for the fallen of a targeted slaughter but mere accoutrements in an elaborate plot woven by Christians.

Envision the outrage: the fragile forms of youths—shattered remnants swathed in pristine linens, their joys forever muted—demoted to “performers” in his deranged delusion.

Soon, one might wager, he’ll decree the displaced waifs in squalid shelters illusions, the sorrowing spouses’ saline streams concocted in clandestine ateliers. Such is the sorcery of bigotry: transmuting charnel pits into phantoms, righteous fury into forgery.

To Nigeria’s Christian brethren, this constitutes no exaggeration; it forms the routine rite of degradation.

Within a realm where Fulani raiders prowl as predators beneath the apathetic vigil of authority, where sanctuaries blaze and hamlets dissolve into ether, Gumi’s rhetoric serves not as marginalia but as corrosive marginalia seared by vitriol.

It steels the hands of the slayers, saps the mettle of the upright, and derides the global entreaties for redress that dissipate into silence. Recall the carnage of Jos in 2018? Over 200 innocents felled, their rites a tide of somber mantles and inconsolable sorrow.

Or the Yuletide 2023 bloodbath amid those very Plateau ridges, 140 lives reaped in a maelstrom of creed-driven rage. And here in 2025, as the wheel of atrocity turns once more, Gumi has the temerity to brand the proofs as counterfeit?

Then unseal the coffins, Sheikh. Not through your fabrications, but via the stark glare of reckoning.

Permit the globe to gaze into the abyss you deem barren: the fractured skeletons of sires who guarded their congregants, the sightless stares of girls who envisioned dawns unborn, the minuscule grasps of babes denied even a whisper of life. These are no mere provocations; they stand as accusations.

Against a regime that murmurs of harmony while honing edges. Against divines who sermonize concord from altars erected on schism. Against a populace that countenances atrocity apologists as sages, not scourges.

This elegy honors them—the invisible, the spiritually interred, those whose narratives Gumi seeks to obliterate with a flick of disdain.

It mourns equity postponed, intones a threnody for a Nigeria that might yet emerge. Yet it resounds as a trumpet too: we shall not entomb vacant verities.

The lids may seal, but our proclamations shall wrench them ajar, time and again, until dissemblers like Gumi stand stripped—unmasked, disgraced, and muted by the gravity of the irrefutable.

Awaken, Plateau. Awaken, Nigeria’s devout. Your tombs brim; your determination, boundless. And in that abundance, let the falsifiers quake.

#StopTheSlaughter #UnsealTheTruth #VengeanceForPlateau