Jos: Chronicle of a Broken Covenant -By Patrick Iwelunmor

For the better part of my first thirty years, I lived in Jos, Bukuru to be precise. I did not merely reside there; I was shaped there, in ways I am still trying to fully understand. Jos was where I first learnt that people could be different and still belong to one another. It was where I discovered that kindness did not need to be announced, and that humanity, when it is genuine, flows quietly and naturally.

Christmas and Sallah were not occasions we observed from a distance. They were shared. You did not need an invitation to step into a neighbour’s home. Food moved from house to house, laughter travelled just as freely, and no one stopped to ask who was Christian or Muslim before offering a plate or receiving one. We simply knew that we were part of one another’s lives.

The nights were gentle. That is the only way I can describe them. There was no fear in the air. You could walk at midnight and feel safe, not because there were armed men everywhere, but because there was a shared understanding that everyone looked out for everyone else. The vigilantes were there, yes, but they were not harsh figures. They greeted you, sometimes walked with you, and made you feel seen rather than suspected. It was a different kind of security, one built on trust.

I often return in my mind to my primary school days, and each time I do, there is both warmth and pain. I attended Baptist Primary School, Bukuru from 1981 to 1986, just across from Islamiyya Primary School. Between us was a field that did not belong to one school or the other. It belonged to all of us. That was where we played football, argued over goals, laughed at one another, and made up again before the sun went down. No one taught us to live together; we simply did. Looking back now, those moments feel almost sacred in their simplicity.

When I gained admission to study English at Obafemi Awolowo University, leaving Jos felt like leaving a part of myself behind. I remember crying, not out of fear of the unknown, but because I knew I was stepping away from something rare. Jos had given me more than memories. It had given me a way of seeing people. It had taught me to approach others with openness, to give without calculation, and to carry myself with quiet humility. When people described Plateau State as the Home of Peace and Tourism, it did not feel like a slogan. It felt true.

Perhaps we did not realise then how fragile that peace was. It is easy, in moments of calm, to assume that things will always remain the same. Yes, there were differences, small tensions here and there, as in any diverse place. But they never defined us. We believed, perhaps too confidently, that the bonds between us were strong enough to hold.

Even the weather seemed to reflect that calm. Jos was never harsh. The air was cool, the atmosphere steady, almost comforting. Nothing about the city prepared you for what it would eventually become.

Then came 7 September 2001.

I still struggle to find the right words for that day. I remember running along Bukuru Expressway, not knowing exactly where I was going, only that I needed to get away. Fear has a way of stripping everything down to instinct. Around me were sights I had never imagined I would see in a place I called home. Bodies lay on the ground, and for a moment, it felt as though the world I knew had been abruptly taken away and replaced with something unrecognisable.

In moments like that, one is left searching for language that can carry the weight of loss. I found myself returning, almost unconsciously, to the haunting question in “Yester-Me, Yester-You, Yesterday by Stevie Wonder.” “What happened to the world we knew?” It no longer felt like a lyric from a distant song; it felt like a question that belonged to us, to Jos, to everything we had lost in such a short time.

Four days later, the world watched another tragedy unfold in the United States. The timing stayed with me, not because the events were the same, but because they reminded me that violence, whether local or global, often grows from seeds that are ignored until they become uncontrollable.

What happened in Jos did not come from nowhere. Over time, small cracks widened. Differences that were once managed became tools in the hands of those who sought power or advantage. Politics became less about service and more about control. Communities that once spoke to each other began to speak past each other. And when trust begins to erode, it does not collapse all at once; it fades, quietly, until something triggers its complete breakdown.

I remember the period when Lawrence Onoja ruled as military govvernor. It was not perfect, but there was a sense that leadership was present. Local authorities were visible, and issues did not linger unattended for too long. People still lived together with a sense of normalcy. There was no illusion that everything was ideal, but there was stability, and sometimes, stability is what keeps a society from falling apart.

Today, that sense of stability feels distant. The recent killings on Palm Sunday are not just news items to be read and forgotten. They are reminders that something fundamental has been broken. They are reminders of lives interrupted, families shattered, and communities left in fear.

It is easy to look for distant enemies, to imagine faceless forces somewhere far away. But sometimes, the more difficult truth is closer to home. Failures in leadership, gaps in security, unresolved grievances, and a lack of accountability have all played their part. When these are left unattended, they create the conditions in which violence thrives.

The responsibility to act lies with the state. President Bola Tinubu has an opportunity to take a different approach, one that goes beyond reacting to attacks after they happen. A focused effort in the Middle Belt, one that brings together security, dialogue, and justice, could begin to change the trajectory. But such an effort must be sincere and sustained. It must listen to the people it is meant to protect.

Yet, beyond government action, there is something deeper that must be rebuilt. Trust cannot be enforced. It must be restored. The values that once made coexistence possible must be deliberately nurtured again, in homes, in schools, and in communities. I still believe Jos can find its way back, not to a perfect past, but to a more hopeful future. But it will require honesty, courage, and a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths.

What I remember of Jos is not a story I invented. It is something I lived. And perhaps, if we hold on to those memories, not as a way of escaping the present, but as a guide for rebuilding it, we may yet begin to mend what has been broken.