I still remember that Thursday morning with the clarity of someone who's lost something dear at the hands of fate—or rather, at the hands of a thief. It was the early hours, 7 am to be exact, when the Harmattan haze cloaked Lagos like a thief in the night, only this thief was in broad daylight. I was heading to work, navigating through the chaos of the Lagos Badagry expressway, specifically at the first gate junction at the Mile 2 bus stop. 

My phone was tucked safely, or so I thought, in my pocket. But as I was about to board the bus, in that very moment of transition from pavement to vehicle, my life was about to take an unexpected turn. I didn't even realize my phone had been pickpocketed until the conductor, with his hand outstretched and a look of impatience, asked for my fare. 

"Ehn, you no dey pay your money again? Or na your phone you dey use to pay?" 

That's when I checked my pocket, and my heart sank. My phone was gone. The realization hit me like a wave; all my contacts, my work, my life, vanished into the Lagos morning mist.

The impact on my mental health was immediate and profound. It wasn't just about the device; it was the sudden disconnection from the world. I felt isolated, vulnerable, and oddly enough, a bit foolish. How could I let this happen? The constant replay of the moment in my mind was like a horror movie on a loop, each time increasing my stress levels.

The first step was to retrieve my SIM card, which in itself was a journey through bureaucratic hell. The process was tedious, requiring visits to the telecom office, long waits, and the frustration of proving my identity without the very device that held all my digital life. 

SIM retrieval in Nigeria is like trying to get into heaven without knowing the password. 

Next came the financial hit. Replacing a phone isn't just about buying a new one; it's about the hidden costs - the data you lose, the time you spend, the potential gigs you miss. As a writer, my phone was my office, my studio, my connection to my gigs, my groups, and my readers. Suddenly, I was cut off from my work, which meant my livelihood was compromised.

Lost my phone, lost my gigs. Anyone need an old-school typewriter? 

Now, let's talk about prevention. We Nigerians are known for our ingenuity, but when it comes to phone theft, we're always playing catch-up. From wearing your phone around your neck like it's a 90s fashion statement to using apps that lock your phone the moment it's out of your Bluetooth range, we've tried it all. But the thieves in Lagos, they're like Houdinis; they've seen all our tricks.

I now hold my phone in my hand in, a tight grip. I'm either very secure or very old school. 

The boredom before getting a new phone was real. I was like a child who's had their favorite toy taken away. No social media, no music, no quick Google searches for inspiration or information. I found myself staring at walls, contemplating life without the constant buzz of notifications, which, if I'm honest, was somewhat peaceful but mostly just dull.

Boredom level: I've now memorized the ceiling pattern in my room. 

The stress, however, was relentless. Every day without my phone felt like a race against time to catch up on what I'd missed, to rebuild what was taken. The fear of it happening again was now a constant companion. 

And let's not forget the ever-smart Lagos thieves. They're not just picking pockets; they're strategists and opportunists. They know the bus stops, the traffic jams, the moments of distraction. They've turned crime into an art form, almost admirable if it weren't so infuriating.

Lagos thieves got PhDs in Pocketology. They should teach a class.

This isn't just a Lagos or Nigerian thing. In London, thieves are just as cunning, maybe with a British accent to their schemes. In New York, they blend into the crowd before you even know you've been hit. Crime, it seems, is universally opportunistic, knowing no gender, tribe, religion, or belief. 

Get your phone nicked in London, and feel like a tourist. At least the weather was nice. 

New York minute and your phone is gone. Guess crime is the real melting pot here.

 I've heard from others, like Bisola, who lost her phone on her way back from the night shift where she works as a nurse, losing her treasured phone to a cunny juju using cab driver in Ibadan. Her only means to call her mother, communicate with her boyfriend and siblings, and her mobile office to sell beauty cream. Or Daniel, whose phone was his lifeline to his skilled work, now struggling to make ends meet. There's a shared pain here, a brotherhood and sisterhood of the stolen phone.

“Lost my phone at Tejuosho market, now I dey use smoke signals find my next job,” says Daniel" 

Without my phone, I'm like a ship without a compass. Freelancers, we feel the pinch harder. 

In all this, there's a bit of humor, a touch of sarcasm, because what else can you do but laugh at the absurdity of it all? We Nigerians have this way of turning tragedy into comedy, finding laughter in the darkest moments. Your guys will still find a way to make you laugh, a normal thing.

I now speak to my phone before leaving home: 'Stay with me, we've been through too much to part ways now.

The moral, if there is one, isn't just about being more careful. It's about resilience, about how we adapt, rebuild, and keep going despite the setbacks. Phone theft is a slice of life in Lagos, a reminder of our vulnerability, but also of our unyielding spirit.

So, here I am, with a new phone, a bit wiser, a lot more paranoid, but still connected, still writing, still living. In the end, it's not just about the device; it's about the stories we tell, the lives we lead, and the next chapter we write, even if it starts with a small local dialect, "E don do me o, this one na to dey hold my phone like say na my pikin."

This is life, this is Lagos, this is everywhere.

 We lose, we learn, we laugh, and we go on.

St Martins.