Due to the rising cost of fuel and shrinking purchasing power, I had to ration the use of my car, like many Nigerians struggling to keep up ...
Due to the rising cost of fuel and shrinking purchasing power, I had to ration the use of my car, like many Nigerians struggling to keep up with the biting economy. So, I opted for public transport to visit my guardian in town after work for an important discussion. The evening was serene and cloudy, with a cool breeze blowing, the kind of weather that gives hope. I walked to the junction and boarded a tricycle. Within minutes, I arrived my destination. The meeting went well. We made progress and shared a sense of relief in the midst of hard times. He saw me off and helped me get another tricycle to the popular Kpakungu Roundabout. I got down there and waited to join the next ride home.
A minute or two later, another tricycle pulled up. The rider sat in front, two passengers were already at the back. He seemed to be in a hurry, perhaps rushing to catch up with something. “Enter, enter, enter please, Sir, be fast,” he said briskly. Without suspecting anything, I climbed in, taking the third and last seat at the far right corner of the vehicle. What happened next left me not just without a phone, but with a heavy reflection on the dangerous intersection between poverty, insecurity and everyday life in Nigeria.
As the tricycle began to move, the rider asked casually, “Where will you stop?” Morris Junction, I replied. He pressed further, “Won’t you go up to Barikin Sale Junction?” No, I answered, a little puzzled by his insistence. Then came the next question, “Are you holding ₦100?” I shook my head. No. It is ₦500. "I don’t have change,” he exclaimed dramatically, pretending to slow down, then suddenly accelerated again.
I began to notice his erratic driving; sharp turns, rough handling, the way he kept glancing back, pretending to adjust his right side mirror. My instinct whispered that something wasn’t right, but in that brief moment, I pushed it aside since my destination was very close. When we approached my stop, I signalled him to pull over. “Here?” he asked. Yes, I responded firmly. He sped forward a few metres more, braking roughly before I could step out. Without waiting to collect the fare, he drove off immediately. That was when I felt it, the cold realization that something went wrong.
I checked my pocket and my heart sank! My phone was gone! The passengers who sat beside me were his accomplices, working hand in glove with the rider, they had quietly lifted it while the rough ride kept me distracted. It all made sense in hindsight, the hasty boarding, the fake urgency and the mirror adjustment. It was a well-rehearsed act. Frantic, I hopped onto a nearby motorcycle, told the rider what had happened, and pleaded with him to help me give a chase. I was confident I could recognize the tricycle if I saw it again. We circled the area, combing the streets and corners, but there was no trace of them. It was as if they had vanished the moment I stepped down. With no option left, I returned home, heavy-hearted, frustrated, and painfully aware that my personal loss was just one more story.
This was not just a phone, it was a treasure chest of memories and milestones. Inside it, I had stored my postgraduate thesis, my unpublished book, collection of my articles and important audio recordings. There were also historical family portraits and videos spanning more than a decade, as well as cherished photographs of me with a former Head of State, a serving State Governor, and many other significant moments. It also adds salt to injury as I remember the theft of my spouse's brand new phone two months ago.
I could not recall ever experiencing phone theft before. This was the first time I truly felt the sting of losing not just a device, but a part of my personal history. These were files and memories I had carefully transferred from one phone to another over the years, preserving them. The weight of the loss was overwhelming. In that moment of helplessness, I whispered a prayer; may this be the last phone they will ever steal.
The menace of phone theft continues to thrive largely because perpetrators often escape accountability, turning it into a lucrative and low-risk venture for criminals. Beyond material loss, this growing crime wave has inflicted deep psychological pain, physical harm, and in some cases, claimed innocent lives. Unfortunately, the response of security agencies has done little to inspire confidence. In many instances, victims are asked to pay for tracking services, a practice that discourages reporting and allows the cycle of crime to persist.
A more effective approach would be for security agencies to take up investigations as a public duty, with the cost of tracking later recovered from convicted offenders. This not only strengthens the justice system but also reassures citizens that the state is on their side. It is time for a shift. Protecting lives and property must be treated as a collective priority. Ending this alarming trend requires decisive action and the political will to make security work for everyone.
In a conversation with a friend studying in China, he shared an experience with me. In his words, “Here, no one dares to steal a phone not even to pick up a misplaced one. If a phone slips from someone, it remains where it falls, sometimes until it gets damaged. Why? It is because there is virtually no way to escape being caught if anyone tries to take it". He went on to explain that similar crimes have been drastically reduced and in some places completely eliminated through deliberate and effective actions taken by governments. It is a powerful reminder that when systems work, citizens behave differently.
Over the weekend, I received a call from a brother, an academic staff of an university in Saudi Arabia. What started as a casual talk turned into a two-hour tête-à -tête on range of issues. At some point, our colloque shifted to the ongoing impasse between PENGASSAN and the Dangote Refinery, and the cost of fuel in Nigeria. In comparing living standards, he mentioned that the total amount he spends on fuel for his car in a month is an average of 1% of his monthly salary. I could not help but interject, I said in Nigeria, the minimum wage can barely fill the tank of a small car.
The loss of my phone is personal, but it speaks far bigger, that is, a national failure that affects ordinary citizens every day. Each stolen phone represents more than just a missing device; it reflects a system where insecurity festers unchecked, criminals act with boldness, and trust in public safety is steadily eroded. What Nigeria lost is the assurance that citizens can move freely without fear, that their hard-earned property is protected, and that justice will be served when crimes occur. This erosion of safety takes away national confidence, productivity, and collective hope, a loss far greater than any single phone.
My stolen phone is just one story among countless others across the country, a small piece of a much larger puzzle. Phone theft may seem like a petty crime, but it reflects deep cracks in our economic structure, security system and our collective sense of safety. Tackling this scourge requires more than sympathy for victims; it demands decisive action and a renewed commitment to protect lives and property. Nigeria cannot continue to normalise insecurity as a way of life. Real change begins when the state rises to its responsibility and when every citizen feels safe enough to live, work, and move without fear.
Yusuf Alhaji Lawan writes from Minna South Ward, Chanchaga, Niger State. The writer can be reached via nasidi30@gmail.com.
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