"We bought fake phones and resold them for extra profit."

Let me tell you something I haven’t told even my closest friends. A few months ago, I made over ₦15 million. No cap. Not from yahoo or forex. I made it selling fake iPhones in Computer Village.

Before you judge me, hear my story.

I’ve always been a hustler. I finished school years ago and couldn’t find a stable job. I tried POS, worked in a betting shop, and even sold second-hand clothes in Yaba market. But still, I was barely surviving. Then one day, a guy I knew from my street, Emma, pulled me aside and told me about this new “update” that could help me make a lot of money in a short time.

“Guy, this your suffer don too much. Follow me go Computer Village tomorrow. I go show you road."

That’s how I entered the Computer Village hustle.

Computer Village was buzzing as usual. Hundreds of people buying, selling, bargaining. Emma pulled me into a small shop at the back of one complex. Inside, stacks of iPhones filled glass display cases.

Emma was already deep in the business. He didn’t sell original phones. His own was fake or refurbished China-made phones that look exactly like iPhones. He had suppliers in Alaba and connections in China. He told me straight up: “Na packaging dey sell.”

He taught me everything—how to identify a gullible customer, how to “demo” the phone just enough to impress without giving them too much time to inspect, and how to combine real iPhone parts with fake casings to pass them off as new.

He sourced dead or stolen iPhones for cheap—some from pickpockets, others from frustrated owners who thought their broken devices were worthless. He’d strip them down, replace the outer shell with new casings and screens, then use specialized software to reset everything. With fake iOS animations installed, the phones would boot up with the Apple logo and setup screen, looking completely legit.

Then the money started rolling in.

We bought these phones for ₦40,000 to ₦50,000 and sold them for ₦180,000 to ₦250,000—sometimes even more. People were practically begging us to sell to them.

In my first week, I sold six. The second week? Fifteen. Business was booming. By December, I couldn't keep up with the demand. Everyone wanted to upgrade their phones before Detty December.

By the end of January, I checked my account—I had made over ₦15 million in profit. I was in disbelief. I went home and cried. For the first time in my life, I had serious money. I bought a freezer for my mum, paid my sister’s school fees, upgraded my wardrobe, and moved into a better apartment.

But deep down, I knew I was doing something wrong.

When customers came back with complaints, we lied. We’d blame it on software or damage they supposedly caused.

“You dropped it, abi? Warranty no cover that.”
“Na wetin you install spoil am.”
“Wait—make I call my supplier… oh, him line no dey go.”

Most customers gave up. A few fought back, and we’d either refund half or threaten them.

I remember one woman who bought a phone for her son’s birthday. Three days later, it stopped working. She came back in tears. That moment shook me.

I began to feel like a thief—exploiting people’s trust and ignorance. Scamming innocent customers.

So why am I telling this now?

Because I’ve left that life behind. Two months ago, I quit. I used part of the money to open a legitimate accessories and gadgets store. Now I sell power banks, chargers, smartwatches—and yes, fairly used phones too. But I’m honest about everything. No fakes, no lies.

I sleep better now.

Was the money good? Absolutely.
Was the hustle risky? Extremely.
Would I go back to it? Never.