Tinubu’s Deadly Silence: Christians Kidnapped, Families Left in Fear

Paul Riverbank, 1/22/2026In Kaduna, Nigeria, armed groups abducted over 160 churchgoers, exposing official denial and deep-seated insecurity. The tragedy underscores a pattern of violence and mistrust, leaving families in anguish and prompting urgent questions about Nigeria’s security response and the international community’s role.

Benjamin Hundeyin, a police spokesperson, publicly acknowledged that “subsequent verification from operational units and intelligence sources” had confirmed the attacks did indeed occur. It was a sharp pivot from previous statements, and it left many residents in Kajuru and beyond feeling both vindicated and exasperated.

State legislator Usman Danlami Stingo added critical details in the days that followed. Out of a known tally of 177 kidnapped, 168 remained missing as the dust settled—amongst those taken were parishioners from the Evangelical Church Winning All, a Catholic assembly, and a Cherubim and Seraphim congregation. Stingo’s numbers landed with a heavy thud in a region all too accustomed to such violence.

For local groups, though, the incident was not simply about numbers. The Northern Christian Association of Nigeria expressed open frustration at official skepticism; its leader, Joseph Hayab, maintained that detailed lists of the abducted had been handed over to anyone who asked. “This incident happened. All we want is for the security services to go after them,” Hayab pleaded, echoing a sentiment felt throughout the affected churches.

Grassroots advocacy groups, including the Chikun/Kajuru Active Citizens Congress, took to social media in hopes of stirring officials to action. Yet, global human rights organizations like Amnesty International stepped in, lambasting what they called a “desperate denial” on the part of the authorities. Their statement accused Nigeria’s leaders, including President Bola Tinubu, of lacking any effective plan to counter years of escalating violence at the hands of armed groups.

If this latest tragedy is shocking, it is hardly anomalous. Nigeria’s north and central regions have seen a grim pattern—Christian communities periodically targeted by militants and criminal bands that authorities often link to groups like Boko Haram, Islamic State West Africa Province, and regional Fulani gangs notorious for kidnappings. Ransom is often a motive, but religious undertones are harder to ignore; the government has insisted these crimes are criminal in nature, not religiously motivated, a position many affected residents—and observers—view with skepticism.

The international response, particularly from Washington, signals how deeply these issues resonate beyond Nigeria’s borders. U.S. airstrikes targeting Islamic State-aligned groups in the region marked a significant escalation, with Pentagon officials noting that the operations were coordinated with local authorities. Meanwhile, former officials from the Trump administration publicly urged the Nigerian government to work with international partners to address the growing threat not only to Christians, but to all civilians across the country.

Back in Kaduna, however, families waited in limbo. Some churches, now half-empty, became makeshift gathering places for loved ones, sharing updates and clutching at slivers of hope. Relief was hard to come by. At multiple points during the initial critical hours, attempts to deliver aid or conduct independent verifications were rebuffed by military or police, deepening the sense of abandonment among community members.

Nigeria has long been recognized as a hazardous place for Christians. According to Open Doors, an international watchdog for persecuted Christians, the country has ranked atop its danger list for nearly a decade. Ryan Brown, who heads the group, noted that in their most recent year of tracking, over 3,400 Nigerian Christians lost their lives specifically because of their beliefs—a number that continues to climb with each wave of violence.

Officially, security forces have now ramped up their presence in Kajuru. Police Inspector-General Kayode Egbetokun deployed additional tactical teams, with search and rescue operations ongoing. Authorities have asked citizens to trust verified police statements, cautioning against rumors or sensational headlines.

Yet, on the ground, the aftershocks linger—especially for those left behind. Survivors from the affected churches recount a landscape transformed by loss. Most families have given up on officials for answers; instead, they turn to neighbors, local clergy, and faith for comfort as they wait.

As a journalist who has watched Nigeria wrestle with cycles of violence and fragile trust in its institutions, I’ve seen how international promises can mean little to those whose lives are upended. Direct intervention is debated even now—will American involvement curb the violence or inflame old resentments? Here, that question is anything but theoretical.

Though new security deployments have begun combing the area, the real test is whether these efforts will move beyond promises and finally deliver safety for communities on the edge. Until then, Kaduna’s churches, now emptied of many voices, wait for news—hoping that this latest chapter will not, once again, fade into background tragedy.

Just after dawn on a Sunday in Kaduna, the usual calm was violently disrupted. Without warning, armed assailants swept into three separate churches, homes quickly emptied of worshippers—entire families snatched away before anyone could respond. In the aftermath, word of the abductions spread quickly, but initial reactions from officials only fueled confusion. Police in the area, citing a lack of physical evidence after visiting, were quick to label the reports as mere rumor. But the uncertainty didn’t last long. Days after the denials, law enforcement reversed course, confirming what locals had feared: the abductions were real, and the full scope was only just coming to light.Benjamin Hundeyin, a police spokesperson, publicly acknowledged that “subsequent verification from operational units and intelligence sources” had confirmed the attacks did indeed occur. It was a sharp pivot from previous statements, and it left many residents in Kajuru and beyond feeling both vindicated and exasperated.State legislator Usman Danlami Stingo added critical details in the days that followed. Out of a known tally of 177 kidnapped, 168 remained missing as the dust settled—amongst those taken were parishioners from the Evangelical Church Winning All, a Catholic assembly, and a Cherubim and Seraphim congregation. Stingo’s numbers landed with a heavy thud in a region all too accustomed to such violence.For local groups, though, the incident was not simply about numbers. The Northern Christian Association of Nigeria expressed open frustration at official skepticism; its leader, Joseph Hayab, maintained that detailed lists of the abducted had been handed over to anyone who asked. “This incident happened. All we want is for the security services to go after them,” Hayab pleaded, echoing a sentiment felt throughout the affected churches.Grassroots advocacy groups, including the Chikun/Kajuru Active Citizens Congress, took to social media in hopes of stirring officials to action. Yet, global human rights organizations like Amnesty International stepped in, lambasting what they called a “desperate denial” on the part of the authorities. Their statement accused Nigeria’s leaders, including President Bola Tinubu, of lacking any effective plan to counter years of escalating violence at the hands of armed groups.If this latest tragedy is shocking, it is hardly anomalous. Nigeria’s north and central regions have seen a grim pattern—Christian communities periodically targeted by militants and criminal bands that authorities often link to groups like Boko Haram, Islamic State West Africa Province, and regional Fulani gangs notorious for kidnappings. Ransom is often a motive, but religious undertones are harder to ignore; the government has insisted these crimes are criminal in nature, not religiously motivated, a position many affected residents—and observers—view with skepticism.The international response, particularly from Washington, signals how deeply these issues resonate beyond Nigeria’s borders. U.S. airstrikes targeting Islamic State-aligned groups in the region marked a significant escalation, with Pentagon officials noting that the operations were coordinated with local authorities. Meanwhile, former officials from the Trump administration publicly urged the Nigerian government to work with international partners to address the growing threat not only to Christians, but to all civilians across the country.Back in Kaduna, however, families waited in limbo. Some churches, now half-empty, became makeshift gathering places for loved ones, sharing updates and clutching at slivers of hope. Relief was hard to come by. At multiple points during the initial critical hours, attempts to deliver aid or conduct independent verifications were rebuffed by military or police, deepening the sense of abandonment among community members.Nigeria has long been recognized as a hazardous place for Christians. According to Open Doors, an international watchdog for persecuted Christians, the country has ranked atop its danger list for nearly a decade. Ryan Brown, who heads the group, noted that in their most recent year of tracking, over 3,400 Nigerian Christians lost their lives specifically because of their beliefs—a number that continues to climb with each wave of violence.Officially, security forces have now ramped up their presence in Kajuru. Police Inspector-General Kayode Egbetokun deployed additional tactical teams, with search and rescue operations ongoing. Authorities have asked citizens to trust verified police statements, cautioning against rumors or sensational headlines.Yet, on the ground, the aftershocks linger—especially for those left behind. Survivors from the affected churches recount a landscape transformed by loss. Most families have given up on officials for answers; instead, they turn to neighbors, local clergy, and faith for comfort as they wait.As a journalist who has watched Nigeria wrestle with cycles of violence and fragile trust in its institutions, I’ve seen how international promises can mean little to those whose lives are upended. Direct intervention is debated even now—will American involvement curb the violence or inflame old resentments? Here, that question is anything but theoretical.Though new security deployments have begun combing the area, the real test is whether these efforts will move beyond promises and finally deliver safety for communities on the edge. Until then, Kaduna’s churches, now emptied of many voices, wait for news—hoping that this latest chapter will not, once again, fade into background tragedy.