By Lillian Okenwa
Every kidnapping leaves behind more victims than those taken into captivity. Long after the news crews leave and public attention shifts elsewhere, parents, spouses, siblings, teachers and entire communities continue living with invisible wounds.
A father answered a telephone call and heard every parent’s worst nightmare.
His 23-year-old daughter had been kidnapped while travelling. During her captivity, she was reportedly subjected to repeated sexual violence. When her captors finally allowed her to speak with her father, she did not ask him to raise money. She did not plead to be rescued.
Instead, she reportedly told him not to bother.
The shame, the violations and the trauma had become too much for her to bear. As her father desperately pleaded with her over the phone, a gunshot rang out. Moments later, the kidnappers reportedly sent him images confirming his worst fears.
The nation recoiled in horror. Many expressed outrage. Social media erupted. Then, as usually happens in Nigeria, attention shifted. But somewhere today, that father is still living with that moment. Somewhere, he is still hearing that gunshot. Somewhere, he is still asking himself whether there was anything more he could have done.
That is the thing about trauma. It does not end when the news cycle moves on.
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A few days earlier, another Nigerian family found itself trapped in a different kind of nightmare. Their 25-year-old daughter was kidnapped along the Abuja-Kogi Road. The kidnappers demanded millions of naira. They threatened to kill her if the family contacted authorities.
For weeks, relatives waited anxiously for phone calls. They negotiated. They borrowed. They reached out to family members and friends. They lived from one frightening call to another.
By the time she regained her freedom after weeks of captivity, reports indicated that she had endured starvation, abuse, repeated movement across multiple locations and unimaginable psychological trauma.
Yet her ordeal was not hers alone. Her family had been held captive too. Not in a forest. Not behind armed guards. But inside a prison of fear, uncertainty and helplessness.
When kidnappers seize one person, they rarely take only one victim. They take a father who cannot sleep. A mother who jumps whenever the telephone rings. Siblings who stop laughing. Friends who spend their days raising ransom money. Neighbours who become fearful of every unfamiliar face. Entire communities whose sense of safety is shattered.
These are the people we forget when the headlines fade.
In recent weeks, much of the nation’s attention has focused on the abduction of pupils, teachers and residents in Oriire Local Government Area of Oyo State. We have read the reports. We have seen the photographs. We have watched the appeals.
We have heard the cries of parents, grandparents and spouses waiting desperately for news. Among them is an elderly grandmother whose four grandchildren and daughter-in-law were reportedly taken away during the attack. There is also the husband of an abducted teacher who publicly pleaded with the kidnappers to take him instead and release his wife and infant child.
There is the woman from the Republic of Benin who came to Nigeria seeking a better future for her children, only to find herself begging for help after her daughter was abducted.
For these families, every passing day brings a fresh battle against despair. Every incoming call creates hope. Every rumour sparks expectation. Every evening ends with unanswered questions.
And while the nation discusses rescue operations, deployments and official visits, families continue to endure something far less visible but equally devastating: the psychological torture of not knowing.
Mental health experts describe this as ambiguous loss. It occurs when a loved one is physically absent but psychologically present. There is no closure. No certainty. No clear path through grief. The wound remains open.
Yet Oyo is only one chapter in a much larger national story.
In Borno State, families in Mussa community in Askira Uba Local Government Area are also waiting for abducted children.
In Ngoshe, relatives of hundreds of women and children reportedly taken by insurgents continue to live with uncertainty. Across communities in Niger, Kaduna, Zamfara, Katsina, Kwara and elsewhere, countless families wake each morning carrying the same burden.
The details may differ. The pain does not.
A mother waiting in Askira Uba understands the anguish of a grandmother in Oriire. A father in Ngoshe understands the desperation of parents negotiating ransom demands elsewhere.
Fear does not recognise ethnicity. Trauma does not recognise religion. Grief has no geopolitical zone. One of the least understood consequences of Nigeria’s insecurity crisis is the scale of secondary trauma it creates.
When we talk about victims, we often mean those who were kidnapped, attacked, displaced or injured. But every act of violence creates a much larger circle of suffering.
There are teachers who survive school attacks and must somehow return to classrooms filled with memories they cannot erase. There are journalists who repeatedly listen to stories of loss and brutality, carrying images and voices that remain with them long after the assignment ends.
There are security personnel and first responders who confront human suffering daily and are expected to move on to the next operation without pause.
There are neighbours who witnessed attacks. Classmates who watched friends disappear. Children who escaped while others did not. Entire communities that no longer feel safe.
Research consistently shows that relatives of kidnapping victims often experience severe anxiety, depression, prolonged stress and symptoms associated with post-traumatic stress disorder. Many struggle with sleep. Some become physically ill. Others find themselves trapped in cycles of fear and helplessness.
The trauma is often intensified by ransom negotiations, threats from abductors and the circulation of videos showing loved ones in distress. For some families, the suffering continues even after a victim returns home. Freedom does not automatically erase trauma. Neither does rescue. Neither does survival. Long after the physical ordeal ends, emotional wounds often remain.
Perhaps this is one of the greatest costs of the insecurity consuming our nation. It is not measured only by the number of people kidnapped, killed or displaced. It is measured by the thousands of invisible wounds carried by those left behind.
A nation cannot truly heal if it only counts the people who were taken. It must also see those who remain. The father haunted by a final phone call. The husband waiting for news of his wife. The grandmother praying for the return of her grandchildren. The teacher who no longer feels safe in the classroom. The child who survived and cannot understand why others did not.
Long after the cameras leave and public attention shifts elsewhere, these people remain. They wait in Oriire. They wait in Askira Uba. They wait in Ngoshe.
They wait in villages, towns and cities that may never trend on social media or attract television cameras.
They wait beside silent telephones.
They wait through sleepless nights.
They wait through rumours and prayers.
And as they wait, they remind us of a truth we often forget: every act of violence creates far more victims than those who are taken away.
Perhaps the more troubling question is not how we rescue those already in captivity, but how we prevent new families from joining this growing fellowship of grief. The answer will not come from helicopters alone, nor from press statements, condolence visits or promises made in moments of public outrage.
It will come when Nigeria decides that security is more than a political slogan. It will come when intelligence is stronger than the criminals, when forests and highways are no longer surrendered to armed gangs, when communities become genuine partners in protecting themselves, when justice is swift and certain, and when every child’s journey to school or traveller’s journey home is no longer an act of faith. Until then, the circle of trauma will continue to widen, drawing more families into a pain they never chose.
The people we forget when the headlines fade are still here. Carrying wounds the rest of us can no longer see.
A lawyer and equity advocate, Lillian can be reached at [email protected]
