Falling Into the Fraudster’s Trick

didn’t think it could happen to me.

I was careful. I was educated. I had read warnings, shared posts, even laughed at people who fell for scams online. I believed fraud was something that happened to the careless, the greedy, the desperate not to someone like me.

I was wrong.

It started on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, the kind of day where nothing dramatic was supposed to happen. My phone buzzed with a notification. A message. Professional. Polite.

“Good day. We noticed an issue with your recent transaction. Kindly confirm your details to avoid account suspension.”

The message looked official. The logo was familiar. The tone was calm but urgent just enough urgency to make you act without thinking too much.

I hesitated for a second.

Then I clicked.

The link opened a page that looked exactly like my bank’s website. Same colors. Same fonts. Same layout. It asked me to log in to “secure my account.”

My mind whispered, Something feels off.

But another voice spoke louder: What if it’s real? What if your account gets blocked?

Fear is a powerful thing.

I entered my details.

Nothing happened immediately. The page refreshed and showed a message: “Thank you. Your account is now secure.”

I felt relieved. Almost proud of myself for acting quickly.

Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed again.

Debit alert.

₦50,000.

I frowned. I hadn’t spent anything.

Another alert came.

₦120,000.

My heart started racing. I opened my banking app. It wouldn’t load. My hands were shaking now, sweat forming at the back of my neck.

Then the final alert arrived.

₦300,000.

Just like that, months of savings disappeared in minutes.

I froze.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just sat there, staring at my phone like it might explain itself. Like it might say, Just kidding.

But it didn’t.

Panic rushed in late but heavy. I called the bank’s customer care line. Busy. I called again. Busy. When I finally got through, the woman on the line spoke gently, professionally like someone who had delivered bad news many times before.

“Your account details were compromised,” she said.

“We will investigate, but recovery is not guaranteed.”

That sentence broke something inside me.

Not guaranteed.

After the call ended, silence filled the room. The kind of silence that feels loud. Accusatory. I replayed everything in my head every click, every second I ignored my instinct.

How could I be so careless?

Shame arrived next.

I didn’t tell anyone at first. Not my friends. Not my family. I carried it alone, like a secret wound. I avoided conversations about money. I laughed when people joked about scams, my chest tightening every time.

At night, sleep avoided me. I kept calculating what that money was meant for rent, bills, plans. All gone.

A week later, I finally told someone.

They didn’t laugh. They didn’t say “I told you so.” They just said, “It happens more than you think.”

That was when I realized something painful but important: fraud doesn’t target stupidity. It targets trust, fear, and timing.

The fraudster knew exactly what they were doing.

They used urgency so I wouldn’t pause.

They used familiarity so I wouldn’t question.

They used fear so I wouldn’t think clearly.

And I fell for it.

Not because I was foolish.

But because I was human.

The money never came back.

I had to start again slowly, painfully. Cutting expenses. Borrowing pride before borrowing money. Rebuilding confidence along with finances.

But the hardest part wasn’t the loss of money.

It was the loss of trust.

For a long time, every message felt suspicious. Every call made my heart race. I became hyper-aware, almost paranoid. Innocent notifications made me anxious.

Eventually, that softened too.

Now, when I hear someone say, “I can never fall for fraud,” I don’t argue. I just nod quietly.

Because I know how it happens.

It doesn’t come with drama.

It doesn’t come with obvious danger.

It comes disguised as routine.

Falling into the fraudster’s trick taught me a lesson I didn’t ask for but one I won’t forget.

Pause.

Verify.

Trust your instinct.

And never underestimate how convincing deception can be.

I lost money.

But I gained awareness.

And that lesson though expensive might have saved me from something worse.