On September 19, 2025, Fr. Matthew Eya, a young priest of the Diocese of Nsukka in Enugu State, was ambushed while returning from a pastoral assignment. Gunmen on motorcycles forced his car to stop by shooting its tyres and then shot him at close range. The Enugu State police later announced arrests and promised investigations. However, the grim reality is that Fr. Eya’s murder is far from an isolated incident; it adds to a long list of horrors that have become commonplace in Nigeria today.
Fr. Matthew Eya’s murder is far from an isolated incident — it adds to a long list of horrors that have become commonplace in Nigeria today.
According to Aid to the Church in Need (ACN), at least 13 Catholic priests were kidnapped in Nigeria in 2024, with one of them killed. By March 2025, the Diocese of Kafanchan confirmed that five priests and two religious sisters had been abducted, and one priest, Fr. Sylvester Okechukwu, was murdered by his captors (ACN International, March 2025). In July 2025, armed attackers stormed the Immaculate Conception Minor Seminary in Edo State, killed a security guard, and kidnapped three seminarians (Vatican News, July 2025). Catholic News Agency reports that over the last decade, nearly 150 priests have been abducted in Nigeria, with at least 11 of them killed (CNA, 2025).
These tragedies are not isolated incidents. They are woven into the larger fabric of Nigeria’s national insecurity. From 2015 to 2025, Nigeria has been a country where violent groups flourish amid weak state institutions, corruption, and declining trust in government. Kidnapping has turned into a profitable industry: from July 2023 to June 2024 alone, there were 7,568 abductions in 1,130 incidents across Nigeria, with demands for ransoms nearing $7 million (Crux, September 2025). Priests, pastors, and religious sisters have become prime targets because they are seen as community pillars, with parishioners who can be extorted for ransom.
Some analysts insist these attacks are not just crimes of opportunity but acts of religious persecution. In several cases, priests were not merely kidnapped but executed — targeted, it seems, for their faith and their public witness. This argument is strengthened by massacres such as the June 2025 Yelwata attack in north-central Nigeria, where gunmen killed between 100 and 200 people, mostly Christians, displacing thousands (Wikipedia, citing AP, 2025). In this light, the murders of priests like Fr. Eya are not simply about ransom or extortion but about terrorizing Christian communities into silence.
Others oppose the “genocide” label, highlighting Nigeria’s widespread insecurity that affects both Muslims and Christians. In the north, Islamist extremists connected to Boko Haram and ISWAP have killed Muslims who oppose their ideology. In the southeast, separatist militias and criminal gangs kidnap people indiscriminately. The violence is complex: it stems from terrorism, banditry, farmer-herder conflicts, corruption, and weak governance. Some argue that claiming only Christians are persecuted risks oversimplifying Nigeria’s complicated security situation.
Both realities are true. Nigeria faces widespread structural insecurity that affects citizens of all faiths and backgrounds. However, within this chaos, religious leaders are often targeted more frequently due to their symbolic significance. Killing a priest is to wound the heart of a community and to instill fear in places once regarded as safe havens. The deaths of priests like Fr. Matthew Eya and Fr. Sylvester Okechukwu, along with the abduction of religious sisters and seminarians, are not random; they are deliberate attacks on Nigeria’s moral foundation.
What, then, should the Churches’ role be in such a time? First, she must refuse silence. The Nigerian Churches cannot retreat into private grief. They must raise their prophetic voice, naming government failures, condemning impunity, and demanding accountability. This will not make the churches popular with political elites who prefer a docile Church, but it will align them with the crucified Christ, who stood with the oppressed.
Second, the Churches should support their wounded people. Survivors, families of the murdered, and communities living in fear need not only material aid but also spiritual resilience. Public memorials for slain priests should do more than mourn their deaths; they should challenge society’s indifference. In the tradition of martyrs, these lives must become seeds for renewal.
Third, the Churches should invest in protecting their ministers without succumbing to fear. This involves training clergy in basic security awareness, encouraging safer travel practices, and creating rapid response networks. It also means recognising the reality: being ordained does not make one invulnerable. Good driving, careful planning, and risk awareness are as crucial as prayer.
Ultimately, the Churches should focus on building bridges. Nigeria’s wounds are not solely religious but also ethnic, economic, and political. By collaborating with Muslim leaders, civic groups, and international partners, the Churches can promote reconciliation while condemning violence. Their prophetic voice must blend denunciation with dialogue.
For every Fr. Matthew and Fr. Sylvester, for every religious sister and seminarian kidnapped, for Nigerians living in fear, the Churches must rise, defend, and proclaim.”
Theirs is a summons to confront Nigeria’s insecurity with courage, truth, and solidarity. For every Fr. Matthew and Fr. Sylvester, for every religious sister and seminarian kidnapped, for Nigerians living in fear, the Churches must rise, defend, and proclaim.
As it stands, Nigeria faces a crucial choice. Will they continue to see priests, sisters, pastors, and other citizens buried in a never-ending series of horrors? Or will they choose to honour their memory by safeguarding life and fostering peace? The outcome will depend not only on governments and armies but also on the bravery of communities — and the prophetic determination of Churches.
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