07/09/2025
At 3:41 PM in Computer Village, a man pressed a folded receipt into my hand and whispered, “If you don’t follow me now, you’ll never see your phone again.” I had gone there to fix my iPhone screen.
If you know Computer Village, you know it’s survival of the sharpest.
Noise everywhere. People pulling you: “Boss, buy charger!”
“Oga, original screen protector!”
I ignored most and headed straight for the stall my friend recommended.
The technician looked legit. Small glass shop, tools neatly arranged, calm guy with a lanyard ID.
He checked my phone, nodded, and said it would take “just 30 minutes.” I handed it over reluctantly but you can’t exactly fix your screen without trusting someone.
While waiting, I bought a bottle of water and sat on a bench nearby.
That’s when the man appeared young, restless eyes, dusty shirt. He pressed a folded receipt into my palm without a word.
I opened it.
It was the same kind of receipt I’d just signed when I gave out my phone… except this one had my name, my phone model, and in bold red pen:
“RUN.” My heart skipped.
I looked up at him. He leaned close and whispered: “If you don’t follow me now, you’ll never see your phone again.”
I froze. Lagos is full of scams. Maybe this was another one. But how did he know my name? My phone model? He nodded towards the shop where I left my phone.
“Those guys will swap your motherboard. You’ll get a dead phone back.” I laughed nervously, trying to brush it off.
But he pulled out a small pouch and opened it slightly showing two phones with their insides exposed. “Victims from this week,” he muttered. “Ask anybody. They’ll tell you.”
My throat went dry.
I glanced at the shop again. Sure enough, the “technician” was bent over my phone, screwdriver moving fast.
Too fast.
“Come,” the stranger urged.
“If you want your phone whole, you need to take it now.”
Against every instinct screaming not to follow strangers in Computer Village, I walked with him back to the stall.
The stranger didn’t hesitate. He barged in, speaking Yoruba too quickly for me to catch everything. The technician stiffened, glared at him, then looked at me.
“You no trust me?” he asked, voice sharp.
Before I could reply, the stranger snatched my phone from the desk and shoved it into my hand.
“Check am.”
I pressed the power button. It came on screen still cracked, but everything intact.
The technician stood, fists clenched.
“You dey mad?!” But the stranger pulled me outside fast, into the chaos of the market. Only when we were three streets away did he stop. “Next time, shine your eyes. Half these shops na cartel. They use receipts to claim phones, strip them, resell the parts. You’ll only get carcass back.”
I asked who he was.
He shrugged. “Used to be one of them. I sabi their tricks. Don’t bring your phone here again, unless you want wahala.”
Then he melted into the crowd.I never saw him again.
But every time someone says, “Go fix it at Computer Village,” I just shake my head. Because at 3:41 PM that day, a stranger saved me from losing more than just a cracked screen.
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