kidnapping

Pierre Choderlos de Laclos, the author of “Dangerous Liaisons,” is often credited with “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” Given our aggrieved times, it’s not surprising how many of this year’s new mysteries explore revenge, but these four recent releases are especially notable.

Author Jose Ando

(Yuka Fujisawa)

Jackson Alone
By Jose Ando
Soho Press; 160 pages; $29

While English translations of Japanese crime novels have increased in the last 20 years, most still focus on a culturally homogeneous, straight, Japanese society. Now comes Jose Ando’s “Jackson Alone,” published in Japan in 2022 and translated into English by Kalau Almony, which centers on a mysterious African Japanese massage therapist whose life is upended after his clients and colleagues at a fictional sports conglomerate discover a violent revenge porn featuring someone who looks like him. Despite having no memory of the incident, Jackson joins three other outraged, queer men like him in switching identities to seek out and confront their abusers, who can’t seem to tell them apart.

As the quartet’s scheme plays out, this slim novel becomes less a revenge thriller and more a satiric unmasking of Japanese racism and homophobia which spurs “the four Jacksons” to claim their right to exist authentically without the judgment and stereotyping of the hetero, “pure Japanese” gaze. This bold debut earned “Jackson Alone” wide praise and Japan’s Bungei Prize, awarded to first-time novelists, and makes Ando, now in his early 30s, a writer to watch. (The author’s answers to the following questions were translated by Almony.)

Why was it important for you to tell the stories of queer African Japanese men in your novel?

The primary reason was that those characters never really showed up in Japanese literature, and even when they did, they’d be reshaped into something that was easily digestible for the majority. Before I became an author, I would get irritated whenever I encountered that sort of representation. I wrote “Jackson Alone” to submit to a competition for new writers. In my head, it felt like Jackson and the other characters were there the whole time hollering, “Hurry up and get us out there!”

While there are some frank sex scenes in the novel, what shocked me was how dehumanizing encounters with many “pure Japanese” were for Jackson and his friends. Why were those scenes important to the story?

Living as a minority, you often get questions along the lines of, “What kind of painful things have you experienced?” Right? When you’re asked something like that, don’t you always want to shoot back, “Before you ask me about my experience, why don’t you tell me what you’ve done?” Victimization doesn’t just happen because a person from a minority group is standing around, there’s almost always a perpetrator. The different kinds of dehumanization I wrote about in this book are based on the sorts of things I experience almost every day.

Your novel reminded me of classic American crime fiction like James M. Cain’s “The Postman Always Rings Twice,” or more recent, revenge-themed novels like Alison Gaylin’s “The Collective” or S.A. Cosby’s “Razorblade Tears.” What fiction do you find inspiring?

In terms of novels I’ve read, there’s “Out” by Natsuo Kirino and the works of Mieko Kawakami. My direct inspiration though comes mostly from my own life.

Author Caroline Glenn

(William Morrow)

Cruelty Free
By Caroline Glenn
William Morrow; 320 pages; $30

In Glenn’s fiction debut, Lila Devlin, once one of the most famous actresses on the planet, returns to Los Angeles 10 years after the kidnapping and death of her daughter, Josie. The kidnapping caused a media frenzy, which precipitated Devlin’s meme-worthy downward spiral and the end of her marriage to a rising young Hollywood actor. After an “Eat Pray Love” retreat from the spotlight, Devlin is back with Glob, a line of ethical skincare products with a higher purpose: “A way for Josie to live on by applying the principles of self-actualization and inner peace that she learned in India. She wanted to help people heal just as she had.”

But Hollywood has a short memory and most of the people who benefited from Devlin’s meteoric rise and the kidnapping can’t be bothered to help her now. After a meeting with one of them goes horribly wrong, Devlin and her publicist Sylvie, another a victim of Hollywood’s censure, find revenge offers a unique albeit gruesome ingredient for Glob’s products. Although the novel’s flashbacks seem to digress at times, it all clicks into place once Lila starts exacting her increasingly unhinged revenge. “Cruelty-Free” is an edgy journey with razor-sharp observations about fame and revenge. Readers will be looking forward to what comes next for this talented creator.

What inspired your novel?

I love Sondheim’s “Sweeney Todd.” So much. And the core of that story, a man falsely imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit and eventually driving him insane, is unfortunately pretty evergreen. Other inspirations: the Lindbergh baby, how much I hate true crime media, NYC publicist Lizzie Grubman, cash grab celebrity beauty brands, rich white women going on “Eat Pray Love” trips to Asia, the city of Los Angeles (go Dodgers).

Lila Devlin makes a journey from being a grieving mother to being a villain. How do you keep the reader’s sympathies?

I don’t think the reader’s sympathies are supposed to necessarily stay with Lila. The core of this book, stripping away the weird digressions, is about how society makes monsters. Lila’s career, her body, her entire life was consumed by the world until she was left with nothing, and now she’s holding a mirror back up to it. You can understand where she’s coming from, but after a certain point … she’s gonna hit diminishing returns.

In your thinking, is revenge ever justified?

The point isn’t whether or not it’s justified. It’s whether or not it’ll make you feel better. And it can’t, it’s hollow. Nothing will ever undo the original sin, and devoting your life to ruining someone else’s is a loss for both of you.

Author Leodora Darlington

(YellowBelly Photo)

The Exes
By Leodora Darlington
William Morrow; 384 pages; $29

This UK fiction editor’s debut centers on Natalie, driven into therapy to get to the root of her blackouts and the murderous impulses toward former boyfriends they may be hiding. But then Natalie meets “the one” — James, her boyishly handsome boss at a London start-up — and becomes even more terrified that the monster inside her may strike again.

In carefully interwoven flashbacks and letters to her exes, readers learn why: Natalie’s disastrous dating histories — and the deaths of her abusive boyfriends — are detailed as well as her early relationship with James and the family trauma she and her younger sister suffered at the hands of a father who they saw abuse, and almost kill, their mother.

But, empathy aside, does any amount of family or romantic trauma justify revenge, even murder? By the time Darlington builds her case for and against Natalie, James and the other characters in this tightly drawn circle, readers will be taken through a number of sometimes shocking reveals that suggest that the family ties that bind can also cut off opportunities for forgiveness. Darlington has crafted a dark, edgy thriller whose engaging protagonist and intriguing psychological insights linger in the mind long after the memory of that last, jaw-dropping twist fades away.

What inspired your novel?
“The Exes” began with a title that just popped into my head: “To All the Boys I Killed Before.” I adore the romance genre — I’m a huge fan of tropes, from enemies-to-lovers to fake dating. But that love for romance exists alongside a growing frustration with the rollback of women’s rights globally. That convergence of feelings made me wonder: What kind of girl would write letters to former flames, not out of love, but out of despair?

For much of the novel, readers can’t be sure whether Natalie has murdered her exes in a fit of rage or if something else is at play. How did you draw on this uncertainty to build the reader’s sympathies for the character?

What felt important in drawing readers close to Natalie was letting them see through a window into her past and why she is the way she is. Understanding her as a vulnerable child or anxious teen feels crucial to making sure we’re invested in all of the twists that slam through the second half of the novel. I really do think a great twist requires deep character empathy as much as it does clever plotting.

In your thinking, is revenge ever justified?
Yes. Ha! Well, in all seriousness, quite a few characters in this story are pursuing their own revenge plots. I do think it is possible to justify revenge to a jury, but never to oneself. Not in a soul-deep way. The pursuit of revenge takes a spiritual tax on a person that can sometimes cost more than they’ve bargained for, and we see the unraveling effects of that in “The Exes.”

Author W. M. Akers

(Gianna Smorto)

To Kill a Cook
By W.M. Akers
G.P. Putnam’s Sons; 384 pages; $30

After so much revenge, W.M. Akers has just the palate cleanser in “To Kill a Cook”, a homage to 1970s Manhattan and its fine dining temples. Bernice Black, a sharp-tongued restaurant critic for the Sentinel, a struggling newspaper, is meeting chef Laurent Tirel, her culinary mentor and friend, at his restaurant to plan her fiancé’s birthday party. But Tirel, once lauded as “King of the Butter Boys,” is struggling too. Caviar and truffle prices are skyrocketing, forcing Tirel to cut corners while clinging to his restaurant’s former glory. When Bernie finds the restaurant empty and a veal stock reduced to the consistency of “cold blood,” she thinks Tirel is making an aspic for the party. Instead, she finds Tirel’s head in the refrigerator, suspended in the aspic along with the decorative veggies.

Thus begins an intense romp through New York’s finest restaurants when Bernice — who realizes the NYPD doesn’t know their aspics from a hole in the ground — decides to get the scoop of the decade by finding Tirel’s killer herself. Akers nails 1970s New York’s glitz and grime as Bernie interviews an assortment of renowned chefs, fellow critics, criminals as well as Tirel’s business associates and son, Henri, who also happens to be an old flame. But the pièce de résistance of this delectable mystery is Bernice herself — a bold, brash feminist who’s trying to figure out her sexuality while being honest with the ones she loves. Here’s Bernice replying to an NYPD detective’s accusation that she’s not a lady: “I guess that was supposed to hurt my feelings, but I quit trying to be ladylike sometime around the first grade.” “To Kill a Cook” is a decadent treat, with enough loose ends in Bernice Black’s life and career to leave readers hungry for more.

Why did you decide to set your novel in 1970s Manhattan?

1972 was a key turning point in the history of American fine dining. It’s the moment when old-school French — think white tablecloths, heavy sauces and snooty maitre’d’s — faded into the background, allowing nouvelle cuisine and what we now call New American to take its place. It’s also a moment when exceptional, modern cooking would share a menu with “parsleyed ham in aspic” or something else that today’s diners would consider repulsive. That tension between old and new, and the question of what fine dining would become, drives a lot of the conflict in the book.

How did you research the restaurants you describe so well in the book? Did any of those chefs/restaurateurs inspire Laurent Tirel, the murder victim?

I have a big pile of old cookbooks that inspired a lot of the specific dishes in the book, but the best resource was the New York magazine archives, particularly Gael Greene’s old columns. Bernice Black’s name is a little nod to Greene. And Tirel is very much inspired by Henri Soulé, whose Le Pavillon was the definitive New York restaurant for a generation, and whom Greene wrote about beautifully.

Bernice spends a lot of time trying to perfect a Charlotte Russe for her fiancé. Why that particular dish?

The Charlotte Russe is a specialty of my mother, a former caterer who helped run New York’s Hard Rock Café in the ’70s. It’s the kind of lavish, creamy, boozy party dessert that you don’t see often anymore, and it’s involved enough to offer Bernice a challenge. Julia Child’s got a good recipe in “Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” but I relied on my mom’s recipe, which readers can find on my Patreon, and which my mom once cooked for Jacques Pépin!

Woods is a book critic, editor and author of several anthologies and crime novels.

Audu Danbaba is in his fifties but trudges like someone in his eighties. He walks carefully, sometimes raising his hands as if they were scales calibrating his body’s equilibrium. 

As he emerged from his house on Feb. 25, he moved with visible effort –  his feet swollen –  counting each step as if needles were being pressed into the soles of his feet. With a laboured exhale, he eased himself down onto a mat that faced his home. The house, made of mud bricks, is located in Nassarawa village, Gwarzo Local Government Area (LGA), in Kano State, northwestern Nigeria.

Audu cannot remember the exact date when the armed kidnappers pulled him from his house, but he does know that it happened roughly two months ago, maybe a little longer. “I spent about 40 days with them, and now I’m in my fourth week since I was released,” he told HumAngle.

Audu’s ordeal is a window into a calculated and expanding kidnapping economy that has quietly taken root in the Gwarzo LGA. Kidnapping in Kano is fuelled by informant networks, strengthened by a porous border with Katsina State, and maintained by a ransom cycle that is systematically draining the little resources left in the poorest communities of the northwestern region.

Late at night, he was lying down when he heard screaming. The attackers had already entered his home and were beating both of his wives and children. He rushed outside and asked what was happening. They told him directly that they had come for him. To protect his family, he surrendered.

“Here is where they tied my hands and started beating me with the butt of a gun on my legs,” Audu recalled, gesturing toward the spots he said still ache. “Then they pushed me forward, beating me and shoving me until we had walked a long distance through farmland and crossed a road.”

Audu could not recall how long they had trekked with him because he was barely conscious as they dragged him. His sense of measurement also appears faulty, as he confuses miles and kilometres several times while narrating his story.

And so they kept pushing him. 

“It was on the road that I noticed security operatives on patrol, as though they had received a tip and were following us. I tried to lift my head, and they struck me with the rifle butt and pinned me down. I couldn’t speak. We stayed like that until the patrol passed, then they pulled me up and kept beating me as we walked,” he added. 

What Audu described, the systematic beating of victims after abduction, has emerged as one of the most disturbing features of the kidnapping crisis in northern Nigeria. After reaching the forest, he said he was tied alongside another man who had also been abducted. The torture continued with such ferocity that the other man died a week after he was abducted. 

“After his death, his corpse lay there with me for two days before they took him away,” he said. 

Different clips showing how abducted victims are tortured by their abductors have recently been circulated online. One footage featured a member of the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) being tortured repeatedly by his abductors while pleading for help. In another widely shared video, three women were shown being struck as the abductors pressured them to urge their families to pay a ransom.

Another harrowing case is the testimony of a man published by a local media outlet in Zamfara, Maibiredi TV. The man narrated that his abductors burned one of his hands using molten rubber during ransom negotiations to force his family to speed up payment. Only two of his fingers remain. 

What is happening in Gwarzo?

At least five Local Government Areas (LGAs) in Kano share borders with neighbouring Katsina State, namely Rogo, Tsanyawa, Shanono, Gwarzo, and Ghari (formerly Kunchi). While Tsanyawa and Shanono have suffered the most attacks, Gwarzo is particularly vulnerable. The town’s western and northern borders are adjacent to Katsina’s Malumfashi and Musawa LGAs, which have been heavily impacted by terrorist activities for a long time. 

The dense and ungoverned forests in these regions provide terrorists with continuous cover for their operations. From there, locals say, they flow into Gwarzo.

Locals say that the first recorded case of kidnapping occurred on Dec. 14, 2025, when terrorists on motorcycles attacked the Kururawa community in the Lakwaya district of Gwarzo. They invaded the home of an elderly man known locally as Yakubu Na Tsohuwa and abducted him. His eldest son, Badamasi, was injured while attempting to stop the assailants from taking his father. Within the same week, a second kidnapping incident was reported.

Gwarzo’s security crisis did not start in December 2025. In January 2024, police operatives arrested Isah Lawal, a 33-year-old man from Giwa LGA in Kaduna, during a clearance operation in Karaye LGA along the Kaduna-Kano border. He confessed to fleeing a terrorist camp in Birnin Gwari due to internal gang violence and expressed his intention to establish a new camp in the Gwarzo-Karaye forest. This arrest, which was largely unreported at the time, served as a warning that the authorities did not adequately heed.

The Gwarzo-Karaye forest corridor, straddling Kano’s border LGAs and stretching toward Katsina’s ungoverned zones, had already been identified by displaced armed factions as a viable new territory. 

The December 2025 attacks followed a pattern that exposed how openly these groups now operate. Around 20 armed men were spotted in Danjanku village in Malumfashi LGA, heading toward the Kano axis, according to sources. The attack on Zurum Mahauta in the Gidan Malam Sallau community came at midnight on the same day.

To address the growing threat, the Kano State Government deployed forest guards to monitor the woodland areas around Gwarzo. These guards serve a dual purpose: overseeing the reforestation efforts critical to the state’s climate change response, and functioning as an early-warning layer for security threats emerging from the forest.

Dahir Hashim, the Commissioner for Environment and Climate Change, told HumAngle that the guards were recruited to tackle both challenges simultaneously: “Managing the forests because of their critical role in halting desertification, and providing rapid alerts whenever security threats are detected.”

HumAngle spoke to Abdullahi Hamza, who leads the team managing one of the forests in Mainika, Gwarzo. He is cautiously optimistic about the project, saying: “This initiative by the government has delivered results; at least for now, we have gone many days without a security incident inside Gwarzo, though there may be areas we are not yet aware of.”

There are two forests in Gwarzo. One is known as Dajin Katata, where the forest guard Musa Muhammad previously worked. 

“There were constant criminal incidents in that forest; the fear eventually led the previous government to fell the trees to deny criminals cover,” he told HumAngle. 

Musa was later reassigned closer to home in Mainika. He does not hide his discomfort with that decision. The felling of Dajin Katata, he said, was ecologically damaging — those trees were a bulwark against the advance of the desert. But he has made his peace with the logic behind it. 

“Security comes first,” he said. “You must be alive to breathe the shade of a tree.”

Kidnapping the poor for ransom

Why was Audu a target for abduction in the first place? By every visible measure, even within his own village, Audu is not a wealthy man. His mud-brick house sits among the more neglected on the street, unrepaired and unremarkable. 

He told HumAngle himself that shortly before his abduction, he had tried to sell his farmland out of financial desperation, but the offer he received felt so insulting that he walked away from the deal.

“The land was worth between three and a half and four million naira, but they offered me two and a half million naira. I felt disrespected, so I refused,” he said.

Then came a coincidence that, in hindsight, feels like anything but.

Around the same period, the Kano State government began disbursing outstanding allowances owed to former ward councillors across the state. Audu’s son, Anas, had served as a councillor between 2020 and 2023, which placed him among the beneficiaries. The payment, amounting to roughly ₦6 million, was not made quietly; the state government publicised it widely. Photographs were taken at the government house. Screenshots of bank alerts began circulating on social media, shared by recipients whose names and faces were now attached to a specific, traceable sum.

The publicity became something else entirely.

“Many people had their eyes on that money,” said Mallam Saidu, Audu’s neighbour. “There is a strong suspicion that it was this payment that drew the kidnappers to Danbaba’s house that night.”

Audu suspects the same. He says his captors told him, as they held him, that someone had directed them to him. They did not tell him who.

“They showed me about five people from a distance,” he said. “I could barely lift my head to look, and when I did, I didn’t recognise any of them.”

Later, during ransom negotiations, Audu says he kept hearing one side of a phone conversation — someone telling the kidnappers that they should push his family harder to bring more, insisting they had the money and should produce it.

Across northern Nigeria, kidnapping has evolved from opportunistic crime into a sophisticated industry, and at its operational core lies a network of human intelligence that security agencies have struggled, and often failed, to penetrate or counter.

Kano has witnessed a surge in kidnapping and criminal operations aided by local informants and snitches within the state’s localities. This development seems to have inflated security threats in local communities. Musbahu Shanono, for instance, is originally from Faruruwa in Kano but works in Lagos, in Nigeria’s South West. 

When HumAngle spoke with Musbahu in 2025, he described the creeping anxiety that now accompanies what should be an ordinary homecoming – the fear of informants making him a stranger in his own community.

“Now I only come at night,” he said. “No one should know I’m around. Not even my friends. Not until I’m sure it’s safe.”

According to security authorities across northern Nigeria, kidnappers conduct detailed advance planning before armed teams execute raids at vulnerable hours, overwhelming lightly protected targets and transporting captives deep into remote forest hideouts.

In 2021, the Zamfara State government announced the arrest of more than 2,000 suspected informants. The following year, the state went further to enact legislation prescribing life imprisonment for anyone found to have aided kidnapping operations or other criminal activity in the state.

Yet the problem has not abated. Security authorities across Nigeria acknowledge that informant networks remain one of the most intractable elements of the crisis, embedded in communities, operating in plain sight, and extraordinarily difficult to root out. 

Even Nigeria’s Minister of Defence, then-Chief of Defence Staff, Christopher Musa, admitted publicly in 2024 that informants were being used not only to identify and track targets, but to actively misdirect security forces pursuing terrorists.

“They make the troops go elsewhere, and when they get there, they meet nothing,” Musa said.

The price of coming home

Now Audu is back. But his return has cost his family everything.

“They only released me after we paid ₦8 million and three motorcycles,” he recalled.

The family sold whatever they could find. The farm that he had refused to part with for two and a half million naira, the offer he had walked away from as an insult to his dignity, went for only ₦1.8 million in the end due to desperation. 

“Then we went around asking for help – some people gave us gifts, others gave us loans,” said Anas, his eldest son. Today, after his father’s release, the family is saddled with a debt of approximately ₦4.5 million and has no clear idea where to begin repaying it.

Audu carries the weight in his body as much as in his finances. “Even after I returned, everyone who saw me broke into tears at the state I was in,” he said. “Doctors have examined me and given me medication, but the pain in my body has not stopped.”

His deeper anguish is the problem he cannot solve: how does a man who had nothing rebuild from less than nothing? “We sought help from every direction and found very little,” Anas added. “We are still appealing to the government, even if it is just to help settle the debt, because everything we had was consumed by this ordeal.”

For the remaining residents of Nassarawa and the villages clustered along Gwarzo’s edges, the haunting question is not about debt. It is about prevention and how to protect themselves from the fate that swallowed Audu before the kidnappers come again.