The Day I Got Robbed at Gunpoint… And Still Fixed a Phone That Same Evening
If there’s one thing NYSC didn’t prepare me for, it was the unpredictable madness of real life after service.
Just when I thought things were picking up—my phone repair hustle growing slowly, referrals coming in, even a few people calling me “engineer” with respect—life decided to test my hunger.
And it came with a gun.
It Happened in Broad Daylight
It was a Friday. Hot sun. I had just stepped out to buy a small bottle of flux and a replacement iPhone 6 battery from my guy at Alaba Express.
I didn’t even carry my big tool bag, just a waist pouch with about ₦19,000 (half profit, half capital), my ATM card, and my only working Android phone—an old Infinix Note 7.
The bus stop wasn’t too far from home. I was walking back—earphones plugged in—when a bike suddenly stopped beside me. Before I could process it, two guys jumped off.
No warning, no time.
“Guy, bring that pouch!” one of them barked, lifting his shirt to show a black pistol tucked into his trousers.
In That Moment, I Froze
All my repair skills, all my hustle spirit—none of it mattered. I could barely breathe.
I handed over the pouch, slowly.
“Your phone too,” he added.
I hesitated. That phone had all my contacts, pricing list, parts suppliers’ numbers, repair guides…
He cocked the gun slightly. I handed it over.
They zoomed off.
Just like that—everything I had built in two months vanished.
I Walked Home Like a Zombie
I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t talk. My legs moved on their own, and somehow I got home.
My mum saw me and screamed, “Val, what happened?!”
“Dem rob me.”
She sat down like her blood had just stopped flowing.
“Are you okay?”
“I no even know.”
I locked myself in the room. For four hours, I stared at the wall. I had just started seeing hope—why now?
But Something Snapped in Me That Evening
Around 6:30 PM, a woman from down the street came knocking. Her son’s tablet had refused to boot. She begged me to look at it.
I wanted to say, “Madam, I just got robbed. I’m not okay.”
But something inside me whispered, Fix it.
I sat outside, and reset the firmware.
Tablet came on. The boy danced. His mum paid me ₦2,000.
It wasn’t about the money. It was the fact that despite the pain, I still had my brain and my skill.
That night, I decided something important: I may be broke, but I’m not broken.
Rebuilding Wasn’t Easy
I had to start from scratch.
Borrowed tools. Used free repair apps on someone else’s phone. Saved every naira. Slept with one eye open.
But I became sharper. Smarter. Paranoid in a good way. I stopped carrying all my cash around. Created backup lists of customer contacts on paper. Locked everything behind passwords.
I even got a cheap second-hand button phone with torchlight. I called it my “backup brain.”
Pain Taught Me Survival
What NYSC didn’t teach me, that armed robbery did.
- Never carry all your eggs—or tools—in one bag.
- Fear can paralyze you, but pain can push you.
- People may pity you, but your hustle is your healing.
- You are your greatest asset. Not your phone. Not your tools. YOU.
Sharp guy