The boy's hostel of high school typically buzzed with their usual combination of pandemonium and rebellion, laughter echoing down the hostel corridors, the reek of boys sweaty laundry lingering heavily around, and the slapping of slippers on the concrete floors. I had only just returned from home into boarding school and I was still getting accustomed to the hostel life. I went to freshen up for the night after attending all classes for the day, I went down the shared bathroom, a long corridor with rusty showerheads 🚿, water trickling around the cracked tiles. I gave a sigh of relief as the drops of cold water washed away the tiredness of the day 😌.
After drying myself up, I went back to my room, a long room with wooden bunk beds lined side by side, each covered with a saggy mosquito net. My locker, a wooden closet at the base of my bed, was filled with my treasures: snacks, toiletries, and most importantly, the seven thousand naira my parents had sent to me, just enough to sustain me for the next three weeks. I went for the lock, turned the key 🔑, the satisfying click. But when I flung open the wooden gate, my hand fell. My notes were gone. All the naira notes had disappeared, and I was only left with the stale smell of metal and wood. For a moment, I was frightened 😨.
My mind was reeling so bad, was I crazy? Had I spent it all on something I'd made a mistake on? But down deep, I knew the answer. It had been stolen. A rage-mix of surprise was burning a hole in me, but I tried to calm myself. Panicking would not get the money back. I needed a strategy. The thief was clever, but I had one up my sleeve too. There was something unusual about one of the monies my father had issued me. We know money moves in a cycle, but Nigerian bills? They carry the marks of everyone who has used them. You see the human side of it, the little drawings ✍️, the names people wrote, even the prayers they inked on the side. I had such graffiti on my five hundred naira, some faded funny written words that I'd seen as I counted the stacks. More importantly, I'd committed its serial number, 265816, to memory. This was my approach to baiting the thief.
I lay on my bed that evening, pretending to be deep in thought while my roommates conversed. I then sighed loudly, loud enough that my roommates would notice but casually enough that I did not appear to be trying. "my money is lost," I said. Everyone looked around, and the hush in the room broke. "Seven thousand naira, like that." I murmured to my classmates, some of whom looked on as if shocked, some not. But I did not worry about their initial reaction. I was brewing my trap. "Funny thing," I continued, "would be the fact that I would recognize one of the notes if I saw it later. Something was written on it, other than that, I remember the serial number." There was a bit of silence amongst the boys. Slowly, however, the conversation resumed. But I noticed something, a roommate of mine, Akon, a lean boy with slanted eyes, with a history of slick moves and being a baddo, suddenly looked agitated. He shifted on the side of the bed, fingers tapping the bed edge. I had my hook 🎣. The next day, I promptly visited the school tuck shop, where the students bought their supplies and treats before breakfast. The no-fuss, soft-hearted, but sharp-witted tradeswoman knew the hostel gossip better than anyone else. “Ma’am, would it be okay if I asked you to watch out for me?” I asked of her softly. “If anyone pays with the five hundred naira with the color writing, check the serial number—265816. Call me then.” She raised an eyebrow but did it. A few hours later, returning from the dining hall, I heard the echo of my name resounding in the hallway. “Ola, come quickly!” I rushed back to the shop, full of anticipation. The vendor pointed toward a boy, just having consumed a snack. I felt a rush of anger when I noticed Akon enjoying my funds 😡. This is the note that you described to me, the seller said, handing it me. My gaze ran across the serial number—265816.
Caught red-handed!, I said 🕵️♂️
I did not let any more time waste as I went straight away to inform the case at hand to our housemaster, Mr. Richy, a chubby young man, black beard and serious-eyed individual with a deep, commanding voice. He listened carefully as I narrated my story, nodding occasionally. When I produced the note with the inscriptions on it, he was in awe.
Akon was called. He was of the play dumb kind of person when caught, but as Mr. Richy questioned him, his inconsistencies with the scenario emerged. Finally, he yielded and confessed.
Mr. Richy did not report the boy's case to the school authorities, but neither did he let Akon go with a light hand. A rugged but just man, he asked for the money he had confiscated and lined Akon up with a battalion of chores for the next week, sweeping hostel floors, washing the toilets 🚽, and running errands for the big boys.
It spread like wildfire, and I was the celebrity of the hostel by the end of the day. My friends had given me the name “Sherlock Ola, Sharp guy,” 🕵️♂️ hailing me for sleek move and wisdom. Everyone had come around to admire me.
I spent the night lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, feeling elated and triumphant ✨. I had outwitted a thief, recovered my money, and most of all, gained a valuable lesson: logic and awareness would be the determinant of triumph in any scenario.
And from then on, I kept my belongings properly and also tried to even be more vigilant. 🔒