Weekend Titbits By Boma Nwuke
In July 1999, I had a brush with death — though I did not know it at the time.
Looking back now, with the benefit of age, experience and hindsight, I shudder at how naïveté and ambition almost led me into the waiting arms of a criminal syndicate. It was the era before electronic transfers became commonplace. Salaries were paid in cash. Bank transactions were tedious and optional. Many preferred to receive their earnings in hard currency, feel it in their hands, count it, secure it.
I was young, energetic, juggling journalism and small-scale trading. I dealt in textiles, jewelry and bits of household items. I was also the coordinator of a contribution group — what our Yoruba brothers and sisters call esusu. We were six in number 3 women, and 3 men disciplined and trusting, pooling our savings twice a year. On that particular day, I needed to collect my monthly salary as well as contributions from others to pay the next beneficiary in our group.
My vehicle was unavailable. So I stood in front of my new office along the Eastern By-pass, waiting for a taxi that would take me to my parent office.
A cab stopped.
Inside were two men — the driver and a passenger in the front seat. There was space at the back beside another quiet passenger. Nothing looked suspicious. Nothing felt unusual.
We had barely moved when the man in the front seat produced a foreign currency note — CFA — and asked the driver for change. The driver turned to us, asking if anyone could help break the note. I saw delay. I saw inconvenience. I saw myself arriving late. So I offered to help.
That was my first mistake.
The front passenger collected the money, stepped down as though he had reached his destination — then suddenly returned, claiming he had forgotten something and asking the driver to wait and possibly take him back after dropping me off.
The journey resumed.
What followed was casual conversation — exotic fabrics, foreign textiles, wholesale opportunities. It was a language I understood very well. I traded in fabrics. My ears became attentive.
The man with the foreign currency said he had just arrived in the country with a large stock of Hollandaise materials and was on his way to meet a distributor. Was I interested?
At first, I wanted to remain quiet. But opportunity whispered. Profit beckoned. I responded that I was indeed interested.
That response changed the atmosphere.
The three men exchanged subtle glances. The driver suggested we could quickly stop at the warehouse to view the goods. They mentioned Kilimanjaro by the GRA bus stop as the first point.
We got there. The front passenger disappeared briefly behind the building and returned with news: the goods had been moved to Oyigbo.
If ambition could speak, it would have told me to get down immediately.
But journalism had taught me to pursue stories firsthand. Business had taught me to seize opportunities. So when the suggestion came that we drive to Oyigbo to inspect the merchandise, I agreed.
From Oyigbo, however, the journey took a different turn.
We veered off the expected route. Soon, signboards announced “Owaza.”
Owaza — a border community in Abia State linking to Rivers State, touching Omuma and parts of Etche. Rural and Quiet.
We stopped in a compound. I noticed an insignia of a traditional ruler on the road almost opposite. Women and children were in the courtyard processing cassava, going about ordinary village chores. The scene looked harmless.
I was asked to enter a muddy building at the eastern end of the compound.
Inside were two additional men.
Suddenly, I was in the midst of four men.
Even then, emboldened by the normalcy outside, I asked the question that should never be asked in a den of deception: “Where are the goods we came to pick?”
Silence.
A heavy, suffocating silence.
Then the man who appeared to be presiding spoke.
“There are no goods. What we do here is money doubling.”
He produced bundles of naira notes supposedly “doubled” through some mysterious process. It was the old confidence trick — spiritual manipulation dressed as wealth creation.
In that moment, fear wrapped itself around my spine. But fear must never announce itself to predators. I knew instinctively that resistance could provoke danger. So I did the only thing I could — I played along.
I told them I was interested.
They asked if I had money on me. I said only a few notes. They insisted I surrender it. I did.
They could not “double” the money immediately. So they asked if I had more at home.
“Yes,” I replied cautiously.
Then came the performance.
One of them asked me to stretch out my hand. He “prophesied” that I owned a red Toyota and that I was a good person. He asked why anyone would want to harm me.
At that point, my blood ran cold.
How did he know about the car?
Was it guesswork? Surveillance? Psychological manipulation?
I answered calmly that I did not know.
They gave me a feather and scribbled an address in Owaza. I was instructed not to share the information with anyone. I was to return home, gather my money and come back alone.
Alone.
That word echoed in my head.
They allowed me to leave, perhaps convinced that greed had hooked me. As I stepped out, reality struck — I had no transport fare left.
Ironically, I asked them to return some of the money I had given so I could get back home. They obliged and asked one of their men to escort me to the bus stop.
That short walk felt like a lifetime.
When I finally boarded a bus from Owaza to Isaac Boro Park, I exhaled deeply for the first time. I was alive.
At the park, I immediately took a taxi to my husband’s office.
“God just saved me,” I told him.
He listened as I narrated everything. Then I reached into my bag to show him the feather and the address — proof of what had happened.
They were gone.
Vanished.
Till today, I cannot explain it.
Perhaps they removed them without my knowledge. Perhaps I dropped them unknowingly. Or perhaps the psychological pressure distorted my memory. But what mattered was this: I had escaped.
More importantly, I had not yet collected my salary. I had not gathered the esusu contributions. Had I gone home first, swept up my money and that of the other contributors, and returned to Owaza — the story might have ended differently.
Very differently.
This was 1999 — before kidnapping for ransom became a thriving criminal enterprise. Before ritual killings dominated headlines. Before “one chance” became a household phrase in Abuja and other major cities.
I was lucky.
Not everyone is.
Across Nigeria today, the one-chance phenomenon has evolved into a sophisticated criminal industry. In the Federal Capital Territory, commuters have lost savings, dignity, and in many tragic cases, their lives. Victims are drugged, assaulted, thrown out of moving vehicles. Some never return home.
The psychology remains the same: trust, urgency, opportunity, distraction.
A foreign currency note.
A promise of cheap goods.
A stranded passenger.
A spiritual display.
A sudden detour.
One moment of lowered guard — and everything changes.
One chance is real.
It thrives on our economic hardship. It feeds on unemployment. It exploits greed, ambition, and sometimes simple kindness. It survives because enforcement is weak, intelligence is fragmented, and criminals adapt faster than institutions respond.
But beyond government responsibility lies in personal vigilance.
Never board a vehicle with only “passengers” who appear coordinated.
Avoid engaging in financial discussions inside public transport.
Do not follow strangers to secondary locations.
If a journey veers off your expected route, demand to stop immediately.
Trust your instincts — they are often the first alarm system God gives us.
After my experience, I called my siblings and mentees. I warned them. I have repeated the story over the years not for drama, but for preservation.
Survival is not accidental; it is sometimes a thin thread of grace combined with split-second decisions.
Owaza remains etched in my memory — not as a village, but as a turning point. A reminder that intelligence does not immunize one against deception. That journalism training does not prevent manipulation. That even the cautious can be lured.
Nigeria’s one-chance operators are not always armed with guns. Sometimes they are armed with conversation, currency notes, and calculated psychology.
I escaped.
Many have not.
So as hardship deepens and desperation grows, commuters must be wiser. Government must be firmer. Security agencies must be proactive rather than reactive.
Because sometimes, it truly takes only one chance to lose everything.
And sometimes, by grace alone, one chance becomes the story you live to tell.
