Wrong Prescription at a Pharmacy in Benin City
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Pastor Adebayo's rise to fame was meteoric. With a charismatic smile and a silver tongue, he convinced thousands that he was the chosen one, sent to bring prosperity and healing to the masses. His televised sermons were spectacles of emotional manipulation, leaving his followers in tears and awe. They emptied their pockets, donating generously to his ministry, hoping for a miracle. But behind the glitz and glamour of his lavish church, Pastor Adebayo's empire was built on deceit. The "Miracle Oil" he sold was just ordinary olive oil, bottled and branded to exploit the faithful. The "Healing Handkerchiefs" were nothing more than cheap cloth, anointed with water and prayers that meant nothing. Yet, he promised his followers that these items held the power to cure their ailments, bring them wealth, and solve their problems. As the donations poured in, Pastor Adebayo lived a life of opulence. He drove luxury cars,…

In Benin City, I took a ₦100,000 loan from BrightFuture Microfinance Bank to support my small tailoring business. Loan Officer (Mr. Efe): “Don’t worry, Madam, the repayment is easy. Just ₦15,000 monthly for 8 months.” Me: “That sounds fair. I’ll manage.” But after I signed, hidden charges started appearing. SMS alerts showed deductions I never understood. I went back furious: Me: “Mr. Efe, why am I paying ₦20,000 this month instead of ₦15,000?” Efe (shrugging): “Those are processing and insurance fees. It’s in the fine print.” Me: “But you never explained that to me!” Efe: “Madam, once you signed, you agreed. If you default, your shop items will be seized.” I struggled for months, paying almost double the original loan. That experience taught me how microfinance banks prey on people’s desperation.

In Ibadan, my landlord recommended an electrician named Kunle when my apartment wiring kept tripping. Me: “Kunle, please check everything well. I don’t want fire issues.” Kunle (smiling): “No wahala, oga. I be professional. Just buy the materials.” I spent ₦35,000 on wires and breakers. After two days, the lights came back, but a week later, sparks started flying from the socket. I called him angrily: Me: “Kunle, your work is faulty. My TV almost caught fire!” Kunle: “Ah oga, that one no be my fault. Maybe your appliances dey bad. For me to check am again, you go pay another ₦15,000.” I felt scammed. A so-called professional took my money but left my house even more dangerous. That day, I swore never to hire artisans without verified references again.

I met Chika on Facebook. She claimed she was based in Port Harcourt and worked in an oil servicing company. We chatted for weeks, and she sounded real—voice notes, pictures, even video calls. Chika: “Baby, I really like you. But I’m stranded. Can you send me ₦30,000 to sort out my rent?” Me: “Are you sure you’ll pay me back? Money is tight for me right now.” Chika: “Of course, sweetheart. I’ll pay you once my salary drops. Don’t you trust me?” I sent the money. Two days later, she asked again—this time ₦50,000, claiming her mum was sick. When I hesitated, she snapped: Chika: “So you don’t love me enough to help? You’re wicked!” I borrowed to assist her, only for her to block me days later. That’s when I realized she wasn’t real—just another fraudster playing on emotions.