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In the humid, high-energy bustle of Lagos, where the air smells of diesel and suya, a different kind of hustle hums through the fiber-optic cables. In a cramped apartment in Lekki, the glow of three monitors illuminated Tunde’s face. He wasn't looking for a job; he was looking for a "mugu."
Tunde’s fingers danced across the keyboard, deploying thousands of SMS blasts disguised as urgent bank alerts.
"BVN Blocked! Your account access is restricted. Click here to verify your identity immediately: bit.ly/Lagos-Bank-Secure"
Across the city, Teni was rushing to catch a Danfo bus. Her phone buzzed. Panic flared—she needed that money for her mother’s medication. She hovered her thumb over the blue, underlined text.
"Don't click it," a voice whispered in her head. It was her brother’s warning from last month after he lost his entire savings to a "crypto giveaway."
Back in the apartment, Tunde watched his dashboard. Most people ignored him, but he only needed one "fish" to bite. He saw a hit—someone in Ikeja had clicked. The phishing page, a perfect replica of a Tier-1 bank site, waited to swallow their credentials.
But Teni took a breath, closed the message, and dialed her bank’s official customer care line instead. "Your account is fine, Ma," the agent confirmed.
In the digital jungle of Lagos, the smartest move isn't the fastest finger—it’s the one that stays still. Tunde sighed as the Ikeja lead went cold. In this city, the hustle is real, but so is the cost of a single click.