I wasn’t always like this.
I used to believe in hard work. I used to believe that if I kept my head down, did the right thing, and followed the rules, life would eventually smile at me. But Nigeria has a way of punishing your good intentions and making foolishness look like wisdom.
I had just finished NYSC when it started. No job, no connection, nothing to fall back on. I was hustling, selling men’s clothes online and working as a delivery rider part-time. My girl at the time said she understood. That she was patient. That things would get better.
Until one day, she sent me a voice note that changed my life.
“You dey try, but this your hustle no dey hustle. You no even get ordinary car. Even Tobi wey no finish school don carry me go Landmark last weekend. Abeg, I no fit suffer with person wey no get vision.”
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I played that message like 10 times. I was on the floor of my face-me-I-face-you, staring at the cracked ceiling like it had answers. I’d been saving for her birthday. I hadn’t eaten meat in weeks. I thought I was building with someone, but turns out I was the only one building.
A week later, I called my secondary school friend, Tunde. He’d been trying to bring me in for months.
“Omo, are you ready now?” he asked.
I was. I didn’t care about morals anymore. Or what people would say. Hunger will humble even the strongest conscience. I just wanted to feel in control for once.
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Tunde introduced me to the game. Romance scam. I was to act like a 32-year-old widow from Florida. It felt ridiculous at first, but when I saw the first $100 land, I knew I was in.
The lies came easy. The accents, the fake tears, the sweet words. I became whoever I needed to be to make them send money. Within three months, I’d moved into a mini flat and bought my first iPhone. I blocked my ex.
She messaged me from an unknown number once, “Wow, you’ve blown.” I didn’t reply.
But the thing nobody tells you about Yahoo is this: once you taste easy money, it changes you. I stopped sleeping properly. I started drinking heavily. I trusted no one. I felt like I was always being watched.
Sometimes, I’d look at myself in the mirror and not recognise who I was. My mother still calls to pray for me. “God will bless the work of your hands,” she says. I smile and say “Amen,” knowing full well those hands are typing lies into a MacBook at 2 a.m.
Do I feel guilty? Sometimes. But would I leave it for a 9-5? Nope!
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