By Ebuka Ukoh
Here’s the columnist’s look at the hidden psychological toll kidnapping takes on survivors in Nigeria, and why rescue must be followed by comprehensive mental health support. The columnist argues that true recovery requires institutional accountability and systemic reform—not just individual resilience.
Twenty young Nigerians were recently rescued from captivity. For seven days, they were held by kidnappers while travelling to fulfil what their country calls national service.
On October 1, the very day Nigeria celebrated 66 years of independence, these prospective National Youth Service Corps members were abducted along the Owerri-Onitsha Road in Imo State. On October 7, they were freed. The country breathed a collective sigh of relief. Photographs, official statements, and expressions of gratitude followed, along with thanks to the security agencies.
Twenty young people had returned alive. But as I watched the news, a critical question remained: They have been rescued. But have they been healed?
Every October 10, the world observes World Mental Health Day, reminding us to rest, set boundaries, and seek support. But for millions of Nigerians navigating insecurity, economic hardship, and grief, mental well-being cannot be reduced to deep breathing exercises. Often, the threat to our peace is not internal; it is happening all around us.
Freedom comes without safety?
Imagine preparing for mandatory national service, proud of your education, and stepping out to begin a new chapter of life—only for your journey to turn into a nightmare. For seven days, your freedom is stripped away. Somewhere out there, your family lives in terror, waiting for a single phone call.
Then, you are free. But physical release does not automatically erase psychological trauma. Survivors may face persistent nightmares, anxiety, hypervigilance, or a lingering sense of danger. Trauma follows no uniform script, and we must never presume to diagnose private experiences.
This is precisely why structured support is non-negotiable. The gate of captivity may open in one day, but the journey back to feeling safe takes considerably longer. These survivors deserve confidential psychological assessments, access to trauma-informed care, and the space to recover without being pressured to perform gratitude before media cameras. Their families deserve equal care, as kidnapping inflicts deep wounds on entire households.
Survival as a national personality
Nigerians are extraordinarily resilient. We praise the parent stretching an inadequate salary, the entrepreneur generating their own infrastructure, and the family that somehow recovers after a tragedy. But we must ask what happens when resilience becomes an excuse for suffering left unaddressed.
Resilience is admirable, but it should never replace responsible governance. A nation should not be satisfied merely because its citizens have learned to endure conditions that ought to have been prevented. Nor should we assume that because someone continues working, smiling, or caring for others, they are emotionally well.
Often, the person called “strong” is simply the one who hasn’t yet been allowed to rest.
A nation’s mental health
When discussing mental health, we typically focus on individual coping strategies. While vital, mental health is deeply tied to our social environment. A child repeatedly hearing gunshots, a parent whose child was abducted, or a worker crushed by economic instability carries sustained psychological pressure.
Nigeria’s mental health conversation must therefore extend beyond hospitals into policies on security, education, employment, housing, and social protection. We cannot demand that citizens manage their anxiety while ignoring the systemic conditions producing it. A society that takes mental health seriously must value individual coping strategies and functional institutions.
Accountability beyond the cameras
The release of the 20 corps members exposes critical gaps in how the nation responds to victims of violence. What happens after the photographs? Who checks on these individuals or their families two months later?
Disagreements over the circumstances of their release—such as security authorities citing coordinated operations versus families reporting ransom payments—deserve transparent examination. Crucially, independent reviews and mandated post-rescue psychological protocols should be standard practice.
The survivors’ recovery must not become collateral damage in institutional credit wars. Grounded in this year’s World Mental Health Day theme, “Lived experiences heard: real voices, real change,” we must listen to survivors not to appear compassionate, but to improve institutional protection and respect their right to privacy.
Care for the caregivers
We must also remember those who carry others’ pain: social workers, counsellors, nurses, teachers, emergency responders, and community volunteers. This work is deeply demanding. Reasonable workloads, adequate staffing, structured rest, and mental health support are not luxuries; they are essential to sustaining care. A society that depends on caregivers must learn to care for them in return.
For everyone navigating daily pressures, small acts of self-care—setting boundaries, resting, and asking for help—matter. They are not replacements for professional care, but tools to sustain us while we demand a society that actively protects us.
Recovery and rescue belong together
To the 20 young Nigerians recently freed, and to countless families whose suffering never makes national headlines: your pain matters. You should not have to become a headline to receive support, nor should you be forced to recover on someone else’s timetable.
To our government and institutions: let mental health become an integral part of our response to insecurity, not an afterthought. To employers and community leaders: make room for compassion without sacrificing accountability.
Being alive is worth celebrating, but survival should not be the highest standard of well-being we offer our people. Let us build a Nigeria where people are not merely rescued, but supported in rebuilding their lives—where bringing someone home is only the beginning of our responsibility to help them feel safe there again.
*Ukoh, a PhD student and coauthor of Built By The Ancestors, writes from his base in New York, the United States.