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Anatomy of a Romance Scammer
Meet Richie, a Nigerian “Yahoo Boy” who laundered tens of thousands of dollars—all thanks to Trisha.
June 18, 2026 10:00 AM
Photo illustration by Slate. Photo by Amazon.
Excerpted from The Yahoo Boys: Love, Deception, and the Real Lives of Nigeria’s Romance Scammers , by Carlos Barragán. Published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Copyright © 2026 by Carlos Barragán. All rights reserved.
Richie was born in Ikotun, a crowded suburb on the edge of Lagos, Nigeria. When his parents divorced, his dad took him to Badagry, a town that once served as a hub of the slave trade, about an hour and a half from Lagos. He remembered those years fondly, a happy kid playing with friends on the beach. But one day, his mum came to Badagry and told him she wanted to buy him clothes. They took one bus, then another, and another. After an hour, he realized they weren’t buying clothes—they’d left Badagry for good. When they reached her house in Ikotun, his mum told Richie his dad had agreed he’d be living with her from then on.
Richie never saw his dad again, and he always resented his mum for it. He hated living with her in Ikotun, especially when she remarried. One day, years later, his stepfather said that Richie’s dad deserved to be dead. “From then on, I decided I was never going to respect him again,” Richie told me. “I wasn’t even going to greet him.”
Richie quickly sought independence. His first job came at 16, right after finishing secondary school. A friend brought him to a bakery in need of workers. Richie approached the baker and said, “Sir, I’m ready to work.” It was more like an apprenticeship. They promised a monthly salary of 4,000 naira (less than $3), but he rarely received more than 1,500 naira. In the bakery, Richie understood the importance of cleanliness and organization. He also learned to make bread: combining flour, water, yeast, sugar, and salt; mixing until smooth; kneading the dough until it was soft and elastic; letting it rise; shaping it into loaves; and baking them until golden brown.
But Richie’s career as a baker came to an end two years later. One night, he worked until 11 p.m. and said goodbye to his boss. The owner insisted he stay until all the bread was finished, maybe even spend the night. When Richie refused, the owner warned him that if he left, he shouldn’t come back. Richie walked out.
By then, he was living with his mum in Abaranje, a neighborhood near Ikotun. Across his street was a Bet9ja shop, a sports betting center found on nearly every corner in Lagos. One day, Richie entered the store and opened up to the owner. “Sir, I want to work.” They already knew each other; sometimes, the owner bought drinks for the young men in the area. He decided to take Richie under his wing.
The shop was a modest concrete building with a few antennas perched on top. Inside, six monitors displayed bets and scores, with cables tangled across the pastel-red walls and a bare, sagging ceiling overhead. The floor was usually littered with crumpled receipts, evidence of customers’ losses. On either side of the shop was an electric-green counter, where two cashiers took bets from the young customers who frequented the place. Even with just 10 people inside, the shop felt crowded.
For the next year and a half, Richie earned 10,000 naira a month—less than $25 at the time—working as cashier. He also made some naira by conning customers in what he called “seeing game.” Punters could place bets on either real sports events or “virtual” games, where outcomes were simulated. Richie learned from an older cashier that he could gamble on virtual games on the computer screen without customers noticing, using their money to make a profit. The owner didn’t know about the scheme, which likely explained why he never understood the daily scuffles between workers for the virtual cashier seat, the only place where they could run the scam. “It’s not something you do every time,” Richie said, “only with people who don’t really watch the game they’re playing.”
The Bet9ja job hardened him, especially in dealing with angry customers. Whenever someone owed him money—even 1,000 naira—he’d grab their phone. One day, a customer punched Richie in the nose, knocking him to the ground. Blood was everywhere. Later, the boss arrived, calmed things down, and got Richie medical treatment. Another time, a customer asked Richie to place a bet for him without paying up front. The bet won, and the customer demanded his payout. “We don’t play like that,” Richie told him. “You give me the money first, then I place the bet.” Later that night, as Richie was heading home after closing the store, that customer struck him from behind.
Richie aspired to something better. At 19, he wanted to keep studying: He dreamed of becoming a journalist, fascinated by the idea of talking to people from diverse backgrounds and cultures. But his grades weren’t good enough for university. Unable to study mass communications i…
Read the full article at Slate →
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