At seventeen, Tunde believed there were only two kinds of people in the world: those who found opportunity, and those who watched it disappear.
He lived with his widowed mother on the outskirts of Benin City, Nigeria. Every morning, he walked past unfinished concrete buildings, open-air markets, and mechanics repairing cars that seemed older than he was. He was bright, curious, and had dreams of studying computer science, but dreams demanded tuition money his family simply did not have.
His uncle Sola seemed to possess a magical ability to make money appear.
Sola arrived every few months in polished shoes, carrying expensive phones and wearing crisp shirts that contrasted sharply with the neighborhood’s faded colors. He never seemed to have a traditional job, yet he paid restaurant bills without looking at prices and handed out cash to relatives like a generous king.
“What exactly do you do?” Tunde finally asked.
His uncle smiled.
“I help people separate themselves from money they were going to lose anyway.”
Tunde laughed, “You are joking, aren’t you?
“No, Tunde, I am not.”
Weeks later, Tunde accepted an invitation to spend the summer with his uncle.
Sola’s apartment was unlike anything Tunde had expected. It resembled a small office more than a home. Four laptops occupied one wall. Whiteboards contained names, dates, countries, and handwritten notes. Shelves held books—not novels, but psychology, marketing, persuasion, and communication.
“I don’t hack computers,” Sola explained. “People imagine scammers are technical geniuses. Most aren’t. They study people.”
He pointed to the shelves.
“Human nature is easier to exploit than software.”
Tunde listened carefully.
His uncle said, “ I specialize in targeting independent authors who have published books through Amazon.”
“They’ve invested years writing,” Sola explained. “Many dream of becoming famous. Hope is powerful.”
He demonstrated how he gathered publicly available information.
An author’s website revealed an email address.
Social media revealed excitement about a recent book release.
Interviews revealed ambitions.
“People tell the world exactly how they want to be fooled,” Sola said quietly.
He described how scammers might impersonate literary agents, marketing consultants, foreign publishers, or film producers, promising opportunities that seemed plausible enough to entice hopeful writers into paying bogus fees or sharing sensitive information.
“You’re not selling lies,” Sola claimed. “You’re selling the future they already imagine.”
Tunde felt uneasy.
His first assignment seemed harmless.
“Write congratulations on their books, nothing more”.
Using ChatGPT, as his uncle showed him, Tunde drafted warm, enthusiastic emails praising authors for their work.
His uncle corrected every sentence.
“Too formal.”
“Too eager.”
“Use their first name.”
“Mention a detail from their book.”
“Sounds like someone who genuinely read it.”
Hours became days.
Days became weeks.
Tunde discovered his uncle wasn’t teaching computers.
He was teaching trust.
One afternoon, an elderly American woman replied.
She thanked them for appreciating her novel. She explained she had spent twelve years writing it after retiring from teaching history.
She attached photographs from her book signing.
“There,” Sola said.
“She trusts us.”
Tunde stared at the smiling woman in the photographs.
She looked like one of his own teachers.
“What’s next?”
“We continue the conversation.”
As the weeks passed, Tunde became increasingly uncomfortable.
Some authors spoke proudly about their grandchildren.
Others discussed illnesses, spouses who had recently died, or lifelong dreams finally realized through publishing.
They weren’t anonymous names anymore.
They were people.
One evening, Tunde asked, “Do you ever think about what happens after they send money?”
His uncle barely looked up.
“I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I did, I’d stop.”
Everything changed when an elderly widower wrote a heartbreaking email.
He explained that he had spent his late wife’s life insurance money publishing the novel they had dreamed of writing together.
He desperately hoped someone overseas wanted to translate it.
He thanked “the publishing representative” for believing in his work.
Tunde reread the message five times.
His uncle simply nodded.
“Perfect target.”
That night, Tunde couldn’t sleep.
He imagined his own mother trusting a stranger with the family’s savings.
The thought made him sick.
The next morning, he closed the laptop.
“I’m done.”
His uncle frowned.
“You’ve learned too much.”
“I learned enough.”
“You think these people are innocent?”
“No.”
“They’re greedy,” said his uncle.
“They’re hopeful.”
“They’re lonely.”
“They’re human.”
For the first time, Sola’s confident smile disappeared.
Tunde packed his belongings.
His uncle tried one last argument.
“The world cheats everyone.”
“Maybe,” Tunde replied.
“But I don’t have to help it.”
Back in Benin City, life remained difficult.
There was still little money.
University still seemed distant.
But Tunde began repairing phones and laptops at a neighborhood electronics shop, teaching himself legitimate programming during quiet evenings.
Months later, he volunteered with a local youth organization that warned teenagers about online fraud schemes. Without revealing his uncle’s identity, he explained how social engineering worked, how scammers built trust, and why people from every country and background could become victims.
He also discovered that many young Nigerians resented the stereotype that everyone from their country was a scammer. Most were students, tradespeople, teachers, entrepreneurs, or professionals simply trying to build honest lives.
Years later, after earning a scholarship to study cybersecurity, Tunde reflected on the summer that had nearly changed his life forever.
His uncle had been right about one thing.
Human nature was easier to exploit than software.
But Tunde learned something his uncle never had:
Understanding human nature also meant understanding empathy.
And once you truly saw the people behind the email addresses, exploiting them became far more difficult than protecting them.