A Coolvalstories Production
Episode 1: From Aba With Ambition
(~1,050 words)
They call me Bobo now. Bobo the Yahoo Prince. But before the cars, the girls, and the dead bodies, I was just Obinna Dike — a nobody from Aba.
I grew up in the heart of Ariaria, where the air always smelled like smoke and something dying. My mother, Mama Nkechi, was a roadside akara seller. Her hands were always blistered from the hot oil, but she still managed to smile when she fed me and my two sisters. My father? Let’s just say his love for ogogoro was the only consistent thing in our lives. He’d beat my mother, curse the heavens, and sleep in the gutter without shame. Poverty caged us, and I grew up chewing resentment like chewing gum.
I was always different though. Smart. Sharp. In a street full of noise, I listened. In a world full of struggle, I planned. I didn’t know how yet, but I was sure of one thing — I would never die poor.
After I finished secondary school with just a pass in WAEC and no hope of university, I started selling phone accessories at Aba Main Market. That’s where I met Uche — the boy who would change my life.
Uche was light-skinned, had dreadlocks, and always wore designer clothes that smelled of Dubai perfumes. While we were sweating to sell power banks, he would sit in his kiosk pressing his laptop like he was typing for the devil himself. His phone never stopped ringing. His PayPal was always active. I used to watch him in envy.
One day, I approached him.
“Uche, wetin you dey always type for that your laptop?” I asked, my voice low like I was asking for contraband.
He smiled, chewed his gum slowly, and said, “Obinna, na formatting. I dey do Yahoo.”
That was the first time I heard the term properly. He explained it like he was teaching me chemistry: how to set up fake Facebook profiles, romance lonely white women, send voice notes pretending to be US soldiers or oil rig workers. He even had a friend who specialized in hacking Amazon accounts.
“Yahoo na science, Obinna,” he said. “No be by jazz alone. If your brain dey hot, money go flow.”
At first, I hesitated. But one evening, I saw him transfer ₦2.3 million from his Payoneer to a Zenith Bank account right in front of me.
That was all the convincing I needed.
I told my mother I got a job in Lagos, hugged my sisters, and boarded a night bus. But I didn’t go to Lagos. I followed Uche to Asaba.
That’s where I learned the real game.
The first rule of Yahoo: never fall in love. The second rule: loyalty to the crew. The third rule: if you want to make serious money, you must fortify yourself.
In Asaba, Uche took me to meet Baba Tunde, a native doctor who looked like he had seen a thousand souls pass through his shrine. The place was filled with skulls, red cloths, and a smell that made your nose itch.
Baba asked us to bring a live pigeon, a black goat, and three white candles. That night, he made us swear an oath. Our tongues were cut slightly, and our blood was dropped into a calabash.
“You go use your sense, charm, and silence,” Baba said. “Betray this path, and you will answer with your blood.”
We did Yahoo Plus — rituals that made our words sweet like honey to clients. They’d send money willingly and come back for more.
My first client was Janelle, a 52-year-old widow from Arkansas. I told her I was Captain Robert Blake, a military doctor stationed in Syria. I used Google to learn about war zones, faked voice notes with an app, and sent her pictures of a white man I stole off Facebook.
I told her my daughter had leukemia. That I needed $2,000 urgently for treatment.
She sent $2,500.
I wept when the money landed. Real tears. Not because I felt guilty, but because I had finally tasted freedom.
Within three months, I had scammed her of over $14,000. I used part of it to buy my first car — a tokunbo Lexus ES 350. I moved from Asaba to Lekki Phase 2. Started wearing Versace shirts and Cuban gold chains. I bleached my skin and installed a full beard in a salon in Ikeja.
I was no longer Obinna.
I was Bobo Dike, the Prince of the Game.
My house in Lekki became the temple of sin. Women flowed in and out like ocean waves. Every Friday, we’d throw parties with DJs, shisha, strippers, and endless bottles of Azul. I was a god in my own temple. Even my mother called me “Sir” over the phone.
I sent her money, built her a duplex in Umuahia, and told her to quit selling akara. For the first time in her life, she wore lace and gold.
But while I was celebrating, I didn’t know I was being watched.
Someone else wanted my throne.
His name was Razor.
And Razor was not just a rival—he was a demon in human flesh.
