Benue has always been known for something rare in a hard country, warmth. Across Nigeria, your name carries the image of a people who open their doors before they ask questions. Strangers have long found shelter here. Hospitality is not just a trait, it is part of your identity.
That is why what is happening now feels so jarring.
Alex Barbir, an American missionary, left the comfort of a peaceful, developed country to walk into a land scorched by violence. He saw villages reduced to ashes, families displaced, children hungry, and he did not wait for permission he began rebuilding.
Alex Barbir did not grow up in your villages. He was not born into your politics. He owes you nothing by obligation. Yet when violence tore through communities and families were left in ashes, he came.
He saw burned homes. He saw displaced mothers. He saw children sleeping under tarpaulin and open sky. And instead of issuing statements, he began rebuilding.
Thirty-six homes that were reduced to rubble now stand again because one man decided that tragedy should not have the final word. Eighteen remain unfinished. Not because the will is gone. Not because the need has diminished. But because resistance has made compassion more difficult than it should ever be.
Each rebuilt house is more than concrete and zinc. It is a quiet declaration that something terrible happened here. It is evidence that blood was spilled, that lives were uprooted, that families were broken. And perhaps that is why it unsettles some.
Because rebuilding is not just construction. It is testimony.
Benue has announced funds. Billions have been mentioned for rehabilitation and recovery. Yet many victims remain in camps where dignity is thin and hope thinner. Children grow up in temporary shelters that have lasted too long. Parents wait for relief that feels perpetually postponed.
In the middle of that waiting, a stranger began acting.
And somehow, he has become the inconvenience.
This is not about elevating a missionary above a government. Governments carry responsibility that individuals cannot. But responsibility is measured by results, not by press conferences. When visible progress comes from outside official structures, the correct response is partnership, not hostility.
If there are procedures to follow, clarify them. If coordination is required, initiate it. If oversight is necessary, implement it. But do not turn compassion into suspicion simply because it did not originate within state offices.
The real enemies of Benue are not those who rebuild homes. They are those who burn them. They are the armed men who invade at night, who scatter families, who convert villages into graveyards. They are the systems that allow displacement to become routine.
Compassion does not weaken a state. It strengthens its moral authority.
For months, Alex has remained where many would have left. He has faced pressure, obstacles, and threats. Still, he stays. Not because it is easy. Not because it is strategic. But because conscience, once awakened, is difficult to silence.
That kind of presence should not provoke resistance. It should provoke reflection.
If the presence of one foreigner rebuilding homes exposes uncomfortable questions about speed, transparency, or priority, then the answer is not to silence the builder. The answer is to match his urgency.
Benue must decide what story it wants history to tell.
That when tragedy struck, pride became more important than people?
That when help arrived, it was treated as interference?
That when homes were rising from ashes, the greater concern was control?
Or that in a moment of crisis, compassion was embraced wherever it appeared?
The people sleeping in tents do not care about political hierarchy. They care about roofs. The children eating one meal a day do not care about bureaucratic protocol. They care about food. The displaced families do not care who receives credit. They care about safety.
Human suffering should never become a battlefield for ego.
No government loses dignity by collaborating with those who serve its citizens in good faith. Strength is not threatened by assistance, it is threatened by indifference.
If there are concerns, address them transparently. If there are misunderstandings, clarify them openly. But let the rebuilding continue. Let the remaining eighteen houses stand. Let families return home. Let recovery move faster than suspicion.
Because when compassion is obstructed, the message sent is dangerous, that pride matters more than people.
Benue’s identity was built on generosity. On welcoming strangers. On lifting burdens together. That legacy should not erode in a season when it is needed most.
When a man who owes you nothing chooses to shoulder your pain, the proper response is not hostility. It is cooperation.
The tragedy in these communities is already heavy. It does not need the added weight of resistance to those trying to heal it.
History will remember who rebuilt. It will remember who resisted rebuilding. And long after statements fade and committees dissolve, the houses will still stand as witnesses.
The question is simple.
Will they stand as proof of shared effort or as evidence that compassion had to fight its way through pride?
Benue must choose.
Because when a state begins to treat help as a threat, it risks losing the very humanity that once made it strong.
Shaakaa can be reached on: shaakaastephanie@yahoo.com
