by Guest Writer

Olota creek adjoining Focardos

BY RAPHAEL OBASIOHIA

“We haven’t even seen his corpse up till now,” Oghoroko Ovigue Julius lamented.

Somewhere far from his ancestral home in Okuama in Delta state’s Ughelli South LGA, Julius, the eldest son of the late president-general of Okuama struggles to describe the day soldiers arrived.

“The military men came to our compound, forced their way into my father’s apartment,” he recalled quietly. “They beat him, pushed him into their van, and that was the last time we saw him alive.”

For months, the family clung to hope. According to Julius, they managed to maintain indirect contact with the community leader through an intermediary whom they believed was a soldier with access to a phone.

“My father kept telling us they were fine and that they would be released soon,” Julius said. “But he complained that he wasn’t feeling well. He said his hands were swollen and that he felt weak.”

The family occasionally sent money for feeding and, for a time, believed his condition was stable.

“People collected money from us, promising to help secure his release. I spent all my savings. I even shut down my livestock business,” Julius said.

Then, on December 4, 2024, the calls stopped.

“Someone called to tell us our father was dead,” Julius recalled. “The person said he had barely been able to move for about two weeks and was already using diapers. They said he died that evening, between 7 and 8 p.m.”

Nearly two years after his arrest, the family said many questions remain unanswered, including the whereabouts of his remains.

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“We’ve not seen his remains or been told where he was buried,” Julius said.

Oghoroko Ovigue Julius…

For others who survived the military operation, the memory itself remains traumatic.

“It was terrible,” said Uvo Nancy Cynthia, a community stakeholder from Okuama. “Imagine having to run away from your home, leaving everything behind just to save your life. Once life is threatened, nothing else matters.”

Her voice broke intermittently as she recalled the chaos.

BEFORE OKUAMA BURNED

The violence that shocked Nigeria on March 14, 2024, did not begin that day. It had been building quietly for months.

Long before the soldiers were killed and communities displaced, early warnings already existed.

Community leaders, local observers, and peace actors had raised concerns over growing hostility between Okuama, an Urhobo community in Ughelli South, and neighbouring Okoloba, an Ijaw settlement in Bomadi LGA, both along the River Forcados axis.

According to community stakeholders, tensions escalated sharply around 2023 following disputes over land and territorial claims.

“The communities had coexisted peacefully for years until around 2023, when disagreements emerged over land,” said Edewor Egedege, secretary-general of the Ewu Clan Development Forum and peacebuilding focal person for PIND Foundation.

On December 20, 2023, Okoloba leaders held a press conference accusing Okuama residents of invading fishing grounds, destroying shoreline vegetation, and using dynamites for fishing activities, which they claim worsened erosion in the area.

An open letter addressed to Sheriff Oborevwori, Delta state governor, warned that the tensions were capable of igniting “inter-communal hostilities and bloodbath” if not urgently addressed.

Residents said the warnings were not matched with sustained intervention.

According to Egedege, tensions intensified in January 2024 when some Okuama youths returning from Okuagbe by boat were reportedly attacked, resulting in fatalities.

“A meeting was held, and resolutions were reached,” Egedege recalled. “But after that, the government seemed to have gone to sleep, without following up on those resolutions.”

By early March 2024, the crisis had escalated further. Reports emerged of kidnappings, retaliatory attacks, and killings linked to the dispute. One of the incidents involved the reported abduction and subsequent killing of Pigha Zipamone, an indigene of Okoloba.

Community interactions reduced sharply. Night movements became dangerous. Markets grew tense. Youth groups became restive.

Even after a peace accord brokered by the Delta state government aimed at halting the cycles of kidnapping and counter-kidnapping, mistrust continued to deepen beneath the surface.

MORE THAN AN ETHNIC CONFLICT

Public narratives around the Okuama–Okoloba crisis often framed it as an ethnic confrontation between the Urhobo and the Ijaw communities.

But interviews with residents, peace actors, and local observers suggest the roots ran deeper and were tied largely to economics, territorial control, and influence within the creeks.

Fishing corridors, river access routes, farmlands, and allegations surrounding illegal oil bunkering interests all became entangled in the conflict.

An investigation published by the International Centre for Investigative Reporting (ICIR) in April 2024 reported allegations that rivalries linked to crude oil theft operations and territorial influence may have compounded existing land disputes between Okuama and Okoloba. It also cited claims that influential actors and private security interests operating in the region may have deepened suspicions about military involvement in the crisis.

Although many of the allegations remain contested, multiple residents interviewed during this investigation insisted that the conflict had evolved beyond ordinary communal disagreement long before the killings occurred.

“What people saw publicly was only the surface,” one community source familiar with the dispute said. “There were economic interests underneath everything.”

Security analysts and peace actors said such overlaps between communal disputes, resource competition, political influence, and illicit economies have increasingly complicated conflict management across the Niger Delta.

THE TRIGGER: HOW HOSTAGE CASE SPIRALLED INTO BLOODSHED

The final escalation came swiftly.

On March 13, 2024, Anthony Aboh, an indigene of Okoloba, was reportedly taken hostage in Okuama by armed youths. His brother alerted the 181 Amphibious Battalion stationed in Bomadi. The following day, soldiers entered Okuama.

According to multiple local accounts, the troops were initially received peacefully, and discussions began with community leaders at the town hall. But negotiations reportedly broke down after the hostage could not be produced.

Witnesses said the military commander insisted that the community chairman accompany them to Bomadi.

Then the shooting began.

A survivor who drove one of the speedboats hired for the operation later recalled that gunfire erupted from multiple directions as soldiers moved toward the waterfront.

By the end of the attack, 17 soldiers, including senior officers, had been killed.

Nigeria reacted with shock and outrage.

Reports that some of the slain soldiers were mutilated further inflamed public anger. Questions quickly emerged over how a communal dispute had degenerated into one of the deadliest attacks on military personnel in recent Nigerian history.

The Nigerian Army launched a large-scale response.

Okuama was subsequently raided and largely deserted as residents fled into surrounding creeks, bushes, and neighbouring communities. Homes, schools, health facilities, and farmlands were destroyed.

Women and children of Okuama taking refuge in the bush…

For survivors, the scars remain both physical and psychological.

“We live like refugees,” one displaced resident said during field reporting. “People are still afraid.”

THE FAILURE BETWEEN WARNING AND RESPONSE

One of the most troubling aspects of the Okuama crisis is that many of the warning signs had already been documented before violence erupted.

Clement Ikolo, the traditional ruler of Ewu Kingdom in Delta state, in an interview published by the Punch newspaper, said he warned the state government about the lingering crisis between the two communities.

“I would like to state clearly that when this crisis between my community, Okuama, and the Ijaw community, Okoloba, started early this year, I was in the United Kingdom at that time,” the traditional ruler said.

“I contacted the government at the time, and the information they gave to me was that the government had invited both parties to resolve the issue and that, in fact, it had been resolved.”

Also, peace monitors operating community-based early warning systems had reportedly captured increasing hostility, verbal threats, suspicious youth gatherings, and declining social interaction between both communities.

“Early warning will give rise to early response. But the problem is not with early warning; it’s with early response,” said Egedege.

“Peace actors and foundations like PIND and its partners have done their part by flagging risks through their tracker system. But without prompt action from those in authority, the warning becomes useless.”

An infographic and map showing an early warning report prior to March 2024 published to the general public and shared with stakeholders to mitigate conflict.

Those early warnings had been captured through PIND’s Early Warning and Early Response (EWER) system, a community-based tool developed by PIND to detect and de-escalate potential conflict triggers before they spiral into violence.

A local peace monitor sending an early warning report via SMS to the EWER system…

Conflict prevention experts said the tragedy exposed a recurring weakness in Nigeria’s conflict management structure: the dangerous gap between early warning and early response.

“The challenge is often not the absence of information,” a Delta-based peace actor familiar with the matter explained. “The problem is delayed response, poor coordination, and failure to act before tensions escalate.”

BEYOND EARLY WARNING: THE FAILURE TO RESOLVE

Authorities and community leaders have made several efforts to restore peace since the violence.

In September 2024, leaders of Okuama and Okoloba signed a nine-point peace accord brokered by the chairmen of Bomadi and Ughelli South LGAs at the directive of the governor. The agreement committed both communities to an immediate ceasefire, reconciliation, free access to farmlands, unrestricted movement along the River Forcados, joint security patrols and the peaceful resolution of disputes through dialogue.

A 10-member monitoring committee comprising representatives of both communities and security agencies was also established to oversee compliance with the agreement.

Beyond formal agreements, some local actors also established informal mechanisms aimed at preventing renewed violence.

Egedege said he worked with peace partners to bring leaders from both communities together through a communication platform involving community representatives and security agencies.

“Once there are skirmishes, we communicate through the platform to calm things down and get quick interventions,” he said.

He said the mechanism helped prevent further escalation.

But many stakeholders insist that maintaining calm is different from resolving the conflict itself.

“We lost over 100 people in Okuama,” said Emmanuel Okrika, president-general of the community. “People lost their lives. But the main thing that caused this crisis, the issue between Okuama and Okoloba, has not been addressed.”

Egedege shared similar concerns.

“Nothing has been done to address the root cause,” he said. “In engineering, when you want to fix erosion, you go to the base. But in governance, they often just scratch the surface.”

“Until the boundary issue is addressed, these tensions will continue to resurface,” he insisted.

In that sense, the challenge is not simply a failure to detect or respond to conflicts early. It is also a failure to resolve them after they explode.

These concerns mirror fears now echoed in Olota and Oboro, where residents worry that unresolved grievances, if left unattended, could once again create conditions for another preventable tragedy.

THE LIMITS OF STATE RESPONSE

Andrew Agboro, the chairman of the Delta State Civil Society Organisations Forum and chairman of the Conflict Prevention Council in the state, believed the challenges surrounding timely, sustained, and resolute intervention go beyond the availability of information.

According to Agboro, who is also a professor, “weak political will, difficulties engaging key stakeholders, the activities of conflict entrepreneurs and delays in mobilising resources” often combine to undermine early and sustained response efforts.

Security authorities also argued that responding to crises in Delta’s riverine communities is complicated by severe manpower and logistical limitations.

PPRO Delta Command, Edafe, being interviewed in his office by this reporter

Speaking with this reporter, Bright Edafe, the police public relations officer of the Delta State Command, painted a picture of constraints often felt most acutely in hard-to-reach riverine communities, where difficult terrain, transportation costs and limited security infrastructure can significantly delay interventions

“Where do you start from?” he asked. “The whole state has fewer than 7,000 policemen. In some local government areas, you have fewer than 50 officers. How do they perform miracles?”

The challenge, he said, becomes even more pronounced in remote riverine communities.

“How many gunboats do we even have?” Edafe asked. “The whole command does not have up to three or four functioning gunboats, and a significant part of Delta is water.”

While the command’s specific operational assets could not be independently verified, broader national data suggests the challenges described by Edafe are not unique to Delta state.

A report published in November 2025 by the European Union Agency for Asylum estimated the strength of about 371,800 officers serving a population of more than 236 million people. The report further noted that more than 100,000 officers are assigned to the protection of politicians and VIPs rather than frontline public policing duties, contributing to manpower shortages and delayed responses in many communities.

Security analysts have long argued that the resulting police-to-population ratio falls below internationally recommended levels, leaving large areas of the country, particularly rural and riverine communities, under-policed. According to recent policing assessments, Nigeria has roughly one police officer for every 600 citizens, compared to the commonly cited United Nations benchmark of approximately one officer for every 450 citizens.

However, Edafe rejected claims that authorities simply ignore warning signs, explaining that the command relies on community informants, members of the Police Community Relations Committee (PCRC), and other intelligence sources spread across the state’s 25 local government areas.

“We have structures for gathering information,” he said. “Peace actors must collaborate with the right authorities and channels. There is no DPO who wants a crisis in his area because once you cannot manage a crisis, you can be removed.”

He insisted that the police cannot be physically present everywhere at the same time.

“The ratio is not equal,” he said. “Communities also have responsibilities. When they fail to inform the police on time, they should take part of the blame.”

But Edafe emphasised that the root causes behind many communal conflicts lie outside traditional policing functions.

“Land disputes are civil matters,” he said. “Addressing the root problem is not the duty of the police. We only try to prevent a breakdown of law and order.”

That distinction between civil disputes and criminal violence creates a persistent grey area in many communal conflicts across the Niger Delta. While underlying grievances over land and boundary ownership often remain unresolved for years, security agencies typically become fully involved only after those disputes escalate into kidnappings, assaults, reprisals, or killings. In practice, this means that while police focus on preventing immediate breakdowns of law and order, the deeper issues that fuel recurring violence are often left to fester beneath periods of uneasy calm, leaving communities vulnerable to renewed conflict.

The police further argued that lasting solutions depend largely on government institutions responsible for boundary and conflict resolution.

“If government clearly determines where boundaries lie and enforces them, then the police will know what they are dealing with,” he said.

In a different interview, CSP Ola, a divisional police officer familiar with communal conflicts between Olota and neighbouring communities, similarly noted that many disputes in the area are rooted in unresolved boundary issues.

According to him, security agencies and local authorities often convene dialogue meetings while awaiting decisions from state-level boundary committees.

“We have been managing them,” he said. “We bring communities together and preach peace while waiting for the state government’s intervention.”

He acknowledged that failures to effectively manage tensions can allow disputes to degenerate into larger crises.

Nigeria’s conflict problem is not merely a failure of early warning. It is also a system in which responsibility becomes fragmented, leaving communities trapped between unresolved civil disputes and reactive security interventions.

ACROSS THE RIVER, TWO COMMUNITIES TELL THE SAME STORY DIFFERENTLY

In Olota in Ughelli South and neighbouring Oboro in Burutu LGA, residents described patterns that mirror early warning signs seen before the Okuama crisis.

On most mornings in Olota, the women said they leave before sunrise.

The River Forcados is calmer at dawn. The currents are softer, and the chances of confrontation are lower. For years, that timing mattered little.

Traders, fishermen, and farmers moved freely across the waterways linking Olota in Ughelli South LGA and neighbouring Oboro in Burutu. Women ferried cassava products to nearby markets. Fishermen crossed creeks without escorts. Families interacted despite old disagreements over land.

Today, people move with caution.

Olota trader moving goods to the market at Bomadi…

Women now spend hours travelling by water, often in locally made canoes, to sell garri in distant markets after routes through neighbouring communities became unsafe. Fishermen avoid certain fishing corridors entirely. Farmers work in groups or abandon boundary farmlands altogether. In both Olota and Oboro, suspicion now travels faster than speedboats.

And beneath the uneasy calm, residents on both sides speak of the same fear: Another crisis nobody stops until it is too late.

“This conflict has lasted more than 70 years, even before I was born,” said Joseph Wonder, one of five elders gathered by this reporter for a Focus Group Discussion (FGD) in the Olota community hall. “The Oboro people claim we are tenants on our own land. They cross into our farms, seize produce, harass our people, and now many farmers no longer feel safe going to the creeks.”

Around him, other elders nod quietly.

This reporter with some elders of Olota during an FGD in the community hall

For Olota residents, the conflict is not described as a sudden dispute but as a generational struggle tied to ownership, survival, and identity. Community leaders insisted they possess court judgements dating back to the colonial era, including rulings from 1929, 1937, and 1947, which they say granted Olota ownership rights over disputed territories stretching across parts of the River Forcados axis.

“Our fathers fought this matter in court before Nigeria even gained independence,” said Prosper Ighovoyivun Evuarherhe, president-general of Olota. “Despite those judgements, the encroachment never stopped.”

According to him, the dispute has evolved far beyond ordinary land disagreements.

“The issue now affects everything,” he said. “Farming, fishing, movement, even political identity. We are geographically closer to Bomadi, but because of the tension with neighbouring Ijaw communities, we align politically with Ughelli South instead. That isolation has affected development.”

He described repeated allegations of trespassing into farmlands, destruction of cassava farms, illegal logging, and disputes over fishing ponds and timber resources.

“Our women are traumatised,” he said. “Many are afraid to go to farms because of harassment or possible attacks.”

Yet, across the River Forcados, the narrative changes completely.

In Oboro, leaders insisted the disputed territory belongs historically to them and accused Olota of attempting to rewrite history through occupation and expansion.

“The Olota people were settled here by our ancestors,” said Odayibo Ebimotu, a community chief and retired military officer. “What we gave them to stay on during colonial times, they now want to claim as their own.” He pointed across the wide Forcados River behind us, where we stood to get a clearer picture of what the alleged boundary trespass looked like.

This reporter (M) with Odayibo Ebimotu (R) and Alombo P. Abaka, Oboro Youth Leader (L)

Like Olota leaders, Oboro residents also speak with the language of victimhood.

“They seize our resources too,” Ebimotu claimed. “Palm fruits, timber, fishing ponds. Last week alone, my boys cut over 200 planks across the river, and before they returned, the Olota people had carried everything.”

On both sides, the accusations mirror each other almost perfectly.

Each community claimed invasion. Each accused the other of harassment. Each insisted government authorities know the truth but have failed to act.

And both sides believed restraint, not peace, is what has prevented another violent outbreak.

THE CONFLICT WOMEN CARRY 

In the creeks, women often suffer the consequences of conflicts they did not start.

For Christina Forcados in Olota, the fear is deeply personal.

Some Olota women at their garri-processing mini-mill during a visit by this reporter

“When there is a crisis, it is children and elderly people that suffer most,” she said. “As women, we keep telling our husbands and youths not to fight because we know what war brings.”

She said women now struggle to transport garri and farm produce because movement through disputed areas has become risky and expensive. Some products spoil before reaching buyers, especially during flooding seasons.

“We feel cut off from the world,” another elder, Okero Oleya, said quietly. “Bags of garri remain inside houses because transport is difficult.”

In Oboro, the women tell nearly identical stories.

“Women are not the ones fighting, but we suffer the most,” said Akromi Sunday, the women’s leader in Oboro.

She recalled the 1995 communal clash vividly: families fled farms, children were displaced, businesses collapsed.

“Even my younger sister lost her cassava produce last year because of this same conflict,” she said. “Women now avoid farms close to the boundary because they are afraid.”

Trade restrictions between the two communities worsened the hardship.

For decades, Olota’s cassava and garri economy supplied nearby riverine settlements, including Oboro. But as tensions deepened, both communities imposed informal restrictions on cross-community trade.

The result was economic paralysis.

“Widows cried,” Sunday recalled. “Women who bought garri from Olota to resell in Bomadi Market could no longer continue.”

The collapse of trust disrupted an entire local economic system built over generations around fishing, cassava processing, timber, and river transport.

NEGOTIATIONS WITHOUT BOUNDARY RESOLUTION

The communities have accused authorities of responding only after tensions rise dangerously.

Both Olota and Oboro leaders confirmed that the Delta State Peace and Conflict Resolution Committee invited them to dialogue sessions in Asaba multiple times. They submitted land documents, maps, and historical records.

But both communities also expressed frustration that promised follow-up actions, including physical boundary assessments, never happened.

“They promised to visit the disputed land themselves,” said Oguagua Francis, an elder in Olota. “Up till now, they never came.”

Oboro chief, Ebimotu, told a similar story.

“They examined our documents and promised action,” he said. “But no permanent solution came.”

Efforts to obtain further clarification from the Delta state government on its peacebuilding response to the conflicts were unsuccessful. Chief Edwin Uzor, special adviser to the governor on peacebuilding and conflict resolution, was initially contacted through his office, which acknowledged the request and scheduled an interview. However, the session was later cancelled due to a conflicting official engagement. Subsequent follow-ups by this reporter over several weeks did not yield a new date or an alternative response at the time of filing this report.

Meanwhile, security agencies, including the Joint Task Force (JTF) at Bomadi, were also said to have intervened intermittently whenever arrests, detentions, or retaliatory threats emerged. Yet residents on both sides said those interventions focus largely on temporary calm rather than long-term resolution.

That temporary calm often hangs by a thread.

On April 25 this year, Olota youth leader Brighademor David Oghenevwiroro said he reported a fresh encroachment incident involving rubber plantations and timber cutting to a local peace actor connected to PIND Foundation’s peace network.

Screenshot of early warning report on Olota-Oboro conflict to PIND’s EWER system… Photo Credit: Local peace actor

According to Brighademor, tensions escalated after a farmer seized a sawing machine allegedly used by Oboro youths cutting trees inside disputed territory. Later that same day, Olota indigenes returning from a marriage ceremony through Oboro were reportedly detained briefly before being released.

“This has become constant,” he said. “One small incident can trigger another.”

In Oboro, youth leader Alombo P. Abaka shared similar fears.

“Both communities are sitting on a keg of gunpowder,” he said. “If anything happens today and people retaliate, war can break out.”

‘WHAT WE HAVE IS ENDURANCE’

Despite the tension, both communities repeatedly insist they do not want violence. But peace here is fragile, conditional, and heavily dependent on restraint from local leaders and youths.

Olota youths said they now report threats to elders instead of retaliating directly.

“We have decided not to engage in revenge attacks,” said youth leader Brighademor. “We know one wrong move can destroy everything.”

In Oboro, Chief Ebimotu said he deliberately intervenes whenever his youths attempt retaliation.

“As a retired soldier, I know war kills young men first,” he said. “That is why I discourage violence.”

Still, fear shapes everyday life. Intermarriages between both communities have nearly disappeared. Social interaction has collapsed. Political cooperation is minimal. Farmers move cautiously. Youths patrol communities at night. Rumours spread quickly through the creeks.

And everywhere, people speak not of peace, but of survival.

“I cannot say there is peace,” said Etamerha John, one of the Olota elders. “What we have is endurance.”

That sentence lingers heavily, echoing what residents in Okuama also described before violence erupted in March 2024.

Residents on both sides of the River Forcados say they hope these disputes are addressed before another incident pushes the conflict beyond the point where dialogue can contain it.

This report was commissioned with support from the Centre for Journalism Innovation and Development (CJID) under a journalism support initiative funded by the Royal Norwegian Embassy.

Source: TheCable