It was a deeply unsettling experience I had last month in Abuja, one of those moments when fate seems to assert a quiet, ruthless authority over human vigilance, as though reminding us that control is often an illusion. I have always guarded my phone like a “new bride” with a kind of obsessive attentiveness, the sort that makes one check, recheck, and reassure oneself of its presence, almost to the point where the object begins to feel like a living companion rather than a mere device. In a time when the cost of phones has risen to rival small capital investments, losing one is no longer a trivial inconvenience; it is a rupture: financial, emotional, and functional. It disrupts continuity, erases fragments of memory, and throws one into the exhausting cycle of recovery in a digital age where identity itself is stored in fragments of data.
My past experiences had conditioned me into this carefulness. I often joked that I possessed an unusual gift for maintenance and vigilance. Once, when I took one of my oldest phones, still intact after years of use to a technician just to retrieve some information, he was visibly stunned. The device refused to power on, and after examining it, he remarked with disbelief that such a model was no longer common in the market and, more astonishingly, that its “engine” had never been opened. “Are you sure you used this phone?” he asked. I laughed. Things rarely spoil in my hands, I told him, though I admitted that accidents, like fate, often defy even the most careful human intentions. That moment came after a painful episode that forced me back to that old device, the loss of my phone in Abuja.
I had just alighted from a car, unaware that my phone had slipped away in that brief, careless transition between motion and stillness. The realization struck moments later. Borrowing a friend’s phone, I dialed my number, it rang once, and then abruptly switched off. In that instant, I felt a hollow drop within me, as though something vital had been extracted. I knew immediately: I had become a victim. It all felt cinematic, almost unreal, just minutes earlier, I was in full possession of my world, calm and untroubled, and now, everything had vanished into the unknown. My mind raced through the consequences: banking details, documents, contacts, fragments of personal history, all suddenly exposed, lost, or at risk. I sat down, stunned, wishing reality had a rewind button.
What haunted me most was not just the loss, but the imagined consciousness of the person who picked it up. It happened too quickly for it to be accidental ignorance; whoever found it must have seen it fall. I imagined their reaction, perhaps excitement, perhaps triumph, a sense of “unexpected fortune.” In that moment, my loss became someone else’s gain, my distress another person’s celebration. It raised a troubling question that scholars in Behavioral Economics have long examined: why do individuals interpret the same event, finding a lost item either as an ethical dilemma or as an opportunity?
It is within this same moral landscape that another story emerged from Jos, a story that restores faith even as it exposes contrast. At the bustling Terminus Market, a small-scale trader, Mrs. Sarah Luka, found herself in possession of something not hers,₦1,000,000 mistakenly packed into goods she had purchased for just ₦6,000. The discovery could have easily been reframed as luck, destiny, or divine provision. Yet, three days later, she returned every naira.
Her reasoning was disarmingly simple: the money was not hers. But beneath that simplicity lies a complex moral architecture. Scholars like Lawrence Kohlberg would describe her action as reflecting a higher stage of moral development, one guided not by fear of punishment or desire for reward, but by an internalized principle of justice and empathy. She placed herself in the position of the trader, Abubakar Dola, imagining the devastation such a loss would bring. At the same time, her worldview incorporated a belief in divine accountability, echoing perspectives in Moral Philosophy that emphasize the interplay between conscience, faith, and action.
Research in social psychology suggests that ethical behavior often hinges on cognitive framing. When individuals focus narrowly on immediate gain, they are more likely to justify questionable actions. However, when they adopt what scholars call “moral imagination”, the ability to envision consequences beyond oneself, they tend to act more ethically. Mrs. Luka’s choice reflects this broader framing. She did not dwell on what ₦1,000,000 could do for her; she dwelled on what losing it would mean for another.
Contrast this with an alternative mental script. Imagine if her thoughts had been consumed by possibilities, the expansion of her business, payment of school fees, small luxuries long denied. Such thinking, while human, could have gradually rationalized keeping the money. This aligns with findings by Daniel Kahneman, who argued that human decisions are often shaped by cognitive biases that favor immediate reward over long-term ethical considerations.
The truth, then, is both simple and profound: how we think shapes what we become. When the mind is occupied solely with benefits, it often silences the quiet voice of consequence. Objectivity, the ability to weigh both gain and loss, self and other, becomes the thin line between integrity and compromise.
Unfortunately, within our society, the normalization of deceit has blurred this line. While public discourse frequently centers on leadership failure, there is far less reflection on the everyday ethics of ordinary citizens. In Abuja, around the same period of my loss, I encountered a small but telling incident. I was charged ₦5,000 for an item later revealed to cost ₦2,500. I smiled and walked away, not out of ignorance, but out of a reluctant acceptance of a pattern too common to contest. Others shared similar experiences, higher prices for the uninformed, exploitation of strangers, a quiet economy of opportunism.
From motor parks to filling stations, from markets to digital spaces, the patterns repeat themselves. Under-dispensed fuel, counterfeit products, inflated prices, hacked accounts, these are no longer anomalies but routines. Even institutions meant to uphold standards, like Standards Organisation of Nigeria (SON), struggle against a tide of compromised values. The problem is not merely systemic; it is cultural, embedded in what society increasingly tolerates or even celebrates.
There is a paradox here. A deeply religious society, yet one where moral contradictions thrive. Acts of dishonesty occur even in sacred spaces, challenging the assumption that faith automatically translates to ethical conduct. Scholars in sociology have long argued that when societal values become misaligned, when success is measured more by outcome than by process, deviant behaviors begin to appear normal.
This is why the story of Mrs. Sarah Luka resonates so powerfully. It is not just about returning money; it is about resisting a prevailing current. It is about choosing principle over opportunity, empathy over advantage.
I understand, perhaps more than most, what Abubakar Dola must have felt when his money was returned, a sense of relief so profound, it borders on the miraculous. I, too, waited and hoped that the person who found my phone might experience a similar moral awakening, might choose empathy over self-interest, might reach out, even if for a fee. But that hope faded. I moved on, purchased another phone, yet the sense of loss lingered, not just for what was gone, but for what could have been restored.
And so, these remain two tales, one from Abuja, one from Jos. One marked by silent opportunism, the other by luminous integrity. One feeds on another’s loss; the other restores it. Between them lies the enduring question of human nature: not what happens to us, but how we choose to respond.
Bagudu can be reached via bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or 07034943575.
