Episode 2: The Slippery Slope
When I sent that first $200 to James, it didn’t even feel like a “favor.” It felt like something you do for someone you care about—especially when that person has made you feel seen in a way no one else has for years.
He was grateful. He said he hated asking me, but things would be back to normal soon. And, true to his word, he sent me a screenshot the next morning of what looked like a bank transfer in progress.
“By Friday, baby, the money will hit your account. I promise. I’ll even add a little something for your kindness.”
I smiled. I wasn’t doing it for the money.
But Friday came… and nothing.
He apologized profusely. Said the bank flagged the transaction because it was international. Then he showed me a photo of a supposed email from the “South African Revenue Service,” claiming his funds were being held due to unpaid customs duty on imported tools.
It sounded fishy, but he explained everything in detail—down to the “regulation code” of the import policy. And he was convincing. He said he was trying to avoid legal issues with his work visa and begged me to help him clear the amount so he wouldn’t be deported.
The new amount? $850.
I hesitated. Not because I didn’t trust him—I still believed I was helping someone real. But I didn’t have that kind of money lying around.
He didn’t pressure me. Instead, he sent me voice notes—his voice low, cracking with emotion:
“Baby, I’d never put you in this position if I had any other choice. You know I’m good for it. I’m just stuck. You’re my lifeline right now.”
Those words—“You’re my lifeline”—echoed in my chest. I wired the money the next day through Western Union.
That was the beginning of the spiral.
In the following weeks, the requests kept coming. Each time, it was another urgent excuse:
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“Customs is demanding another clearance form.”
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“My equipment got held at the port.”
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“They need a COVID clearance certificate before I can fly back.”
Amounts grew. From $200 to $1,000. Then $1,500. Then $2,300.
Each time I asked questions, James had answers. He’d send screenshots of supposed invoices, government emails, receipts. He even introduced me to someone he claimed was his project manager—a polite man named “Mr. Douglas”—who messaged me on WhatsApp with a businesslike tone.
It felt legitimate. Or at least, it looked legitimate.
By this point, I had sent over $8,000.
Looking back now, I see how deep I was in. But when you’re in it—when you think you’re in love—you don’t realize how many red flags you’ve ignored. You think, “Well, he’s in Africa. Things are different there.” Or, “He’s in a bind—this could happen to anyone.”
The truth is, I wanted it to be real. I needed it to be real.
My daughter, Michelle, started getting suspicious.
“Mom, are you sure this guy is who he says he is?” she asked one night.
I brushed her off. Told her she didn’t understand. That James wasn’t like those scammers on TV. He was educated. Gentle. Spiritual. He even talked about God.
But then came the cryptocurrency request.
One night, James texted me in a panic.
“Baby, I need you. The bank is delaying again. The only fast way I can get money now is through crypto. Do you have a Coinbase or Binance account?”
I didn’t. But he walked me through creating one. Said he would send Bitcoin, and I could help convert it to cash to handle the last fee.
Of course, the “transfer” never showed up. And he needed me to send Solana to an address instead—just “to unlock the funds.”
That’s when Michelle stepped in.
She took my phone and started Googling. She did a reverse image search on James’ profile photo.
What we found made my stomach drop.
The man in the photo was not James Carter. His real name was Rodrigo Almeida, a Brazilian architect with over 500,000 Instagram followers. The scammers had stolen his identity. Everything about “James” was fake.
Everything.
