Listen, if you’ve never felt your soul leave your body after checking your account balance, are you even Nigerian?

That was me when I saw my life savings of ₦742.55. Not because of Yahoo boys. Not because of fraud. No, I had done it to myself.

My school fees? GONE. My future? In Jehovah’s hands.

I’m still not sure how it happened. One minute I was responsible, the next minute I was an economic disaster. Between one or two failed Bet9ja bets (odds were 500, how could I NOT try?), shawarma-induced amnesia, and a small, humble detour into soft life, I had financially deleted myself.

Now, normal people would sit their parents down and confess. But I was raised in a Nigerian household. I valued my spinal cord.

I had only one choice: Finesse my way out of this mess.

And so, Operation Fake Accident began.

Plotting Gif

THE SCAM OF A LIFETIME

What kind of accident would generate maximum pity but minimum pain?

  • Bike accident? Too much risk.
  • Balcony fall? My skull is not bulletproof.
  • Food poisoning? Nigerian mothers have zero sympathy for diarrhea.

Then, like a true genius, I found the answer: A slow-moving Keke Napep.

So there I was, standing by the road, waiting for my destiny. I saw the keke coming, calculated the speed, and THREW MYSELF INTO ITS PATH.

I landed like a Nollywood extra, rolling three times for effect. I even let out a weak “Ewoooo!” for added drama.

The keke driver hit his brakes and jumped out.

“AH! WETIN BE THIS?!”

The gathered crowd? Confused. Some aunties already clutching their chests. An amebo woman in Ankara screaming, “TAKE HIM TO THE HOSPITAL BEFORE HE DIES!”

I smiled internally. The plan was working.

HOSPITAL REVELATION: THE UNEXPECTED PLOT TWIST

Fast forward, I was on a hospital bed, face set to “weak but handsome.” My mother was crying in tongues. My father? Staring at me like he was waiting for DNA results.

Then the doctor walked in—the man who would ruin my entire scam.

He examined me, checked the X-rays, and dropped the bomb:

“This boy is healthier than me. There is absolutely nothing wrong with him.”

Omo.

My spirit left my body.

I turned to my mother, expecting maternal love. Instead, she clutched her chest like she was about to FAINT.

My father? His belt was already folded. The type of folding that meant my sins were about to be beaten out of me.

That’s when I knew: I didn’t just fake an accident. I faked my way into an ASS-WHOOPING.

I SAW MY ANCESTORS THAT NIGHT

“SO YOU’RE NOT INJURED?!” My father’s voice shook the room.

“Ehn… Daddy, I saw an angel!” I tried.

The slap that landed on my back sent me into the real spirit realm.

At that moment, I saw my future children. I saw the ghosts of other Nigerian kids who had tried this nonsense before me.

That was the day I learned a valuable lesson about African parenting:

You cannot outsmart a man who has survived NEPA, military rule, and sachet water inflation.

AFTERMATH: THE LONGEST MONTH OF MY LIFE

Long story short, I had to work at my uncle’s cement shop every weekend until the money was paid back in full. My father personally supervised the labor. My mother? She still prays for me randomly because she thinks my head is not correct.

Do I regret it? Absolutely.
Would I do it again? You need Jesus.

But one thing is for sure: If my future child ever tries this kind of nonsense, I will personally enroll them in military school.

MORAL OF THE STORY?

  1. Don’t spend your school fees on shawarma.
  2. If you must fake an accident, LEARN FROM NOLLYWOOD.
  3. Doctors are snitches.

And lastly, if you ever see your father folding his belt slowly, just start praying.

Hey Luv, Wait. Feel More Crackko Vibe:

If you love thrilling near-disaster stories, check out Confessions & Close Calls.

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