Nigeria's kidnapping crisis devastates Borno families through ransom demands and school closures

In Maiduguri, when Musa Abdullahi Wakawa received word that his wife and seven-year-old son had been taken, the initial shock hardened into a practical nightmare: how to gather the money the kidnappers were demanding. He spent days searching for a way forward, confronting a question that has become routine across northeastern Nigeria's Borno State. Families here now sell livestock, take on debt, dispose of property, and drain whatever savings they have accumulated in the desperate arithmetic of ransom.

Laraba Dauda, forty-five, remembers the last words her younger sister spoke to her. On January 13, 2026, her sister was abducted along the Biu–Buratai road. Hours later, a call came through from somewhere in the bush. "Unknown people have kidnapped us," her sister said, her voice breaking. "We don't know where they are taking us. Please just help me with your prayers." The line went dead in tears. Months have passed. Laraba still does not know where her sister is held or whether she is alive. She has called on the government to intensify rescue efforts, saying relatives have now spent more than six months in captivity with no word.

For Anjikwi Hena, his son's disappearance arrived at a moment of hope. The young man had finished his education and was preparing to travel to Maiduguri to find work. His father had encouraged him, prayed for his success. On March 30, 2026, the son vanished into captivity instead. The uncertainty has compounded the grief of a close relationship severed without explanation or timeline for return.

The kidnapping crisis has metastasized beyond individual tragedies into a systematic assault on education itself. In Askira-Uba Local Government Area, only fifty-six of one hundred thirteen primary schools remain open. Before May, seventy-six were functioning. On May 15, suspected rebel fighters attacked the community of Mussa and abducted dozens of children. A register identified forty missing, though government figures later cited about forty-four. Then, on June 29, armed rebels struck the Government Day Secondary School in Lassa during National Examinations Council exams. Some students were recovered quickly, but thirty-six students and one teacher remain unaccounted for. The education authority moved junior secondary students from Mussa to a boarding school in Uba and deployed community vigilantes around school grounds. Soldiers now stand alongside local volunteers in both communities. For parents and teachers already living under the threat of violence, the calculation has become impossible: how to weigh their children's right to education against the risk of another attack.

The Borno crisis is a concentrated expression of a national catastrophe. Amnesty International Nigeria documented at least one thousand one hundred abductions across the country between January and April 2026, with the actual figure likely far higher because many incidents in remote areas go unreported. Victims endure torture, starvation, and sexual violence while families are squeezed for money under conditions of extreme duress. The fear of abduction is pushing children out of school, particularly in rural areas where armed groups operate with relative impunity.

Borno State Commissioner for Information and Internal Security Usman Tar acknowledged the security hotspots—the Biu-Buratai axis, the Biu-Damboa-Sabon Gari area—and described a two-pronged response combining military operations with nonmilitary measures. The state government is providing logistical support and civilian volunteers to armed forces operations. Drones equipped with thermal imaging monitor criminal movement. Officials have visited affected families to offer condolences and financial assistance through state emergency management and humanitarian agencies. Tar framed the crisis as a multinational problem rooted in poverty, unemployment, and illiteracy, requiring solutions beyond weapons alone.

Security analyst Professor Khalifa Dikwa offered a bleaker assessment. Kidnapping for ransom has "metamorphosed into a profit-making venture," he said, with armed groups competing for territory and resources. Ransom payments sustain criminal networks, finance weapons purchases, and attract younger recruits. The cycle is vicious: communities already struggling with poverty are forced to finance the groups terrorizing them. A family may sell everything to free one relative, only to face another demand when someone else is taken. Dikwa called for stronger intelligence and technology-driven operations to locate armed groups and disrupt ransom money flows, alongside modern weapons, night-vision equipment, and improved welfare for security personnel on the front lines.

Musa waits for his wife and son. Laraba waits for her sister. Hena waits for the son who was preparing to leave home. In Askira-Uba, twenty primary schools have closed since the Mussa attack, and dozens of children remain unaccounted for. During their final phone call, Laraba's sister told her: "This is my last communication." The line went silent. It has remained silent ever since.