The triad of insecurity (1): How kidnapping became Nigeria’s problem…

There is a particular silence that follows a kidnapping. It is not the absence of sound, but the absence of certainty. Phones stay charged. Families stop sleeping. Each unknown number becomes both hope and terror. In that silence, the Nigerian citizen is reduced to a negotiable commodity, awaiting not justice, but a price.

In the final part of last week’s The Sunday Stew, I promised that today we would take a deep dive into the paradox of living in the shadow of self-inflicted disasters. As I pondered what approach to take, my mind returned to the world-renowned scholar Ali Mazrui.

In 1986, Mazrui – then a towering figure at the University of Jos and Binghamton – released his seminal documentary, The Africans: A Triple Heritage. Mazrui argued that African identity was the product of three interconnected legacies: indigenous, Islamic, and Western.

Nigeria, however, seems marked by a much more dangerous convergence of forces.
We are currently overshadowed by what I call The Insecurity Triad: a three-headed monster of kidnapping, banditry and terrorism that threatens to dismantle the very legacy celebrated by Mazrui. Let’s start today with the kidnapping, what I have chosen to call the “ransom economy”.

From global origins to Nigerian evolution

Kidnapping is not a Nigerian invention. Historically, it has evolved from sporadic opportunism to structured enterprise. In 19th-century United States kidnappings were mostly local or motivated by personal revenge. However, the kidnapping of Charles Lindbergh Jr. in 1932 marked a global turning point, demonstrating the potential for nationwide redemption and prompting U.S. federal kidnapping law.

Today, the most pressing parallels are found in the “narco-states” of Latin America. In Mexico, cartels use “express kidnappings” to drain bank accounts and kidnap migrants en masse to extort money from their families.

In Colombia, what began as a tool of political “taxation” by groups like the FARC eventually became an outsourced criminal market. Whether it’s a drug lord in Michoacán or a bandit leader in the Kuyambana forest, the logic is identical: kidnapping is the “risk capital” or cash that finances larger insurgencies.

Nigeria’s journey has followed a similar, if accelerated, trajectory. Before 2000, accidents were sporadic. In the early 2000s, the Niger Delta became the first laboratory for industrial-scale kidnapping.

It is essential to note that the genesis of this trend was rooted in resentment rather than simple greed. At the time, targeting oil workers was a violent form of protest against multinational oil companies accused of systemic environmental degradation and total neglect of oil communities. What began as a desperate cry for control of resources, however, soon changed. The Niger Delta “claims model” provided the blueprint for the “profit model” we see nationwide today, as criminal networks realized that human freedom was the most liquid asset they could trade.

The human face of the ransom economy

Behind the statistics there are real people, real traumas and real negotiations.
In 2021, a friend of Sundiata Post, Mrs. Elsie Iloelunachi, a businesswoman, traveled from Abuja to Onitsha to purchase goods. On his return journey, somewhere in Kogi State, his vehicle was impounded. While some passengers managed to escape, she wasn’t so lucky. She was taken to the forest and held for a few days.

By her account, she survived in part because she could communicate in her captors’ language. She pleaded. He negotiated. Eventually, the kidnappers sent an account number to her husband. He collected the money and transferred it.

When he later came to my office to talk about his experience, the psychological price he paid was unmistakable. She was visibly shaken, emotionally and mentally scarred, yet still considered herself lucky. She returned alive, without physical injury or harassment: the “best outcome” in a system where survival is increasingly uncertain.

In another case, a former president of the Rotary Club of Abuja CBD traveled to Lagos on official duty. While traveling back to Abuja, his vehicle was impounded in Ondo State. What followed was panic, not only within his family, but throughout the Rotary community. The club and district rallied. Funds have been raised. The networks have been activated. For weeks, uncertainty loomed until he regained his freedom.

There is also a growing pattern of attacks on schools and religious institutions, spaces once considered sanctuaries. One particularly harrowing case involved St. Mary’s Catholic Primary and Secondary School in Papiri, Niger State, on November 21, 2025. Gunmen abducted 315 people, including kindergarten pupils as young as five years old. The parents received intermittent, terrifying calls from the kidnappers, alternating between threats and negotiations. Some students fled into the surrounding forest, while others were released in organized groups over the following month. Families, like that of Dauda Chekula, 62, who lost four grandchildren, have endured unimaginable trauma, without any immediate support from the government.

Another alarming example occurred in Sokoto, where a cleric and his students were kidnapped during a nighttime raid. The cleric negotiated tirelessly to secure the children’s release, demonstrating the terrifying human calculus that families now face in a system where trust in protection is fragile.

The redemption economy has moved from the lonely highway to the family table. The abduction of the Al-Kadriyar sisters in Bwari, FCT, in early 2024, remains a scar on the national psyche. The subsequent killing of a daughter, Nabeehah, to “speed up” payment demonstrated that even the seat of power in Abuja was no longer a fortress. From coordinated street-level raids in Katampe to the surgical kidnapping of contract professionals in Port Harcourt, kidnappers have armed the doorstep.

The systematic attack on the clergy represents a war on the soul of the nation. In the last year alone, at least 17 Catholic priests have been kidnapped. The kidnappers demanded a total of ₦460 million, of which around ₦70 million was confirmed to have been paid by parishioners and desperate families. The case of p. Mikah Suleiman in Sokoto and the heroic sacrifice of Fr. Thomas Oyode in Edo – who reportedly traded his freedom for that of his students – illustrates that for the kidnapper the Church is not a house of God, but a guaranteed source of crowdfunded trading.

These stories are not isolated. They are fragments of a larger system, which has turned fear into currency and human beings into collateral.

Why kidnapping is “attractive”

We must ask ourselves: why is Nigeria a global anomaly in this threat? The answer lies in the collapse of the legitimate economy. When a state is unable to provide sustainable means of income, the “buyback economy” fills the void. For a young person living in a marginalized rural community or an urban slum, the return on investment (ROI) of a kidnapping far outweighs years of manual labor.

However, we cannot ignore the role of greed. The industry has attracted “investors” – whistleblowers, logistics providers and even rogue elements within formal structures – who see kidnapping as a high-reward, low-risk business. This combination of economic desperation and predatory greed turned a crime into a career.

The ransom economy in numbers

To understand the financial scale of this crisis, we look at data provided by SBM Intelligence for the period from July 2024 to June 2025. During this period, the total ransom demanded by criminal networks reached a staggering ₦48 billion (approximately $31 million), reflecting a high-volume strategy. Of this, ₦2.57 billion (about $1.66 million) was paid – a 144% year-on-year increase in actual payments.

These funds were extracted from 4,722 victims in 997 reported incidents. The most chilling thing is the fatality rate: 762 deaths were recorded, which means that almost one person died for every reported accident. This reveals a “naira-dollar trap”; as the naira devalues, kidnappers become more aggressive, demanding higher sums simply to maintain their purchasing power for weapons and black market logistics.

Why Nigeria?

How can a country with so much promise and capability be reduced to a state where it cannot protect its citizens? The answer lies in our “ungoverned spaces” and a centralized policing structure that has created a dangerous intelligence gap. When the state is physically absent, the criminal becomes the de facto ruler.

Ali Mazrui’s Triple Legacy was about synthesizing culture to build a future. Our Triad of Insecurity is about the collision of forces that destroy it. To protect its citizens, Nigeria must reoccupy its land. We have to:
•Decentralize intelligence
•Close ungoverned spaces
•Bankrupt the Triad

Every kidnapping is a withdrawal from the fragile national trust bank. If we do not act decisively, the ransom economy will continue to fund even more destructive forces.

Join me next week for Part II, where we will examine the rural siege of banditry.

Not to be missed

Trust that it is sacred. Stay seasoned

■ Max Amuchie, CEO of Sundiata Post, writes The Sunday Stew, a weekly column on faith, character and the forces shaping society, with a focus on Nigeria and Africa in a global context.

X – @MaxAmuchie | E-mail: [email protected] | Tel: +234(0)8053069436.

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