Money doublers and Lagos Mugus, by Wale Bakare
I am not a rich man. Not in material terms, at least. Never been. It is no longer a priority after six decades on this terra firma. It takes a certain set of skills to create and grow the kind of wealth that would qualify you for a mention in a conversation of the rich. I am not sure I have those skills. The other option is to get it by all means necessary. I have never been desperate enough for riches to be willing to do anything to make it happen.
As a young man over three decades ago, I had friends who I grew up with—young men who decided to join the industry that had been made popular at the time by Fred Ajudua, Morris Ibekwe, and more than a few others who later made their way to the legislative chambers in Abuja and the various States. These friends felt I was wasting my talent writing English (that wasn’t their strongest point), and that if I joined them, I would be more convincing to the ‘magas’ as an English gentleman. I turned them down as politely as possible. It just wasn’t for me, despite their obviously affluent lifestyle.
This reticence for unearned wealth also had a beneficial side effect: I have never been scammed either. Oh, there have been several attempts. I have been ‘spoken’ to by a calabash, and I have been staged by ‘wash-wash’ scammers. These experiences are captured in my book: When the Spirits Know Your Name. There was even one as recently as a couple of weeks ago. I have, however, developed a healthy cynicism toward anything that promises abnormal returns. My mantra has always been: “If it looks too good to be true, then it is.”
I have only failed to heed this once, and that was when the Nigerian Stock Exchange, led by Ndi Okereke Onyuike, conspired with Cecilia Ibru and her Oceanic Bank to exchange my hard-earned naira for supposed shares, which quickly became so worthless even a boli seller refused to accept them to wrap boli for customers. I can’t be held responsible for that particular mishap since it had the approval of the government. I am, however, talking about greed-enabled scams—those that promise something for practically nothing. There is a Yoruba proverb that goes, “Eni to n wa ifa, wa ofo.” This literally translates as: “He who seeks to get something for nothing seeks loss.”
Yesterday, a popular Ibadan-based Fuji musician named Taye Currency was on stage, spewing curses on his friends, family, and band boys who, according to him, convinced him to invest N10 million in the latest of a string of Ponzi schemes that have ripped Nigerians of trillions of naira over the last three decades. I remember very clearly when the first really popular one hit the headlines in the early nineties. It was floated by a fellow called Umana Umana, and he took Lagosians to the cleaners. There was no internet, online banking, Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter, yet this fellow hit Lagosians in the solar plexus. Greed powered the scheme and, naturally, there was weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth.
You would think people had learned their lesson, but alas, the allure of easy money is so strong it overpowers reason, confounds intelligence, and makes fools of the wise. It was like Lagosians and Nigerians were queueing up, waiting for the next person audacious enough to take them to the cleaners. The ‘Ponzi scheme’ has been around for a very long time—even before the birth of the Italian conman who lent his name to the scam. Similar schemes are referenced in Charles Dickens’ novels Martin Chuzzlewit (1844) and Little Dorrit (1857). But Charles Ponzi took it to a new level in the 1920s in the U.S. due to the sheer number of people he swindled. The Nigerian operators, however, make Charles Ponzi look like an epileptic pickpocket at Ikeja bus stop.
When MMM swept the land a few years ago, about N18 billion was lost across the country. Businesses collapsed, relationships were destroyed, and some people even took their own lives. The publicity that MMM’s collapse attracted in 2016 was unprecedented. Thanks to the internet and the creativity of Nigerians on social media, almost every living Nigerian heard about it. You would think it couldn’t happen again, right?
Sadly, to paraphrase Albert Einstein: “Two things are infinite—the universe and human greed; and I’m not sure about the universe.” Several other schemes have since followed, and greedy Nigerians—like sheep—have followed the same path. Whether it was Ultimate Cycler (which promised 400% returns), MBA Forex Trading (claiming to trade Forex), Twinkas (which promised to double investments), or Racksterlii (which flaunted a vague digital marketing model), they all shared one thing in common: a promise of totally unrealistic returns that any reasonable person should flee from. And just when we thought it couldn’t get worse, CBEX happened.
CBEX promised a return of 100% in 30 days. It falsely presented itself as a global brand, claiming ties with governments in Nigeria and China. Using heavy social media marketing and ‘digital trading’ buzzwords, it gained unprecedented traction. Following Charles Ponzi’s playbook, it paid early birds who became evangelists of the scheme, then vanished with N1.3 trillion. As if that wasn’t enough, when payments stopped, they told victims to pay $100 each to “verify their accounts” to receive payouts. Many, desperate and broken, still paid. The result? “This website can no longer be reached.”
I’ve heard some say the government needs to do more to educate people about these scams. But how about people doing more to rein in their greed? There is no legitimate business under the sun that gives a 100% return in 30 days. Some educated folks know these are pyramid schemes but hope to get in and out before the collapse—playing “investment Russian roulette.” Some get away with it. Most don’t. The National Orientation Agency should, at least, sensitize the locals in their native languages about the dangers of these schemes. It might help the gullible, but it won’t help the greedy. What drives most people isn’t ignorance. It’s greed. And the premium tears? They’ll stop flowing… until the next scam rolls into town.
