Writers 
My friend called me at exactly 10:43 p.m. “Bro, please help me send ₦20,000 to this account. My banking app is giving me problems. I’ll give you cash tomorrow morning.”
I checked my account. I had ₦23,700. I stared at the balance for a few seconds because this was the kind of money that needed to be handled with wisdom. If I removed ₦20,000, what would remain would barely be enough to survive a proper Nigerian emergency. But this was my friend, so I said, “Guy, no problem.”
He sent me the account number and the name of the person. I opened my banking app, entered everything carefully, checked the account name twice and transferred the money. Transfer successful.
I sent him the screenshot. “Done.” He replied almost immediately, “God bless you, bro. I’ll sort you out tomorrow.”
I went to sleep.
The next morning, I called him. “Guy, my ₦20k.”
He laughed. “Which ₦20k?”
I paused. “The one you borrowed from me last night!”
There was silence.
Then he asked, “Wait… you actually sent it?”
I sat up. “Of course I sent it! You gave me an account number. I transferred the money. You even said God bless you!”
He started laughing. “Bro, I was drunk yesterday. I was just testing whether you were still awake.”
I thought he was joking. “Testing whether I’m awake?”
“Yes.”
I hung up immediately.
Then I opened my banking app.
My balance was ₦3,700.
I checked the transaction history.
There it was.
₦20,000 — Successful.
I checked the account number again. Correct. Transaction successful. No reversal. My ₦20,000 had left my account and entered another human being’s life.
I called him back immediately. “Send my money back.”
He answered casually, “Ah, but I don't have ₦20k now.”
I nearly dropped my phone. “So where is the money?”
He sighed. “Bro, I used it to pay the person I owed.”
I sat there in silence before shouting, “YOU BORROWED MONEY FROM ME TO PAY YOUR DEBT WITHOUT EVEN ASKING ME?!”
He responded with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no shame: “But you already sent it.”
That sentence nearly finished me.
I wanted to argue, but somehow he had already converted my kindness into a financial transaction between himself and another person. And the funniest part? He didn't even seem worried.
He simply said, “Bro, relax. I'll give you.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
Nigerian “soon.”
That word can mean tomorrow, next week, or when God decides to intervene.
Till today, he still owes me that ₦20,000. And whenever I remind him, he gives me the same answer:
“Bro, have patience. Your money is working.”
Working where?
In another man's account?
At this point, I don't even want the interest anymore. I just want my principal to come home.
Because apparently, I didn't lend my friend ₦20,000.
I accidentally became a microfinance bank without a license.
And the next time somebody calls me at 10:43 p.m. saying, “Bro, please help me send money,” I will first ask:
“Are you sober?”
Before I even open my banking app.
