N50 million—now that’s a sum I can barely fathom.
The most I’ve ever had in my account is a modest N655,000. While some might see that as significant, it’s the result of four years of diligent saving since I started working. That N655k wasn’t earned overnight—it came from my job, and through private practice on the side. You know, small companies that can’t afford full-time accountants hire me to handle their accounts and taxes. And to make extra cash, I spend my weekends braiding hair.
My mom often said I loved money too much. She wasn’t wrong—I do love money. But stealing? That’s where I draw the line.
And that’s what my story is about.
Like many young Nigerians, I was saving every naira I could to japa. Have you seen the state of the country? We can’t even afford eggs anymore! I used to survive on Indomie and eggs, with the occasional splurge on beef when I made jollof rice. Now, even basic items like eggs or the Nivea body cream I use are ridiculously priced—10k for cream!
I have since been using ori, shea butter…even that one, too, is expensive.
It hasn’t been easy. They say accountants are frugal, and that trait has helped me scrape together what I have. Honestly, my savings would be more if things hadn’t taken a turn in recent years. I won’t even go into politics—don’t want to end up in trouble like that NYSC girl for naming names.
But here’s the irony: even without pointing fingers, I still found myself in prison.
It all started with our oga—the chief accountant at my workplace. He suddenly disappeared one day. Walahi, the man claimed he wasn’t feeling well, and next thing I knew, he’d travelled abroad…according to those who know.
I’m not one for office gossip, but maybe I should’ve paid more attention. It could’ve saved me from ending up behind bars.
Three days after oga was said to have japa-ed, I went to work as usual, only to hear murmurs about stolen money. RumourBig boss, the owner of our company…one chief that fear will not let me name, was threatening to arrest those involved. Since I knew I hadn’t stolen anything, I continued my day as normal.
Suddenly, like gangsters, six policemen stormed into our office, guns drawn, yelling at the four of us inside. I froze—where could I have even run to, sef? They barged in and grabbed us. I was the only woman there.
They kept shouting, “Thief! Thief, you will tell us where you hid the millions.”
I was stunned. Thief? Who’s a thief? Who are these drunks?
They manhandled all of us, shoving and slapping my colleagues, who were just as bewildered as I was. “There’s a mistake, sir! There’s a mistake!” they pleaded. But the officers didn’t care.
They herded us into the back of their pickup truck, shoving us roughly. I got two hot slaps for screaming, “I’m not a thief!” I just wanted to defend myself. If the others had stolen, I wasn’t part of it.
Those two slaps silenced me completely.
I began to vomit.
Walahi!
My mind was in turmoil.
I kept thinking, our oga with a mysterious illness that japa-ed without notice must have been the culprit.
I glanced at my colleagues—those already looked like barawo for real. Blood covered them from the beatings they’d received, their clothes were torn, and they appeared completely defeated.
I probably looked no better. My wig was gone, my hair was a tangled mess. I knew it was rough—that’s why I wore the wig in the first place. I’d been too exhausted to fix my hair the weekend before.
Anyway, they took us to the station and made us write statements claiming we had stolen N50 million.
I wanted to laugh. N50… what?
At that moment, I wondered if I was beginning to lose my sanity. I thought, Wa, yooo! Do you think if I stole N50 million, I’d still be here?
I would’ve long escaped to Iceland or some remote place where no one knew me. But N50 million? No. I wouldn’t even steal N500. Steal for what?
What would happen to my poor mother in the north?
What about my sisters still in UniMaid?
What about me?
I begged the policemen and asked them, “Who said I stole money?”
They replied, “Your boss said you and your colleagues stole his N50 million.”
I swore on Almighty Allah. “Walahi, I haven’t even seen N1 million, let alone N50 million!”
But they insisted I complete the statement and sign it—sign a statement confessing to theft I hadn’t committed. I also knew that naming my oga who is reported to have japa-ed would make me an accomplice because I had heard one of my colleagues say it must have been our boss…chai, mistake, they took him to one room on the side and began to flog him to confess. They said, “How did you know he has japa if you were not an accomplice?”
Hummn. Crying, I pleaded with them. “I swear to God Almighty; I’m not a thief.”
No one listened.
I could hear my other two colleagues being tortured and screaming in the opposite room.
I turned to the female officer attending to me and begged, “Sister, please help me.”
She shook her head and said, “Confess. Just confess, and they’ll let you go. At most, you’ll end up in court.”
I stared at her in disbelief. “Court? How?”
Hummn.
But I refused to sign the statement.
That’s when they stripped me of everything and locked me in the female section.
Then, hell began.
No food. Not even water. Nothing—for four days straight. no mat, or mattress, nothing but 11 of us women … I met them there, in one tiny room with a small window…no light, no air. It stank like death! I did not sleep for four days straight!
I had no one to call. Well, my phone was taken from me. but even if I had it… I couldn’t dare call my mother. She would have just died on the spot if I told her I was in a police cell.
On the fourth day, I was informed I had visitors. It was my cousin who came. He told me he’d been trying to reach me for three days without success. Worried, he went to the house where I live—a one-room space, you know how it is.
It was the compound’s mai-guard who told him he hadn’t seen me for three days. My cousin then went to my office, where he was told I had been accused of stealing money and was in police custody. He came that day but they didn’t let him see me. So he came the following day, he had to go and get money before they let him see me.
When he saw me, he broke down and cried.
I said, “Ahmed, I didn’t steal any money. If I stole money, do you think I’d still be here?”
Hummn. The police then told my cousin he needed to bail me out.
The first time, they demanded N100k from him. The second time, they asked for N250k. I gave him my PIN, and he went to my room to get my ATM card. Long story short, my cousin emptied my account because the police kept asking for more and more money.
You see, they had taken my phone and when they saw I had some money, they said it was part of the money they were looking for. They kept demanding until they’d drained my account.
Only then did they release me. They have not given me back my phone, they claim it’s part of their “investigation.”
I can’t even begin to describe all that I endured in that police cell.
I spent 12 days in that place, and in those 12 days, I doubt I’ll ever be the same again.
Where would I start? The sexual assault; the flogging so I can confess? the fear that filled me while in that dark dank cell with women who could easily murder me…maybe they are also innocent like me. they looked wild…come to think of it, so did I. They were also probably afraid of me.
But you know, I could have died there, and no one would have even known.
So, while I’m grateful to be alive, I know I’ll never be the same.
My boss, by his wicked accusations, took a piece of my life and I can’t even fight him. Where is the money to hire a lawyer?
I just want to be left in peace.
(Series written and edited by Peju Akande and based on true stories)