Paying for life: The painful paradox of ransom in Nigeria’s insecurity crisis

By Manifest Eja

In today’s Nigeria, conversations about insecurity are no longer abstract policy debates—they are lived realities. Across communities, from urban centers to rural settlements, the threat of kidnapping has woven itself into daily life. Families go to bed uncertain. Travelers move with caution. Parents say silent prayers each time their children step out. It is within this climate of fear that a troubling question continues to surface: Is it wisdom to pay ransom?

At first glance, the question appears straightforward, inviting a binary answer. But in truth, it is anything but simple. It is layered with emotion, shaped by personal loss, and complicated by a system that too often leaves citizens to fend for themselves.

To understand the dilemma, one must begin with the human reality behind it. When a loved one is abducted, theory gives way to instinct. No parent, sibling, or friend pauses to weigh national security strategies or long-term societal consequences. The immediate concern is survival—getting that person back alive. In such moments, the idea of “wisdom” becomes secondary. What takes center stage is desperation, fueled by love and fear.

For many Nigerian families, paying ransom is not a calculated endorsement of crime; it is a reluctant surrender to circumstances beyond their control. It is the price placed on hope—the hope that a voice will be heard again, that a life will not be cut short. And in a country where delays in response can mean the difference between life and death, waiting for official intervention often feels like a gamble too risky to take.

Yet, beyond these deeply personal decisions lies a broader and more troubling reality. The consistent payment of ransom has inadvertently become a lifeline for criminal enterprises. Kidnapping has evolved into a lucrative industry, sustained by the very payments meant to end individual suffering. Each successful ransom reinforces the system, emboldens perpetrators, and signals that the cycle can continue profitably.

This is the painful paradox Nigerians are forced to live with: the act that saves one life today may endanger another tomorrow.

It is important, however, to resist the temptation to shift blame onto victims and their families. Doing so ignores the structural failures that create these desperate choices in the first place. Citizens are not meant to negotiate with criminals for their safety. The responsibility for protection lies squarely with the state, and where that responsibility is not effectively carried out, the consequences ripple across society.

From an advocacy standpoint—particularly when considering vulnerable populations such as persons with disabilities—the stakes are even higher. These groups often face increased risks during crises, with limited access to support systems and fewer resources to respond to emergencies. For them, the impact of insecurity is not just heightened; it is compounded by existing inequalities.

The conversation, therefore, must move beyond the narrow question of whether paying ransom is wise. It must confront the deeper issues that make such decisions inevitable.

There is an urgent need to strengthen Nigeria’s security architecture—not just in presence, but in effectiveness. Intelligence gathering must be proactive rather than reactive. Response mechanisms must be swift, coordinated, and reliable. Communities need to feel not just protected, but prioritized.

Equally critical is the establishment of robust support systems for victims and their families. Beyond the immediate crisis, the psychological, financial, and emotional toll of kidnapping lingers. Survivors and their loved ones often carry these burdens alone, navigating trauma without structured assistance.

At the root of the crisis, socioeconomic factors cannot be ignored. Poverty, unemployment, and lack of opportunity continue to create fertile ground for crime. Addressing these underlying issues is not a quick fix, but it is an essential part of any lasting solution. Without it, efforts to curb kidnapping risk treating symptoms while leaving the disease untouched.

So, is it wisdom to pay ransom?

In the quiet, desperate moments of crisis, many would answer yes—because preserving life feels like the only choice that matters. But from a national perspective, it is a path that cannot lead to lasting safety. It is not a solution, but a survival tactic in a broken system.

Until that system is repaired, Nigerians will remain caught in this moral and emotional bind, forced to choose between immediate survival and long-term consequence.

Ultimately, the true measure of wisdom should not lie in whether citizens pay ransom, but in whether a nation creates conditions where such a decision is never necessary.

And that is the responsibility we must demand—not from victims, but from the structures meant to protect them.