Reported by: Ijeoma G | Edited by: Henry Owen
In the troubled expanse of Nigeria’s northwest, the brutality of kidnapping has evolved beyond isolated incidents of crime into a grim economy of fear, bargaining and loss. In communities long familiar with insecurity, abductions have become a recurring trauma — one that forces families to liquidate homes, sell livestock and forfeit far-reaching aspirations, all for the fragile hope of seeing a loved one alive again. Yet even when ransom demands are met and sacrifices exhausted, the return of captives is never a guarantee — and the cost often remains immeasurable.
Nowhere is this more tragically clear than in the recent ordeal of a bride abducted from Chacho village in Wurno Local Government Area of Sokoto State alongside her wedding entourage. For nearly seven weeks, her family endured a crucible of fear and desperation that has become all too common across the region. They sold livestock, parceled out farmland, parted with household belongings and borrowed funds they had little prospect of repaying. Mothers fainted amid negotiations. Fathers aged before the eyes of neighbours. Relatives trekked long distances, navigating threats, deceptions and emotional upheaval in pursuit of ransom intermediaries.
Ultimately, ₦10 million, three motorcycles and other valuables were handed over to secure the release of some of the abducted victims. But behind the relief of those who returned lies the deeper pain of those who did not. Some captives are still missing; others are feared dead, a stark reminder that payment does not ensure survival — only the faintest hope.
This visceral sorrow was echoed yet again with the funeral prayer of Malam Zainu AB Mada in Zamfara State. He was abducted along the Kwatarkwashi–Mada highway, and despite his family meeting ransom demands — including ₦2 million, two mobile phones and ₦70,000 in airtime — he was mercilessly killed by his captors. His death sharply underlines a disturbing and recurring pattern: captives are executed even after ransom conditions are satisfied, turning the very act meant to spare life into a painful prelude to loss.
Across Sokoto, Zamfara, Katsina and neighbouring states, this grim calculus is manifest daily. Families are pushed into poverty; communities are stripped of their assets and resilience; highways become hunting grounds; villages are left hollowed by fear. What once was an extraordinary act of violence has metastasized into a semi-organized economy where ransom payments bolster the operational capacity of bandits — funding weapons, mobility and the expansion of their networks.
The emotional toll, though less quantifiable, is equally devastating. Survivors return physically free but psychologically broken. Families mourn loved ones they paid to save but could not. Children grow up watching their parents’ dignity erode in desperate attempts to protect life. Societies once bound by routine rhythms are now suspended in fear, each rumour of gunfire or distant rumble sparking anxiety rooted in too many lived losses.
These painful experiences force a crucial, uncomfortable question: If ransom payments do not guarantee release — and in some cases only invite further bloodshed — what purpose do they truly serve? More critically, should paying ransom continue to be encouraged?
In communities where the state’s protective reach remains weak and insecurity pervades daily life, paying ransom often feels like the only option left between hope and horror. Families faced with the immediate threat of losing a loved one grasp at any lifeline, no matter how costly. But the evidence emerging from repeated kidnappings reveals a harsh truth: ransom payments, beyond momentary relief, strengthen the very structures that sustain kidnapping rings. By funding bandits, these payments inadvertently contribute to the cycle of violence, making future kidnappings more likely and victims more numerous.
Many security analysts, local leaders and affected residents argue that ending ransom payments must become part of the solution — not as a failure of compassion, but as a strategic pivot away from a system that rewards brutality. The logic is stark: if the economic incentives for kidnapping dry up, the practice itself becomes less attractive to criminal groups. Removing the financial reward does not leave victims to fend for themselves; rather, it shifts the burden back to state security apparatuses, intelligence operations and coordinated rescue efforts.
This approach acknowledges something the current reality often obscures: kidnapping is not merely a security failure, but a symptom of persistent governance, economic and social fragilities. Strengthening rescue operations, improving intelligence gathering, expanding community protection frameworks and bolstering victim support structures — these are integral to breaking the cycle. Such efforts require trust, investment and sustained commitment from authorities at all levels, as well as collaboration with international partners and civil society.
There is no magic formula to end the tragedy of kidnapping, nor is there a timeline that communities can cling to with certainty. But one thing is clear: continuing to pay ransoms in the hopes of securing release reinforces a system that preys on pain. Until communities, authorities and policymakers confront this truth — and work collectively to build security, resilience and justice — the cycle will endure. In the quiet moments after funerals, and the long nights spent waiting for news, people know all too well that no amount of money can ever truly replace a lost life.
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