"We held several peace talks with these bandits and even gave them money for protection not too long ago. We contributed money during the first meeting, but they came back a second time demanding more."
The dust in Ungwar Maga settles on everything. It coats the leaves of the guinea corn, the mud-brick walls of the huts, and the resigned faces of men gathered in the shade, speaking in low tones. But the dust does not settle debts; debts accumulated by residents who paid the money to bandits as ransom for their kidnapped relatives.
For Danlami Shehu, the dust has settled in his throat, leaving his voice worn -- like soil overworked for generations. He is a man who measures his life in planting seasons, in rainfall, in the community God has given him. Now, he measures his life in ransom payments.
"We are trying to sell our farmlands," he said on 26 October, when this reporter met him in Dayi, a village in the Malumfashi Local Government Area of Katsina State. The conversation was about his 23-year-old nephew, Joshua James, who returned home three days earlier, 18 days after he had been kidnapped. Although Mr James was back home, he did not feel free. No one in his family felt free, as freedom now has a new, suffocating price in Katsina's rural communities.
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"We are selling our farms to repay the money we borrowed from different people," Mr Shehu said.
In rural Katsina, land is not a simple asset. It is the ledger of the dwellers' lives. Inherited from their parents, it is the only true wealth families possess. It is the collateral for their children's futures. It is their identity, tilled into the soil and prayed over. And now, it is the only thing the Jameses have left to burn.
Mr James was abducted on 5 October. After 18 days in captivity, he returned home broken, and his family is still chained to the money it borrowed to secure his release.
"Some kind neighbours also supported us with small donations," his uncle, Mr Shehu, explained. The community, itself bled dry, had given what little it had. But kindness doesn't pay interest.
"We have nothing except the farmlands. We're waiting for the harvest to end so that we can sell the produce."
The word "harvest," usually a promise, now sounds like a deadline. The lenders are not faceless bankers; they are neighbours, friends, and local traders who are also struggling.
"Some of those who lent us money are already putting us under pressure to pay back," Mr Shehu said. "We've begged them to be patient. But after selling everything to repay debts, what shall we live on?"
The question hung in the dry, 3 p.m. air -- the same air that carried the dreaded sound three weeks earlier.
The family was already living in the shadow of fear. They had learned to watch the road, to listen for the sound of an approaching motorcycle. So when the bandits came for James, it was not a random act. It was the arrival of an appointment that had been looming over his family for years.
"We held several peace talks with these bandits and even gave them money for protection not too long ago," Mr Shehu said. "We contributed money during the first meeting, but they came back a second time demanding more."
The community has two polling units and about 1,000 people. All the adults were taxed. "Sometimes, we contribute ₦10,000 each as a protection levy. Approximately 300 to 400 people were able to pay. What we contribute depends on what they demand. Sometimes we pay ₦3,000 or ₦4,000 each."
The abduction
The family's latest ordeal began around 3 p.m. on 5 October in Unguwar Maga, Malumfashi. It was a bright sunny day, and he was sitting in a field near the family's hut, his eyes on his phone.
When he heard the brrrap-brrrap-brrrap sound of an approaching motorcycle, he didn't look up immediately.
"I thought it was someone from our area," he recounted to the reporter in Dayi, his voice still holding the echo of that costly miscalculation.
But the sound didn't fade. It grew, then split. When he looked up, they were on him.
"They encircled me. Five men, three of them well-armed."
Mr James's first instinct was to hide his phone.
"I thought they were the bandits our community signed a peace deal with," he said. "Those ones only come around to seize our phones."
This time it was a different kind of visit. "They demanded my phone. I gave it to them," he said.
Then, they searched his pockets and found ₦1,150. They took ₦1,000 and then barked their orders.
"They asked me to follow them. They made me climb onto one of the motorcycles and immediately tied a cloth over my face."
The call
Back in the compound, panic spread like wildfire. Mr James's mother, Hajara James, and his uncles called his phone repeatedly. It rang out unanswered.
As dusk fell, the family's frantic calls continued to light up his phone, now in a bandit's pocket. When the bandits eventually called back, it was to make their ransom demand: ₦2 million immediately, or he would be taken deep into the forest, and the ransom would increase.
For the family in Unguwar Maga, ₦2 million was an impossible sum -- a number with no connection to their reality.
The bandits were not patient.
At 6 p.m., they covered his face again.
"I pleaded for mercy. But they said my people were to blame for not bringing the ₦2 million," he recalled.
The cruelty market
As Mr James was taken deeper into the forest, his family was drowning in a different kind of darkness. The abduction of a fifth family member triggered a chaotic, desperate scramble.
"Three different groups of bandits extorted money from us," Mrs James, Joshua James's mother, told PREMIUM TIMES, her voice trembling.
"Whenever we gave money to one group, another would call, insisting they were the ones holding Joshua."
The first payment -- ₦350,000 -- went to "negotiators," men who had brokered the original, failed peace accord. They took the money and promised his release. However, nothing happened.
Through the forest
"We fell several times from the bike during the journey," Mr James recalled. After a while, one of the bandits stopped to relieve himself. When he returned, he pointed at Mr James.
"He asked if I could ride a motorcycle. I said yes, but not very well. He insisted I must ride, pointing his gun at my back and threatening to shoot me if we fell again."
Then they came to a river.
"It had rained heavily that day," Mr James said. "The water reached my chest and was flowing strongly."
One of the bandits riding a new motorcycle went first, plunging into the water.
After crossing, the bike refused to start. The bandits, now soaked, dropped their guns on the bank and attempted to restart the engine. It was useless.
Mr James later learned the motorcycles were ransomed from relatives of people they had abducted earlier.
"They asked me to roll it while they rode behind me. Eventually, we reached a village and entered a compound where we met an old woman. They flashed a torchlight at her to confirm whether she was young or old. When they saw she was elderly, they asked her to get a mechanic and told her to hurry up.
"They lit a fire and invited me to sit by it. They offered me bread, but I declined politely. Then one of them asked, 'Are you a Christian?'
"I said yes."
The bandit scoffed. "He said my people were rich, but still go from church to church looking for more money. I told him we aren't rich and don't have much money.
"He replied, 'No problem. When we get there, you'll see others we've abducted -- nearly 30 of them."'
The mechanic came and fixed the bike.
"They gave the woman ₦500," Mr James said -- a tip for her silence and service.
"We arrived at their hideout at midnight, a rock outcrop deep in the forest.
"There, I saw the other victims in chains -- 23 of them, all warming themselves by a fire after being beaten by the rain.
"When we arrived, they flashed their light at the captives, asking if anyone knew me. They said no. They also shone the light on me and asked if I knew any of them. I said no.
"Then they chained one of my legs like they did to the others."
Life beneath the rock
This became Mr James's home for the next 18 days -- a patch of bare earth where they "stayed under the sun and rain." Close to the camp were two villages, Yar Centre and Tsamiya.
"We couldn't attempt to escape because their presence was everywhere," he said. "Even communities that had peace deals with them would expose anyone who tried to escape."
"Those communities had peace deals with the bandits because they were overwhelmed and couldn't resist them. That's why the bandits could do whatever they liked around them.
"The area falls under Kankara Local Government, and I also heard that the forest links Niger State with Kankara.
"Each captive has a specific boss. Their leader, who handled my case, they called him Nasiru," he told PREMIUM TIMES.
Living on Gaza leaves
Daily life in the camp was defined by hunger and fear. The captives slept in the open, "under the sun and rain." Their food was garin tuwo dawa (guinea corn flour), ground but not sieved. "They fed us with it twice daily.
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"When I arrived, it had finished, so for two days there was no food. In such times, the captives survived by eating the leaves of a wild tree, known as Gaza leaves. Sometimes we ate Dinya or Tafasa leaves when we could find them."
"We experienced this especially when they went for operations. They could be gone for three days." Mr James disclosed.
Left to guard the captives were a lad of about 15 years and a young man. "These two never joined operations."
The beating
After about a week, the negotiations stalled. The bandits wanted a Honda motorcycle in addition to the cash ransom. Mr James's family, already scammed, begged for mercy.
The family eventually sent the motorcycle, which had been bought for ₦1.17 million, but pleaded for mercy regarding the ₦2 million cash demand. That made "Oga Nasiru" angry.
"One day, they called my family, gave me the phone, and started beating me with sticks as I spoke, threatening to break my bones. That was how I sustained these injuries and dislocations," he said, pointing to his knee.
"They beat him and injured him deliberately to make us realise that he was in danger," interjected Mr Shehu. "His kneecap was affected; some of the wounds had to be stitched."
The family finally paid the ₦2 million cash demand. But the extortion was not over.
"They asked for two Android phones worth ₦150,000 each," Mr Shehu said.
Freedom, but not free
"Those who saw him when he returned knew he had gone through hell," Mr Shehu recalled. "He couldn't walk. Wherever he needed to go, we had to carry him -- even to the toilet."
After Mr James's return, the family decided to flee Unguwar Maga.
"We had to run away because they were haunting us daily," Mrs James said. "We scattered into different communities just to find peace.
"They were monitoring the days we attended church. We had to suspend church service. People advised us to leave."
In the week following this interview with the James family, the reporter was informed that bandits had returned to impose a ₦1 million levy on the James household in Unguwar Maga. The money was a levy for the bandits, allowing the family to harvest their farm produce.
