Narrated From: Anonymous Confession – Age 26, Benin City
I never thought I’d tell this story. But the guilt doesn’t go away. It haunts me — especially at night. The soft hum of my laptop used to mean money. Now, it reminds me of her.
Her name was Maya — 36, British, divorced, mother of two. I met her online as “Michael Thompson,” a widower contractor from Canada. Handsome, soft-spoken, spiritual. Everything I knew she needed. Because I studied her before I spoke to her.
That’s the game.
Before we even say “hi,” we already know you — what you post, what you cry about, who broke your heart. Maya was lonely. She’d been posting poems about pain, loss, and trust. She was perfect.
I entered with patience. Weeks of chats. Video calls (pre-recorded clips I downloaded of a white man). I sent her flowers — fake delivery receipts and all. I made her believe again.
She told me, “Michael, I haven’t felt this seen in years.”
And that’s when I moved in.
The con started small.
First, my “bank” froze my foreign account. Then, my “daughter” fell ill in Nairobi — emergency surgery. Then, I was arrested for “not paying hotel bills” during a business trip in Morocco.
Each time, Maya sent money. Small at first — £100, then £250, then £1,000. She pawned her jewelry. Took a loan from work. Took another from her church’s credit union.
I was watching my PayPal balance grow while she was drowning.
One day, she sent me a voice note. Shaky voice.
> “Michael, I’m in deep. I’ve maxed out everything. They’re calling me at work. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
I listened and laughed with my guys. “Omo, she don enter finish.” We called it chopping the soul — when the victim is so deep in, they can’t climb out.
But the final blow was the “investment.”
I told her I needed £10,000 for a gold deal. I sent fake contracts, stamped documents, even a fake video from a supposed “Nigerian lawyer.” She said she’d find a way.
Three days later, the money dropped.
I celebrated. Bought an iPhone 14 and a new wristwatch. Life was sweet. Until the next morning.
One of my burner numbers buzzed — a message from her daughter:
> “Are you Michael? My mum is dead. She took her life last night. You people ruined her.”
I froze.
She sent a picture. Maya, pale, eyes closed. Bottles on the table. A suicide note.
It read:
> “To the man I thought loved me — you took more than my money. You took what little hope I had left. I pray God forgives you. Because I can’t.”
Since then, I haven’t opened that SIM card again.
I’ve deleted the account. I still have the money, the watch, the phone. But nothing tastes right anymore.
I see her face every time I try to smile. I hear her voice when the generator goes silent at night.
People think Yahoo is just fraud. But sometimes, it’s murder with Wi-Fi.
To every guy still running game:
You don’t know how close your next victim is to the edge. That money you’re rushing might just be blood money in disguise.
I was “smart.” I was “sharp.” But now, I carry a ghost in my chest.
“Inbox Of Death” – How A Yahoo Boy’s Game Ended In Suicide