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How kidnapping has become Nigeria’s economic war 16 Jun 2026

In the first week of February, armed bandits invaded the rural communities of Kutaho and Kugir in Kaduna State. Under the cover of darkness, they fired sporadically, forced residents from their homes, and abducted 32 villagers, including women, children, and a heavily pregnant woman. The kidnappers later issued a demand: N30 million and four motorcycles. By March, the community had sold its farm produce and personal belongings, but the money remained incomplete. The bandits threatened to start killing their captives. 

Fifteen days later, on 22 March, gunmen attacked the Evangelical Church Winning All in Omugo, Kwara State. Eight worshippers, many of them elderly, were dragged away during a Sunday service. The abductors initially demanded N1 billion, later reducing the figure to N150 million, still far beyond the means of the affected families. Residents of Omugo reported that this was the third attack on their community in six months. Many have since fled their homes. 

A month earlier, a coordinated assault on three churches in Kurmin Wali village, Kaduna State, resulted in the abduction of at least 166 worshippers. Across Northern Nigeria, Amnesty International has documented no fewer than 1,100 people kidnapped between January and April 2026, with victims drawn predominantly from rural communities and internally displaced persons’ camps. The organisation described the situation as a “deepening abduction crisis”. The police have disputed the figure, but the pattern is unmistakable. Kidnapping is no longer an occasional criminal enterprise. It has now become an industrial-scale operation, a parallel economy driven by human desperation and state paralysis.

What about the payments? The most high-profile involves the alleged government payment in 2026 regarding the November 2025 abduction of 230 pupils and staff from St. Mary's Catholic Boarding School in Papiri, Niger State. In February, AFP published a detailed investigation citing intelligence sources alleging that the government paid a huge ransom, estimated at $7 million (approximately N2 billion), to secure the children's release. According to the report, the money was transported by helicopter to Boko Haram's Gwoza enclave in Borno State and handed over to a local commander, with two militant commanders also freed as part of the deal. The federal government denied, with Information Minister Mohammed Idris describing the allegations as “completely false and baseless, a disservice to the professionalism and integrity of the security forces.” 

The government insisted that the rescue was the result of professional intelligence and operational precision, executed without casualties. Yet, as the BBC noted, the denial did little to settle the debate. Since the 2014 Chibok abduction, Nigeria has seen a surge in mass abductions, and analysts widely agree that ransom payments have helped fuel what is now a structured, profit-driven kidnap industry. 

This case perfectly illustrates the government's bind: whether or not it paid, its denials are met with public scepticism, and the operational reality of mass hostage rescue is nearly impossible to hide completely. The official position that the state will not negotiate with criminals is openly contradicted by the observable fact that hundreds of abducted citizens are regularly returned alive. The government cannot have it both ways, and the public, tragically, has learned to believe the evidence of its own eyes over ministerial statements.

While government payments make national headlines, it is families who bear the daily, devastating cost of Nigeria's ransom economy. On 24 January, gunmen stormed Erinmope-Ekiti in Moba LGA of Ekiti State and abducted five women, including a nursing mother and an expectant mother. The kidnappers initially demanded N100 million. Desperate relatives managed to raise N10 million and took it to the abductors in a bid to secure the women's freedom. Instead of releasing the captives, the kidnappers detained the two ransom bearers, increasing the number of hostages to seven. After 11 days of gruelling negotiation, the family paid a total of N25 million. Six of the seven captives were released, but one woman, Hawau Suleiman, died in captivity. 

A freed victim, Muhammad Soliu, recounted their ordeal: they were tied together like goats, forced to trek barefoot through thick forests for days without adequate food or water. Suleiman became too weak to continue, collapsed, and was left to die as the abductors threatened to kill anyone who stopped. The survivors were eventually released in Kwara and Kogi States, but Suleiman's remains have never been recovered for a proper burial. 

This case is not rare. In another incident in Ogun State, a family paid a N500,000 ransom for a 16-year-old girl, Adegbaaju Florence, abducted on 8 April. The suspects collected the money and then killed the teenager, dumping her body in a river. A 30-year-old suspect was later arrested, but the family's loss is permanent. These stories are the hidden ledger of Nigeria's kidnap economy: millions of naira extracted from families who can least afford it, often with fatal consequences. And they represent only the payments that are reported.

The mechanics of the ransom economy are by now well understood. Kidnappers identify targets, conduct surveillance, strike when vulnerability is highest, and then negotiate with a combination of violence and deadlines. The sums involved are relatively small by international standards, a few thousand dollars per victim, but significant enough in local terms to transform the lives of those at the bottom of the criminal chain. For a young man in a rural community with no economic prospects, a single successful abduction can yield more than a decade's worth of legitimate earnings. 

The state's response has been reactive: after each incident, security forces deploy, investigations are announced, and officials express deep sadness. But the pattern remains unchanged. No senior officer has been held accountable, no systemic reform has been implemented, and no independent inquiry has been permitted. Meanwhile, kidnappers have learned that the state's willingness to acquiesce is predictable. 

The damage extends far beyond the immediate trauma of victims and their families. Kidnapping acts as a direct tax on households and commerce. Ransom payments destroy productive assets and depress future output. Businesses in affected regions face rising costs for private security, logistics disruptions, and employee flight. Foreign direct investment, never robust, has all but stalled. No multinational board approves a capital expenditure in a country where its staff can be abducted and held for months. 

The World Bank has calculated that insecurity-related disruptions cost Nigeria billions of dollars annually. However, the true figure is impossible to quantify as many payments go unreported. Rural economies are collapsing under the weight of fear. In Kutaho, once known for ginger farming, residents now cultivate only small plots of maize, groundnut and millet, unwilling to risk venturing further from their homes. The economic life of entire communities has been curtailed while national agricultural output declines. 

The rise of the kidnapping industry has also distorted local governance. In many rural areas, bandits now operate as parallel authorities, imposing taxes on farmers and businesses with an efficiency the state cannot match. The police, underfunded and often complicit, are unable to protect citizens, and the military is stretched too thin across multiple theatres of conflict. The result is a vacuum that criminal actors are rushing to fill.

The 2027 general elections are now less than a year away. If history is any guide, the coming months will see a marked escalation in kidnappings. Political actors have long weaponised insecurity, using armed groups to disrupt opposition campaigns, displace voters, and create atmospheres of fear that suppress turnout. The 2019 and 2023 elections both witnessed surges in abductions targeting political opponents, community leaders, and ordinary citizens in contested areas. Security experts have warned that without urgent intervention, the 2027 elections could be severely compromised. 

Already-high voter apathy is set to worsen. In regions where banditry has rendered entire communities uninhabitable, the very act of casting a ballot may become impossible. The federal government has yet to demonstrate any capacity to secure polling stations or protect voters. 

The government faces a stark choice. It can continue its current approach: reactive deployments, token investigations, and regular payment of ransoms. Or it can acknowledge that the kidnapping industry is now a structural feature of Nigeria's economy and an existential threat to its democracy. 

The latter would require hard reforms: professionalising the police, ending the culture of impunity that shields corrupt officials and their collaborators, and offering young Nigerians a credible alternative to the ransom economy. Until that happens, every village raid, every church attack and every highway abduction will be yet another transaction in a booming market. 

The state will remain not a protector, but a passive payer, watching its citizens reduced to negotiable assets. The campaign season will only accelerate the violence, and the votes of thousands may be silenced not at the ballot box, but in the bush camps where they are held for prices they cannot afford.

Cheta Nwanze is a partner at SBM Intelligence.