My Best Friend Rescued Me From Kidnappers, Then Became Their Next Hostage 

Trigger warning: Violence

Friendship is easy when nothing is at stake. For Enoch (29), it took a kidnapping to discover just how far his best friend, Mohamed (32), was willing to go. 

He shares how Mohamed volunteered to deliver the ransom that would set him free from a kidnapper’s den, and how that ordeal bound them together as brothers for life. 

If I’d gone clubbing with my friends that Saturday in May, I probably wouldn’t have been kidnapped. 

Instead, I stayed home because I wanted an early night.

Around 10. p.m, my mum shook me awake, a trembling in her voice as she whispered that armed men had surrounded the house. I was still half asleep and thought I was dreaming until I heard gunshots. 

We started screaming for help, hoping the vigilantes nearby would hear us, but nobody did. As the men smashed the walls to force their way in, we hurried my younger brother and nephew into the ceiling.

Seconds later, they broke in. One of them asked if I was the maigida (man of the house). When I said yes, they tied my hands and dragged me away while my mum begged. 

I kept asking what I’d done and where they were taking me, but nobody answered. They marched me out of my community in Byazhin on the outskirts of Kubwa through thick bushes for hours. At some point, they blindfolded me, and I completely lost my sense of direction. Eventually, we climbed a mountain and reached a camp hidden among rocks, where they pushed me into a small enclosure.

Another captive was already there. He’d dislocated his shoulder trying to fight them off. He screamed in pain until a young man they called Jboy* arrived with someone to treat him.

The moment Jboy noticed I was watching him, he ordered the others to cover my eyes. Then he started describing my mum. He knew she sold foodstuffs in the Market. I couldn’t place his voice, but he clearly knew my family. Then, almost immediately, he said, “Don’t worry, you’ll return home safely if your family pay.” 

***

That first night in captivity was scary. The injured man begged for water, and the kidnappers listened. They scooped rainwater into a rusted tin and handed it to him. When he refused to drink it, they beat him until he did.

After watching that, I couldn’t bring myself to touch the food or water they offered. They warned that if I refused to eat, they wouldn’t contact my family. 

By the third day, I gave in to the hunger pangs. Only then did they ask how much my family could pay for my release.

I told them we didn’t have money and could only afford ₦200,000. I even lied that I was still a student,  hoping they’d see me as someone who wasn’t worth much.

Jboy didn’t believe me. He said he knew I owned a car. Then they beat me before dragging me outside to call my mum.

They demanded ₦50 million. My mum screamed and said she’d never even seen ₦20 million before. But they barely understood English, so they thought she’d admitted to having the money. Once she dropped off the call, they descended on me, thinking I’d deceived them. I blacked out afterwards.

When I woke the next morning, the right side of my forehead was badly swollen. The other captive told me he thought I was dead. He’d even urinated on himself because he was too scared to move.

He urged me to ask my family to find someone who spoke fluent Hausa to negotiate with the kidnappers. “Another misunderstanding like that could get you killed,”  he added.

The days that followed were long. By then, I’d lost every sense of time. We were hurled up inside a cave, depending only on the sounds that drifted up the mountain for proof of life. School children singing the national anthem, farmers calling to one another as they went about their day, and our captors going and coming. 

***

The next time the kidnappers called, my family handed the phone to my closest friend, Mohamed. 

Mohamed wasn’t just any friend. We’d known each other for over a decade after my family moved to Byazhin. As a child, I was quiet and kept to myself, but Mohamed, who lived around the corner, wouldn’t let me stay that way. He’d knock on our door, drag me outside to meet the other children and make sure I never felt left out. If anyone tried to bully me, he was always the first to step in.

Even after many of our friends moved away over the years, we remained inseparable. We spent most of our free time at each other’s houses and if my family couldn’t find me, they knew to check Mohamed’s place first. So while I was held in captivity, it comforted me to know he was with my family. Without hesitation, Mohamed took over the negotiations.

For days, he pleaded and negotiated with them until they reduced the ransom from  ₦50 million to ₦10 million. Even then, it was still a lot of money to raise on short notice.

My car and other valuable items were sold, but they only managed ₦4 million. The kidnappers accepted it on the condition that I’d pay the balance later.

On the sixth day, they told me I’d be released once someone delivered the ransom to a village in Zaria, Kaduna State.

I didn’t know it then, but nobody wanted to make the trip, except Mohamed. After days of negotiating with the kidnappers, he’d convinced himself they could be trusted. So he volunteered to deliver the ransom.

That night was the first time we had moved since I was kidnapped. I was blindfolded, yet I could tell they’d placed me on a motorcycle. We rode for what felt like hours before they dumped me on a lonely road. 

With the blindfold yanked off my eyes, I wandered until I reached what looked like a Fulani settlement. For a second, I wondered if I’d walked into another trap.

Then, almost immediately, I heard Davido’s music. It was the only recognisable proof of life in that moment, and I followed it. In the hut where the music was playing, I met a young Fulani man, who listened to my story, took me in and lent me his phone.

  When it finally occurred to me to ask where I was, he said I was still within Abuja, around Suleja.

It felt good to have a hint of clarity about my immediate surroundings. Then, without further hesitation, I dialled my mum’s number on the phone. Her voice carried a sliver of relief, but she also sounded worried.

It felt good to have a hint of clarity about my immediate surroundings. Then, without further hesitation, I dialled my mum’s number on the phone. Her voice carried a sliver of relief, but she also sounded worried.

“Mohamed isn’t home yet,” she said.

That wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but still, I wasn’t too worried. I assumed he was still making the long journey back.

The next day, I finally got home. Everyone celebrated my return, but Mohamed was still missing. As the hours passed, our relief slowly turned into panic, and we immediately swung into action. 

We retraced his journey until we found the driver who’d taken him to the rendezvous point in Zaria. He had the answers to all our questions. Mohamed had handed over the ransom and followed them to where he thought I was. The driver said he warned him not to follow them too far, but Mohamed did anyway. He’d assumed he was coming to rescue me. That was the last we heard of him. 

On hearing the driver’s account, I assumed Mohamed was taken to demand more money from us.  Then,  four days after my release, another group called. They said Mohamed had been sold to them and demanded ₦50 million. They hung up before we could ask more questions.  

***