By Sar Terver
In the quiet, border-bound village of Karongi in Baruten Local Government Area of Kwara State, Sunday June 22nd 2024 night began like any other-families gathered over dinner, elders exchanged stories, and children played in the dimming light.
But that calm was shattered by the sudden arrival of gunmen, who descended upon the community with fire and fury.
The attackers, suspected to be part of the elusive Mahmuda armed group, unleashed terror with terrifying precision.
Witnesses said homes were reportedly set ablaze, and at least one resident was killed in cold blood.
The assault left behind scorched huts, grieving families, and an atmosphere heavy with fear and uncertainty.
This latest raid, one of many under-reported rural attacks, raises troubling questions about security infrastructure and government presence in Nigeria’s remote Communities.
In a region where State authority often thins out beyond urban centers, Baruten has increasingly become a soft target.
Residents of Karongi, speaking in hushed tones, told of being caught unprepared. “They came suddenly, shouting and firing.
People ran into the bush. Some houses were already burning before we could react,” said a survivor who asked not to be named for safety reasons.
The identity and motive of the Mahmuda group remain murky. Unlike more established terror organizations, Mahmuda lacks a known ideological front.
Local security watchers describe them as an opportunistic gang, possibly with transborder affiliations given Baruten’s proximity to the Republic of Benin.
The attack, while small in national headlines, is monumental in human cost. Families have been displaced, farmlands abandoned, and trust in government protection deeply eroded.
Insecurity has quietly crept into the daily rhythm of communities like Karongi, reshaping their worldview from one of peace to one of survival.
For journalists and civil society actors, the tragedy underlines the importance of amplifying grassroots voices in the national security discourse.
While the nation’s attention often fixates on the more visible carnage in the North East or the volatile Middle Belt, places like Karongi slip beneath the radar—until moments like this.
What is particularly alarming is the absence of swift, official reaction. As of midday Monday, there were no concrete updates from security agencies.
No arrests had been announced. No press briefings. In a place already alienated by geography, this silence deepens the disconnect between rural citizens and the State.
Community leaders are now calling for the establishment of localized security posts, manned by vigilante groups but supervised by state security agents.
“We are not asking for too much,” one elder said. “Just presence. Just a sense that if we scream, someone will come.”
Experts argue that early-warning systems tailored to rural dynamics could help prevent such ambushes. These would involve collaboration between villagers, religious leaders, youth vigilantes, and nearby police formations, using simple tools like mobile alerts and coordinated patrol shifts.
But, that ideal remains distant. For now, the villagers of Karongi are left to pick through the ashes—literally.
Burnt grains, destroyed cooking pots, and the skeletal remains of mud walls stand as reminders of how quickly peace can be reduced to rubble.
The Federal Government has yet to make any statement, though Kwara State authorities have reportedly sent delegations to assess the damage.
Humanitarian support is expected, but many locals say they have “heard that line before.”
The Karongi attack also reawakens the broader conversation about policing reforms in Nigeria. As national debates over state policing gather momentum, the reality on the ground, particularly in places like Baruten, demands a hybrid model that respects both constitutional balance and community urgency.
*A recurring fear, though, is that once media attention fades, the victims will be forgotten. Like many rural Communities across the North Central, Karongi has no radio station, no newspaper bureau, and no organized Civil society base. Invisibility is their greatest vulnerability.
Journalists have a role to play here—not just in reporting tragedy but in following the story forward. What becomes of the families displaced? Are there children now out of school? What mental health support exists for the traumatised?
What also remains unknown is whether this attack was random or retaliatory. In many such incidents, unresolved land disputes or prior skirmishes serve as hidden triggers.
Without thorough investigations, the root causes remain speculative, feeding cycles of suspicion and revenge.
The tragedy may also disrupt farming activities in Karongi and its environs, affecting local food supplies.
The rains have begun, and this is normally planting season. But insecurity has become a disincentive for many rural farmers to return to the fields.
If there is any silver lining, it is in the resilience of the villagers. Some have begun clearing debris, rebuilding what they can.
Their counterparts gather at the village square daily to plan collective safety strategies, waiting for official intervention that may or may not come.
Their message is simple but urgent: visibility, protection, justice. Anything less will ensure that the silence of Karongi becomes the silence of other villages, one after another, across Nigeria’s forgotten frontiers.
Leave a Reply