On March 27, 2025, the streets of Uromi in Edo State became a battleground—not of chaos, but of retribution. The killing of 16 northern travelers, identified as Fulani herdsmen, was no random outburst of violence but a calculated response to an imminent threat. Intercepted in a Dangote truck, these men carried 19 locally made firearms, a chilling sign of their intent. For too long, Edo’s people have endured the relentless terror of Fulani herdsmen—kidnappings that tear families apart, murders that leave bloodstains on the soil, and the destruction of farms that starve communities like Sobe and Uromi. Just weeks prior, another vicious attack claimed Edo lives, a grim reminder of an unchecked scourge. This time, the people said enough.
The evidence against these travelers was irrefutable. Armed to the teeth, they fit a pattern of northern marauders exploiting Nigeria’s porous roads to unleash havoc. Edo’s vigilantes and the State Security Corps didn’t act out of blind tribalism—they acted out of sheer necessity. When the police are overstretched, their presence a mere whisper in rural enclaves, and the courts too slow to deliver justice, who else will stand against the tide of violence? These were not innocent souls heading to celebrate Sallah; they were invaders, caught red-handed with weapons that spelled doom for Edo’s sons and daughters. The mob’s reaction—brutal, visceral, and final—was a desperate roar of survival, a refusal to let their homeland remain a slaughterhouse for Fulani criminals.
For years, Edo State has borne the scars of this terror. Farmers in Sobe have watched their crops razed by herdsmen’s cattle, only to face machetes when they dared protest. In Uromi, tales of abductions and killings have become a grim lullaby, sung to children too young to know peace. The government’s promises—security patrols, peace talks—have crumbled into dust, leaving communities to fend for themselves. The 19 guns found in that truck weren’t for hunting game; they were tools of oppression, poised to deepen Edo’s wounds. The locals knew this. They’ve seen the pattern: northern travelers, cloaked as traders or hunters, slipping into villages only to leave behind corpses and chaos. This wasn’t prejudice—it was recognition of a clear and present danger.
Critics may clutch their pearls, decrying “jungle justice” from the safety of distant cities. But in Uromi, where every shadow could hide a killer, survival trumps sanctimony. The police arrested 14 suspects after the fact, a belated gesture that does little to erase the reality: formal justice has failed Edo. When the state falters, the people rise. Burning those 16 men sent a message louder than any courtroom gavel—Edo will no longer be a playground for Fulani terror. Was it gruesome? Yes. Was it deserved? Undoubtedly. These were not victims; they were perpetrators undone by their own malice. In a land where law lags and lives hang by a thread, Edo’s retribution was not just swift—it was righteous.
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