Episode 1: The Loan I Should Never Have Taken
Life in Lagos is tough, but that week, it was unbearable.
My rent was overdue, no money to even buy food, and my office hadn’t paid salaries in over a month.
I sat in my tiny room in Ojodu, staring at my cheap Android phone, wondering what miracle could happen.
That’s when I saw the ad:
“Instant Loan! No collateral, no paperwork. Get ₦50,000 credited to your account in 5 minutes!“
The words glowed like a lifeline.
Out of curiosity, I clicked.
The app looked decent enough. Bright interface. Fake reviews, I later realized — but at that moment, they seemed real.
The registration form asked for my name, BVN, access to my contacts, location, and gallery. I hesitated when I saw the permissions request.
“Why do they need my contacts?” I asked myself.
But desperation whispered, “Just do it. You’ll pay it back quickly.”
I needed ₦50,000, but after “processing fees,” they credited ₦41,500 to my account.
Still, I felt relieved. I could breathe again — at least for a few days.
The repayment terms were brutal:
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Full repayment within 7 days.
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Daily 5% interest after the 7th day.
“No problem,” I thought.
I planned to repay after five days, once my salary landed.
But life had other plans.
Two days after the due date, I still hadn’t paid.
My salary was delayed.
I had only ₦5,000 left in my account.
I kept telling myself, “Maybe tomorrow.”
That’s when the nightmare started.
It was around 10:30 a.m. when my phone buzzed violently.
Unknown numbers.
Anonymous WhatsApp messages.
Emails from strange addresses.
One message froze my blood:
“YOU ARE A FRAUDSTER. PAY NOW OR FACE PUBLIC DISGRACE. WE HAVE YOUR FAMILY AND FRIENDS’ CONTACTS.“
Another message included a badly edited poster with my photo — taken from my Facebook profile — with “WANTED THIEF” written boldly across it.
My heart raced.
I scrolled further.
They had sent the same poster to my boss. To my church group. Even to old classmates I hadn’t spoken to in years.
It felt like my entire life was crashing down around me — all because of ₦41,500.
I panicked.
I tried calling the customer care line listed on the app — no one answered.
Then I remembered — they had access to my entire contact list.
They were using my family and friends as weapons against me.
Tears welled up in my eyes.
How did it get this bad?
I was a responsible person — I had just been unlucky with money delays.
Within minutes, I got more texts:
“Your career is over. Pay or we continue exposing you!“
“You will regret this!“
“Don’t bother blocking us. We have more numbers.“
I sank to the floor of my room, clutching my phone.
A deep, heavy shame washed over me.
The walls felt like they were closing in.
And I realized — this was only the beginning.
© Valentine Nkemjika
