Non-fiction: The Overwhelming Grace

On March 3rd, 2017, I was on the way to my academic environment ( The Polytechnic, Ibadan), due to the eagerness to resume and to feel the ambiance of nature in a school environment, I lost my phone.

My mother couldn’t speak to me that night, she kept wondering what could have happened. Due to this curiosity, she called my landlady and I then spoke to her through her phone, she was livid at me that why didn’t I call after I got to my hostel. I narrated the ordeal to her, she felt sorry for me and promise to come over in order to hand me a new phone.

Luckily for me, my mum came to Ibadan, on the second day of the incident, she called me when she was at Ojo in Ibadan, so I mounted a bike from Apete to Ojo. I was so graced that day, I didn’t face any trouble of traffic jam, I sighted her quickly and she gave me the phone. Something struck my mind with an immediate effect that ‘I should go retrieve my hotline.’
After my arrival from Ojo, I plodded in heavily to my hostel mate’s room,  I solely asked him where I could get my line retrieved, his name is Adesina Sodiq Ayodeji but I love calling him by his nickname (Bobo).

Immediately I told him, he replied me fast and gave me an exact location of MTN office situated at Bodija Awolowo Estate, Ibadan. I checked what the time said but alas! It was late.

Fast forward to the second day, after the collection of the new phone, I went to the lecture room and after I was done with the lecture, I set out for Bodija- Awolowo in a jiffy. With the merciful grace of God, they hadn’t close before I got in, I was scrutinized on whether I lost the sim or it was deactivated. After the enquiry, I was compelled to buy another Sim card in that same premises, what did I even know? I was just anxious to get hotline back, nothing more! As it turned to my turn for the verification and re-registration, I wasnt stressed at all. I only provided the needed informations and also paid ₦700 as the retrieval fee. I felt elated, I was so delighted that I got my hotline.

As I stepped out of that office, something changed my mood, I didn’t even know what might have caused it, but deep inside me I knew the air conditioning moment and ambiance was what I missed.

The sun was on a high radar that afternoon, it was so hot and shining, I could neither raise my head up nor felt comfortable. I stayed in the sun for about fifteen minutes before a bike could even be noticed from afar. At that stand, a bike man packed in front of me, asking me  an unimaginable question; Egbon( Street slang for greeting a Yoruba guy), “where are you going?”
I answered unconsciously; “Sango, Poly Road”. He then said; “Hundred naira”.
We’ve not even moved two metres away from the spot, I heard the bike man complaining to me that he wished to help a man we saw at the stand I was picked from, but didn’t have the ability to do so. I then asked him, “what is the problem?” he answered frantically, telling me the man was about to lose his mum but he had something he could sell to revive his mum. Human feeling struck my precious heart and I asked the bikeman to turn back so we could help the man.

We moved away from Bodija Awolowo Estate down to a place I couldn’t even remember in Ibadan, after 30minutes of the impromptu journey, I wasn’t myself, voodoo (juju) had been used on me. I was told to bring out the money I had in my pocket and the ATM card inclusive. They gave a command that, “l should go buy salt at a market known as Oja Bode”. I bought the salt unconsciously. After that, I regained my consciousness, that was the moment I knew I’d been duped. I cried profusely because I had nothing on me to board a cab or mount a bike again.

Another issue at hand as at that particular time was that, the money in my bank account was for my school fees and it was nothing less down Twenty eight thousand naira. On this dire day of mine, the cloud was dark, the surface of the Earth was nothing to me but a mayhem. I started walking up an down begging for money even for transportation back to Sango, Poly road. After begging tirelessly, I realized an amount of Three hundred naira, I went further to an “Okada joint.” I negotiated with a bike man and he mercifully agreed to carry me for an amount of Three hundred naira.
Another journey of unknown destination started, as we were going, I remembered that a bank account can be blocked if it had been tampered with by fraudster(s). When we got to Mokola, I immediately saw a “First bank branch” there. I was totally happy and glad, a moment of hope struck my mind, what I felt was more than what I lost. I strutted in to the bank confidently, I was sent back because I didn’t follow the protocol but the woman they were attending to, urge them to attend to me first because she could see a sign of distress in me.
The banker then asked me; “what do you want?”, I replied consciously, “I’ve been duped ma, so I wanted to check if I could block my account, so they won’t to be able to withdraw the money.” I said. She asked for my account number which I hopefully gave her, the reply she gave startled and destabilised me, she said; “Mr. Yusuf, the money in your account has been withdrawn.” I bursted into tears, I couldn’t even see anyone around me again, what I saw in front of myself was that, “I’m already out of school”.

The woman in front of the banker pitied me, she asked for my Identity card, of which I showed her. At this moment, I was already swimming in my own sweat, tears flowing down from my eyes like dropping waters from a mountain. I couldn’t say precisely what I was thinking, I was lost in thought and derailed in emotions. But nevertheless, I noticed that woman opened her big purse, brought out a small book that struck a resemblance with a cheque. She then asked for the amount of money I lost, I said worryingly; “Twenty-eight thousand naira ma.”

she collected my Identity card and wrote my name boldly on the cheque enthusiastically. She handed the cheque  to me, “go manage this infinitesimal amount of money” she said.

When I checked, an amount of Thirty thousand naira had been written on the small paper. As a Yoruba guy, I prostrated heavily, rolling on the floor of the bank as if I would stay there forever, words couldn’t come out of my mouth, my mouth couldn’t flow with words, my tongue couldn’t spit anything, it was dry and watery. I cashed out the money happily, but I checked the cheque again to fish out  the woman’s name of which I saw boldly. I went out of the Bank jubilantly.