Bandits kill 33 in Kebbi community as villagers resist deadly cattle raid
By: Abudu Olalekan
A hush hung over the fields when the engines broke it. Folks moved slow under the early sun, boots on dirt, pots clanging inside kitchens. A few carried bags toward open land where cassava grows. Kids sat blinking at wooden tables, mouths half-full. Noise arrived without warning – tires on gravel, rising fast. After that, cracks split the air. Quick ones. Loud enough to stop breath. Near enough to feel in the chest.
Fog hung low by dusk, stretching through clusters of homes in Arewa’s countryside towns.
Thirty-three people are dead, say police in Nigeria, following an assault on Bui District by alleged bandits. What began as cattle theft turned deadly, growing far beyond initial expectations. Officials called it a brutal raid gone too far.
Bashir Usman spoke out on Friday from Birnin Kebbi, wearing his role as police media contact like a stiff collar. The message came through in written form, clean and proper. Yet what it carried weighed more than ink on sheet could show.
He said it went down Wednesday, when gunmen – thought to be part of the Lakurawa crew – rushed into the area. What they came for seemed routine at first glance. Herd theft. Quick hit. Vanish without trace.
But something changed.
Through the bush they came, maybe from Sokuto State, slipping along trails worn thin by smugglers and outlaws. Time has left these paths unchecked. Thin eyes watch them now. Folks here remember every turn.
Folks in Mamunu stood still when the shooters came, then others in Awasaka held their ground too. From Tungan Tsoho to Makangara, people paused instead of rushing away. In Kanzo, feet stayed planted. Over in Gorun Naidal, nobody bolted at first. Even Dan Mai Ago saw calm before motion.
They mobilised.
No army lines held here. Just townspeople, driven by gut feeling, standing firm – perhaps recklessly so. Faced the assault anyway. A gamble with sharp edges. Which snapped shut fast.
“In the confrontation that followed, 33 persons were killed,” Usman stated.
A silence fell. Sharp. Unforgiving. That truth sat there – no room to move, nowhere to hide. One line said it all.
Faster than anyone expected, the fight grew worse. Armed men arrived with weapons too strong for those living there. People without guns had little chance. Soon, confusion took over instead of order. Running began in every direction at once. While defending animals on their land, some dropped lifeless. Elsewhere, a few fell after pulling neighbors toward safety.
Quiet came back once the fighting stopped – though peace had nothing to do with it.
Now there is a stronger police presence in the impacted neighborhoods. Military units arrived, along with teams from several government bodies, bringing more equipment. Patrols keep moving through the area, working to steady things, stopping further attacks before they happen, according to authorities.
Still, peace doesn’t always come quickly for those who live here.
Already, Usman said, messages of sorrow have reached the impacted households along with everyone in the Arewa area. When violence rises, he added, teamwork among forces matters more than actions taken alone on the ground.
Few options seem available when danger strikes far from aid. Yet that’s exactly what life feels like out there.
Early reports of odd activity are what authorities want from locals instead of any close contact with fighters. Dangerous outcomes could follow, according to officials. A warning came along with that message.
Focusing on finding those responsible, teams remain active in the field. While detection systems get upgrades, work pushes forward in high-risk villages.
Beneath the surface, unease in Kebbi had been growing – slowly, steadily – long before anyone took notice. Reportersroom picked up signs of it through quiet shifts across towns.
A rumor spread through the hills one morning about a note found near a well – ten lines scrawled on torn paper asking for one hundred million naira if outsiders wanted to step foot in the village preaching. People gathered under the old mango tree to talk. One man laughed until his hands shook. That laughter faded fast when children started staying close to home after dusk. By midnight, some windows stayed lit while shadows moved quietly behind curtains.
Farmlands burn under smoke that stains the sky gray. Isolated villages sit exposed, without guards or warning systems. Help arrives late, if it comes at all. Danger moves faster than aid ever does.
Each moment it occurs, the rhythm seems familiar. Yet every instance carries that identical weight again.
Gunshots. Panic. Loss.
Then statements.
