I was now at the edge of my wooden bench on the balcony as Aunty Nneka ended the call, screaming. The baritone of her voice always pushed me one step further along the bench, making me flinch.

As usual, she concluded our conversation with her favorite Igbo adage, “Aku fechaa o dara awo,” which translates to “After flying, the termite will fall to be eaten by the toad.” She basically used this saying to tell me that I would eventually throw away my ego, accept the job Uncle Ifenna offered, and stop gallivanting the streets of Lagos in search of money.

“Goodnight, Aunty,” I whispered, even though the call had ended, then reached for my plate of rice to continue eating.

I didn't mind having this conversation repeatedly until she realized that I was uninterested in Uncle Ifenna’s “kind gesture.” Was I in desperate need of money? Yes. Would I ever work for him? No. The man was as proud as a peacock and would require that I worship him for an eternity if I took that job. Besides, I had other plans and intended to execute them as of tomorrow.

The next day was Monday, and I had set out at exactly 7:00 am to meet the man who promised to introduce me to a business that would bring me millions.

My hopes were as high as Mount Everest when I journeyed through the traffic-jammed roads of Oshodi to get to Ikeja Underbridge.

As I arrived at the address he had given me, my excitement quickly turned to frustration. The so-called "business opportunity" was nothing more than a Ponzi scheme. This man began explaining how I needed to register six people under me first.

“Oga why didn't you tell me all these ones last week eh? What nonsense!” I screamed at him, my heart sinking as each word left my mouth. Before he could reply to me, I stormed out of his tiny office, my anger simmering as I hurried through the crowded streets to get back home.

Like my day hadn't been bad enough, a group of area boys accosted me as I approached my house—another reminder to leave this Godforsaken street after paying this year's rent. They managed to snatch my purse, which contained most of the money I had brought along for the proposed business. I returned home despondent that night and my mind raced with disappointment and anger.

In a bid not to let this setback defeat me, I resolved to take action the next day and get started on plan B. On Tuesday morning, I decided to sell my TV to raise some money. My friend on Lagos Island had mentioned a cloth business opportunity, she had explained how the business was booming and told me the exact amount of cash I needed to get started. Once I confirmed she had gotten to the shop, I made my way to the bus stop to begin the trip to Lagos Island, clutching my purse tightly, which contained the money from the TV sale. I had argued vigorously for a transfer because I didn't want to go through what I did yesterday, but the guy insisted he only had cash, so I took it.

Thanks to the traffic jam, thirty minutes of zero movement had gone by while I was on the bus. At one point, I couldn't take it anymore and decided to divert my frustration to the conductor, asking him to direct the driver through secret turns that would help us escape the blocked road. Following my suggestion, he started screaming and shouting, asking me to pay up; trust Lagos conductors to always be ready for a fight.

I immediately pulled some money from my purse and flung it at him, hoping to avoid further confrontation because in truth, I wasn't ready to fight. After a few seconds of inspecting the money, the conductor shouted, "Madam, which kind yeye money be this? You dey try scam me? Na fake money be this now!"

My money? Fake? This man was trying to rile me up this morning and I would give him what he wanted. I began arguing with the conductor, my voice rising in anger as the veins in my head popped with every word I spoke.

Soon enough, my anger turned to panic. The bus driver had intervened, examining the money before declaring it fake. Knowing Lagos passengers, I wasn't surprised that they all turned on me, their insults flying from one corner to another. Humiliated, I was forced off the bus in the middle of the road.

As I stood there, I opened my bag to inspect the rest of the money. It was indeed fake. God! That stupid boy had scammed me. How could I have missed this?

I immediately dug through my purse to find my phone and began to call him, hoping that this was all some kind of misunderstanding. The automated voice that kept replying—“The number you're trying to call is currently switched off. Please try again later,”—told me it wasn't. I should have stuck with my instincts and insisted on a transfer, or better still, completely avoided those online marketplaces where sellers and buyers meet.

My panic went through the roof. I had no idea what to do or how to get anywhere with only counterfeit money in my possession. As I stood there contemplating my next move, my thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of my phone. For a moment, I hoped It was John, the guy who bought the TV. But It wasn't. It was Nsikak, my neighbor.

"Hello?" I answered, my voice vibrating with exasperation.

“Fine girl, Madam Bisi came banging on your door o. She said you owe her five thousand. And, I think you left your tap on. I can hear and see water overflowing," he added before hanging up.

I could've sworn I didn't leave my tap on. It must have been Oje, the compound plumber, who had gone around to check the tap he fixed last week. For goodness sake!

I considered calling Nsikak again to ask that he pay for the Okada I'll board back home, because I couldn't think of any other option, but decided against it since I still owed him ten thousand naira.

“This stupid country is definitely after my life," I murmured under my breath, hissing as I double-tapped my phone and scrolled down to "U" in my contacts.

After two deep breaths, I dialed Uncle Ifenna's number.