The night they came for Daniel Musa*, the dogs were barking. At about 11:30 pm on May 23, 2023, Musa looked out of a window overlooking the gate of his home in Adamawa State, northeastern Nigeria. The intruders wore all black, like the night. Their faces were uncovered.

Musa, 49, usually left his dogs loose in the compound at night. But the men who had climbed over the fence drove them back into their cage and locked it, clearing a path to the house.

Then they broke the padlock on a smaller gate and moved towards the main door. There, they began trying to force it open with a digger.

Musa, a local pastor, knew they were coming in. Rather than wait for them to break down the door, he opened it himself; he didn’t want any trouble.

He had already told his wife and his then 13-year-old daughter to stay in their bedroom. The men entered his home, pointed a gun at him, and ordered him to sit on the floor.

One went into his bedroom and took money and phones. Another walked to the fridge and helped himself to bread, milk, and water.

Then, at gunpoint, they led Musa out of his home; he did not struggle. He feared that if they did not take him, they might take his wife or daughter instead.

For six hours, Musa walked blindfolded with his captors through bushland, crossing shallow streams until they reached the mountains. There, he heard the familiar voice of his neighbour and discovered he had also been abducted. He would remain in captivity for three days.

By then, negotiations with his relatives over ransom were under way. The kidnappers demanded 15 million naira (about $11,256 at the time) for his release. But after contacting Musa's family members, they switched off their phones. The family could only reach them when the kidnappers chose to make contact, leaving them unable to negotiate a lower ransom.

Musa, whose name has been changed to protect his identity, says he remained blindfolded throughout his captivity. His only drinking water came from a river, and even then, his captors allowed him just a few sips at a time, whenever they chose.

The captives, still blindfolded, were warned by their abductors that if they detected police officers or vigilantes approaching, they would kill their hostages before attempting to escape. At about 4am on Friday, gunfire erupted. For roughly 15 minutes, shots rang out around the camp.

Musa lay on the rocky ground between two other captives, urging them not to move. They could hear voices approaching but had no way of knowing whether they belonged to their abductors or the people trying to rescue them. Were the kidnappers returning? Had the security forces found them? Or were they about to be killed, as their captors had threatened? “We were confused. We didn’t know who was coming, so I told the others not to move,” he said.

The voices told them not to be afraid, as they removed their blindfolds. Several men stood before them; he can’t recall how many, all dressed in olive-green uniforms.

They belonged to Pulaku, a predominantly Fulani vigilante organisation fighting kidnapping and cattle rustling in northeastern Nigeria. Musa had heard of the group, but this was his first encounter with its members.

The kidnappers had fled, leaving behind food, phones and other belongings. Musa recalled that the rescuers also discovered what appeared to be a national identity card belonging to one of the suspects.

The captives then made their way down the mountain with their rescuers before the police took them to headquarters in Yola, the Adamawa State capital. There, Musa was reunited with his wife and daughter. He recalls being filled with joy when he saw them again. He credits Pulaku with making that reunion possible.

“They saved my life,” says Musa. His church would later present Pulaku with an award, recognising its work in the community.

But the group’s growing role in fighting kidnapping has also brought the organisation under scrutiny. While some residents credit its members with saving lives, others accuse them of serious abuses. One man says they held him for more than two months and beat him so badly that he lost consciousness.

The two accounts reveal the uneasy place occupied by armed community vigilantes in a region where formal security forces have struggled to contain kidnapping and cattle rustling.

On a Tuesday afternoon in late September, three Toyota Hilux trucks make their way out of Yola and into the open savanna of northeastern Nigeria.

Inside, about 30 men wear the same olive-green uniforms. Some wear combat boots; others wear rubber shoes. They carry an assortment of weapons: Locally made firearms, machetes, and long wooden sticks more commonly associated with herding cattle.

After about an hour, the convoy reaches an area of scattered trees and sparse woodland. Here, away from the city, the men exit the vehicles and begin drills, moving through the terrain and rehearsing patrol tactics. Several crouch on the reddish, sandy ground, aiming their firearms towards the open area, while others stand and watch.

Among them is Mahmud, who only gave his first name. He is a former cattle herder and farmer in his late 20s. He has closely cropped hair, a faint moustache and a cap pulled over his head. A firearm rests in his hands.

Mahmud is local to Malkohi, Adamawa State, and is one of Pulaku's newer recruits. He has yet to confront kidnappers himself, but speaks confidently about the dangers that may lie ahead. “We are ready to fight day in, day out,” he says.

For men such as Mahmud, the threat of kidnapping and cattle theft is not an abstract security problem.

Across Adamawa and neighbouring Taraba State, analysts say armed groups have preyed on communities for years, abducting residents for ransom and stealing livestock. The mountains and forests that stretch across parts of the region offer places for kidnappers to hide and make it difficult for security forces to reach them.

The scale of the violence is reflected in figures compiled by SBM Intelligence, a Nigerian research and market intelligence firm. Between July 2025 and June 2026, it recorded 21 kidnapping incidents in Adamawa, involving 77 abducted people, and four incidents in Taraba, involving 14 people.

Cattle theft has also taken a heavy toll. A 2024 study published in the University of Jos Journal of Political Science estimated that 134,182 cattle were stolen in Taraba between 1999 and 2022. Over the same period, researchers reported that more than 113,000 stolen cattle were recovered in Adamawa.

For Fulani pastoralists, whose livelihoods have long been tied to livestock, cattle theft can mean losing far more than animals. At an estimated 700,000 naira ($525) per animal, a herd of 50 cattle could be worth about 35 million naira ($26,254) - a substantial investment for a family whose livelihood depends on its animals.

But Fulani communities face another struggle: The association of their ethnic identity with kidnapping, banditry and farmer-herder violence in parts of Nigeria's media. A 2021 study published in African Journalism Studies, which examined 598 articles from three Nigerian newspapers, found that reports sometimes used the terms "herdsmen" and "Fulani herdsmen" interchangeably, while employing labels such as "Fulani terrorists" and "killer Fulani herdsmen".

For Alhaji Bello Ardo, a Fulani community leader in Adamawa State, such portrayals contribute to the suspicion faced by people who have no involvement in crime.

"It's painful to see an entire ethnic group being stereotyped. Every ethnic group has individuals involved in crime, but in our case, people make accusations without confirmation," he says.

"If people are robbed, they say it's Fulani without knowing who the perpetrators are." Ardo points out that Fulani pastoralists are themselves victims of cattle theft and violence. "We are also not safe. Our cattle are being stolen, and we are also being killed," he said.

"People don't understand that not all Fulani are terrorists." According to its leaders, Pulaku began taking shape more than a decade ago, as Fulani community members organised to confront cattle theft and kidnapping.

Mahmud is a former cattle herder who recently joined Pulaku [Abdulaziz Ibrahim/Al Jazeera] Based in Malkohi, Yola South Local Government Area, the organisation was founded by the late Alhaji Abdu Bali; Musa Usman Malkohi, the group's current commander; and other Fulani community leaders as a voluntary response to kidnapping and cattle rustling. Its name invokes a cultural ideal that has long shaped Fulani identity.

Pulaaku, as the concept is commonly written, encompasses values including dignity, patience, self-control, modesty, courage and respect for others.

Professor Abubakar Abba Tahir, a mass communication scholar who holds the traditional title of Kakaki Fombina, is a spokesperson for the Adamawa Emirate, a traditional Fulani institution in northeastern Nigeria.

He explains that pulaaku is not a fixed code but a living tradition, shaped by the experiences of different Fulani communities.

Pulaaku is a living cultural concept whose interpretation has always been influenced by community traditions, social circumstances, historical experiences, and individual understanding," he tells Al Jazeera.

The concept can inspire collective responsibility and community protection, Tahir explains, but it also places importance on restraint and respect for human life.

And there is a distinction between the cultural ideal, and Pulaku, the vigilante organisation that has adopted its name, spelling it with a single "a".

"The mere use of pulaaku in an organisation's name does not, by itself, establish that its activities fully reflect the broader cultural ideal," Tahir says.

Whether an organisation upholds those values, he argues, depends on its conduct, accountability and respect for human rights.

Pulaku's leadership says the organisation now has more than 500 members operating across parts of Adamawa and neighbouring Taraba State. Although predominantly Fulani, its ranks also include members of other ethnic groups, including Verre and Chamba.

Unlike the police or military, Pulaku is not part of Nigeria's formal security establishment.

"The group is not on the government payroll," says its grand commander, Musa Usman Malkohi, an older man with a short grey beard and moustache. He refuses to share his age.

He says members contribute their own resources, with additional support from communities and local authorities. Local government chairmen have provided financial assistance towards running costs, while the Adamawa State government has supported the group with vehicles.

On the side of one of the trucks, a message painted in black reads: "Thank you Governor Ahmadu Umaru Fintiri." It refers to the governor of Adamawa State, who donated the vehicle to Pulaku - a visible sign of the support the volunteer group receives from the state government, despite not being part of Nigeria's formal security forces. Membership is voluntary, and the organisation's leadership decides which members are permitted to carry firearms.

For the police, one of Pulaku's greatest assets is its members' knowledge of the terrain. Many come from communities familiar with the forests and mountains where kidnappers establish hideouts.

But the story of how this volunteer organisation grew into a force of hundreds begins with a man whose own family was touched by the violence the organisation was formed to confront.

Musa Usman Malkohi wears a traditional patterned Zanna Bukar cap and a kaftan. Unlike the men training in front of him, he carries no weapon.

A farmer and cattle breeder, Usman speaks predominantly Fulfulde, the language of the Fulani people, as well as Hausa with a noticeable Fulani accent.

From his position behind the armed men, he watches the exercise unfold. He explains his involvement in the fight against kidnapping is not just a matter of community security; it’s personal. In 2018, gunmen attacked Usman's home and abducted his 24-year-old son.

Usman believes he was the intended target, describing the attack as one of the challenges he faced while fighting what he calls "bad people".

By then, he was already leading Pulaku. The violence he had spent years confronting had reached his own home. For about seven days, Usman worked to secure his son's freedom.

He says members of his own vigilante team eventually rescued the young man without a ransom being paid.

The group's cofounder, Alhaji Abdu Bali, was killed in October 2019 when suspected kidnappers attacked his residence in Lakare, Yola. Local news reports said four people were killed and another injured in the attack. By then, Pulaku was seeking a closer relationship with the state.

Following Ahmadu Umaru Fintiri's election as governor of Adamawa in 2019, the organisation approached the government about working more formally with security agencies. "The government subsequently brought the police and military into discussions with the group," Usman said. The arrangement offered Pulaku access to cooperation with the institutions legally responsible for public security.

For the authorities, it meant gaining assistance from men who knew the remote areas where kidnappers could hide. Yet that cooperation also created a difficult boundary.

Pulaku was a volunteer organisation, not a police force. Its members were expected to apprehend suspected criminals and hand them over to the police for investigation and possible prosecution. They were not authorised to hold suspects in their own custody, conduct interrogations or impose punishment.

But allegations that Pulaku members detained people themselves raised questions about whether they were observing those limits - and who was responsible for enforcing them.

"Pulaku are taking a front line because they know the terrain, the mountainous and the forest areas better than we do," explains Suleiman Yahya Nguroje, spokesperson for the Adamawa State Police Command.

According to Nguroje, the vigilantes provide intelligence, help security forces navigate difficult terrain and participate in joint operations targeting suspected kidnapping networks.

Nguroje says joint operations disrupted four suspected criminal hideouts, including sites around the Bagale Mountains and the Kojoli and Yadim areas of Fufore. Several suspects were arrested, he said, with cases proceeding through the courts.

In February 2024, hunters and vigilantes participated in an operation that freed 40 hostages in neighbouring Taraba State, according to a report by TVC News. Police also attributed a role to Pulaku in the rescue operation around Zing and Yorro.

The police confirmed Pulaku's involvement in the operation that freed Daniel Musa in May 2023. For Nguroje, the cooperation is a practical response to the limitations of conventional policing.

"There's no way we can effectively perform our responsibilities without cooperation, without collaborations from sister security agencies, critical stakeholders and members of the public," he said. But working with the police is not the same as being the police.

Hakeem Abubakar Abba, a Nigerian legal practitioner in Yola, said no specific federal or state law expressly establishes Pulaku as a security force with independent policing powers. "There is no express law that is sanctioning their functions," he told Al Jazeera.

Although the organisation's cooperation with police could fall within broader community-policing arrangements, Abba said its members have no special statutory powers of arrest beyond those available to citizens.

They may apprehend suspects in circumstances permitted by law, but cannot conduct criminal investigations, determine guilt or impose punishment. He also questioned the safeguards governing the organisation's activities.

Abba said he was unaware of any formal written agreement setting out Pulaku's relationship with the Nigeria Police Force. He alleged that members sometimes deal with suspected offenders without referring them to the authorities.

"At times, they settle matters at their own end, which I believe is not within the ambit of the law," he said.

He also said several members had reportedly faced court proceedings over alleged human rights violations, including torture and inhumane treatment, although he did not provide case details or judgements that would allow those claims to be independently verified.

The police say Pulaku members are expected to hand suspects over to officers for formal investigation and possible prosecution.

For people such as Daniel Musa, cooperation between the police and armed volunteers can mean the difference between remaining in captivity and returning home.

For Haruna Hamza, however, the question is what happens when the volunteers themselves are accused of acting as captors. But there’s another side to this.

Sitting in the office of a human rights organisation in Adamawa, Haruna Hamza carefully raises his kaftan and turns around to expose his back.

Raised scars form darkened, swollen patches that look like dried leeches, where the skin healed unevenly. Pulling his kaftan back down, he begins describing what happened to him; his voice drops. Hamza, a man in his late fifties, said they were the marks of a beating by Pulaku members.

In March 2025, he says, members of the vigilante organisation arrested him and his eldest son, without telling either of them what they were accused of doing.

"I asked them what my offence was, but no one told me. Up to today, I still don't know my offence," he said.

According to Hamza, he and his son were taken to Pulaku's base in Malkohi. He says his son was also detained but was not physically assaulted.

Hamza, however, alleges that his hands were tied with rope. Several men physically suspended him by his arms while others beat him with canes made from tamarind tree branches. He said the beating continued until he lost consciousness.

"I was beaten into a coma. I fainted, and I don't even know when the rope on my hands came loose," he said.

Hamza's description of a coma refers to his account of losing consciousness; Al Jazeera has not established that he was medically diagnosed as being in a coma. He could not identify any of the individual men he says attacked him. But he attributes the assault to Pulaku members.

He alleged that he remained detained at the group's base for two months and one week, without being transferred to police custody. He said injuries on his back became severely infected. "The scars you see on my back decayed. Maggots were coming out of them," he said.

Hamza also alleged that a slap damaged one of his ears, causing it to bleed for about a week.

As he recounts the experience, his voice softens and becomes more subdued. At other moments, he sounds agitated.

Months after his release, he can finally sleep on his back without pain, but the marks on his body are still visible.

He said he has continued to live with the physical consequences of the alleged assault. He also said his hopes of obtaining justice had diminished, and that he now tries to avoid discussing the experience. He would not wish what happened to him on anyone, he said. But the organisation he accused of detaining and torturing him disputed his account.

Its commander had a very different explanation for the marks on Hamza's back. Musa Usman Malkohi rejects Hamza’s account that Pulaku members had tortured him. "The scars on his back were drawn with a marker. We don't abuse humans," he said. The commander had been shown photographs of the marks on Hamza's body.

He maintained that the injuries were not genuine, suggesting that closer examination of the wounds would reveal they had been drawn onto the skin.

He also accused Hamza of defaming the organisation. "We were planning to take legal action against him, but we collectively decided to just forget about him," he said.

Usman did not deny that Pulaku members had detained Hamza. He said the organisation dealt with suspects whom he believed could pose a threat to its members, but did not specify what Hamza was suspected of or provide evidence linking him to criminal activity.

He did not clarify whether Pulaku kept records of people detained at its base, nor did he confirm that Hamza had been handed over to police. Hamza maintains that he was never transferred into police custody during his detention.

The Adamawa State Police Command said it had not received a formal complaint from Hamza or his family about the alleged detention and torture. However, police said they were investigating the allegations but did not provide further details.

Nguroje said officers had organised workshops and training sessions for vigilantes and hunters, covering issues including extortion, unnecessary demands and human rights violations.

"We taught them about violations of human rights. We taught them about extortion and unnecessary demands," he said.

The command did not provide figures on previous complaints against Pulaku or details of criminal or disciplinary proceedings involving its members. For Hamza, the unresolved questions that no one is willing to answer are more immediate.

Why was he detained? Under whose authority was he held? And who will establish what happened during the more than two months he says he spent at the vigilante group's base?

The tension surrounding Pulaku reflects a much wider dilemma in Nigeria, where communities facing kidnapping, banditry and other violence have increasingly turned to armed volunteer groups for protection.

Kabir Adamu, managing director of Beacon Security and Intelligence Limited, a Nigeria-based security and intelligence firm, sees the growth of vigilantism as a consequence of deeper failures in public security.

"The reason why we have a lot of vigilante groups is because of the failure of public security in Nigeria," he said. "And that failure has led to self-help, vigilantism and the securitisation of different environments." Nigeria's security crisis has deepened over more than a decade, driven by overlapping conflicts. In the northeast, Boko Haram's armed rebellion has devastated communities since 2009. Elsewhere, disputes over land and water, cattle rustling and the spread of armed criminal gangs have led to killings and kidnappings.

Climate pressures and competition for resources have intensified a number of these tensions. Meanwhile, overstretched police and military forces have struggled to secure vast rural areas, leaving communities exposed to repeated attacks.

In the northeast, the Civilian Joint Task Force has fought alongside security forces against Boko Haram and other armed groups. In the southwest, the Amotekun security network was established to combat violence, while Benue State, in central Nigeria, set up its own Community Volunteer Guards.

Their powers and relationships with authorities differ, but all reflect a growing reliance on local groups to protect communities. But that reliance has brought its own dangers.

In southeastern Nigeria, Amnesty International documented the killing of 14 young people by operatives of Ebube Agu, a state-backed paramilitary outfit, in Imo State in July 2022. The rights organisation also recorded allegations that local vigilantes in neighbouring Anambra State detained about 80 people in a makeshift prison and demanded money from their families for their release.

The allegations against Pulaku remain disputed. But the contrast between Daniel Musa's rescue and Haruna Hamza's account of detention and abuse exposes the difficult position of communities that depend on armed volunteers for protection while having limited means to hold them accountable.

Adamu warns that the consequences extend beyond individual allegations. When armed groups become closely associated with particular ethnic identities, they can deepen mistrust between communities and further weaken the authority of the state.

"The risks are that it erodes the authority of the state, it leads to depleted social cohesion, and it accentuates the fragility that Nigeria is in at the moment," he says. Daniel Musa is a pseudonym; his name has been changed to protect his identity.