Silent Streams: How Climate Change and Neglect Are Strangling Life in Akpari

By Caroline Ameh

In the early hours before the first rays of sunlight pierce the misty skyline of Akpari, a small rural community nestled along the Ugwu-Okpoga road in Okpokwu Local Government Area of Benue State, 16-year-old Janet clutches a yellow jerrycan as she moves quickly and quietly, navigating the narrow, uneven path that leads to Aile—the spring locals revere and rely on, but which now trickles faintly compared to its once abundant flow.

“I have to wake up very early to get water from the stream,” Janet says, her eyes wide with urgency. “If you delay, there may be no water left, and I can’t go to school without bathing.”

Janet is one of hundreds of girls and women whose lives revolve around the elusive promise of water in Akpari, a promise that seems to fade with every passing year. Aile—known also as okpa—has been the heart of this community for generations. Now, it is disappearing, and with it, the stability of daily life.

Aile once flowed with force and clarity, providing enough water for bathing, washing, drinking, and even swimming. The stream wasn’t just a water source—it was a place of bonding, of growing up, and of sustaining life. But for reasons many still find difficult to grasp, the spring is now a shadow of its former self.

Erina, a mother of four and a local garri processor, remembers better days. “I grew up fetching water from Aile,” she recounts. “We used to swim there. We washed clothes, bathed, even fetched drinking water. It was our everything. Now, the water is drying up.”

In a community with no borehole or functional water infrastructure, this is more than an inconvenience—it is a crisis. Erina, like others in the village, attributes the water scarcity to spiritual causes.

“Some elders say the gods are angry. That our sins are too many. That’s why Aile is drying up,” she adds solemnly.

While some turn to the spiritual for explanations, environmental scientists and policy advocates point to more tangible reasons: climate change, deforestation, and inadequate infrastructure.

Across Okpokwu Local Government and its surrounding communities, climatic patterns are shifting. Rains are no longer predictable. The dry season seems longer and harsher. Temperatures are climbing steadily, and humidity is dropping. Local rivers and streams, once fed reliably by rainfall and underground aquifers, are now struggling to meet the needs of a growing population.

According to recent studies by environmental researchers, Benue State—often referred to as Nigeria’s “food basket”—is facing the dual threat of water scarcity and land degradation. The increased frequency of droughts, combined with human activities like unchecked deforestation and the clearing of land for farming and building, has reduced the area’s water retention capacity.

“This is not just happening in Akpari,” says Mr. Agbo, a schoolteacher. “Other nearby communities like Idogodo, Ugwu and Oklenyi are also experiencing the same thing. Aile is drying up, and so are their streams. We’re all affected.”

The impact of these changes has hit women and children the hardest. In most Nigerian rural communities, the task of fetching water falls primarily on them. As nearby sources dwindle, they are forced to trek farther distances—sometimes several kilometers each day—risking injury, exhaustion, and, alarmingly, exposure to gender-based violence.

The physical burden of water collection is only part of the problem. The social consequences are equally damaging. For girls like Janet, the long morning journeys often mean missing school. Without water to bathe or cook, many simply stay home.

“When there’s no water, you can’t cook, clean, or go to school,” says Paulina a mother of three. “Sometimes we have to wait for it to rain to catch water with buckets and pots. If the rain doesn’t come, we go without.”

Some families have resorted to buying water—a luxury many cannot afford on subsistence farming incomes. A jerrycan of water can cost up to ₦200, a steep price in a region where the average family lives on less than ₦1000 per day.

In Makurdi, the state capital, a few urban households have begun experimenting with greywater recycling—reusing water from showers, laundry, and sinks for flushing toilets and watering gardens. But this practice remains virtually unknown in rural areas like Akpari, where even clean water is scarce, let alone treated wastewater systems.

The belief that water scarcity is a form of divine punishment is deeply embedded in many rural African societies. In Akpari, where traditional spirituality coexists with Christianity, the idea that the gods are angry offers a moral framework to explain a reality that seems otherwise inexplicable.

“It’s easier for people to say it’s the gods,” says Chimdi Ikechukwu, a Corps member serving at the local government area and an environmental activist , who has worked with rural communities across the local government.“But we also need to help them understand that these changes are part of a bigger global problem. Climate change is real, and it’s affecting us now.”

Despite its vulnerability, Benue State remains under-prioritized in terms of climate resilience funding and infrastructure development. Governmental intervention has been sporadic, and most rural communities lack the capacity to implement large-scale adaptation measures.

Experts say the crisis in Akpari is a call to action—for local authorities, for national agencies, and for international partners.

“We need to start with community sensitization. People need to know the science behind what’s happening. That will make them more receptive to solutions”, Chimdi added.

He also advocates for the construction of boreholes, the introduction of water harvesting techniques such as rooftop rainwater collection, and the revival of small-scale irrigation systems using solar-powered pumps.

“There are sustainable, low-cost technologies that can make a huge difference,” she adds. “But it takes political will, funding, and community involvement.”

Organizations such as UNICEF and WaterAid have piloted similar projects in other parts of Nigeria, demonstrating that even small investments in water infrastructure can have massive impacts—improving health, school attendance, and household productivity.

For Janet, however, hope remains grounded in the immediate. “I just want Aile to have more water again,” she says. “So I can bathe and go to school on time.”

In her voice is the quiet determination of a generation growing up amid crisis but still dreaming of a better future. Her path to the stream may still be long and dusty, but her will is clear—and that, perhaps, is the first step toward change.