Lagos real estate agents are all frauds. Don’t trust anybody

Two weeks ago, I was standing in the middle of Lekki Phase 1, staring at a duplex that looked like it belonged in a Netflix series.

White walls, glass balconies, marble floors that glistened like polished ice—the kind of home you know influencers would love to pose in.

And me? I wasn’t just staring. I was negotiating.

I had a client—a young tech bro from Yaba who texted me, “Find me a house where I can code in peace, flex in peace, and maybe throw in a rooftop Jacuzzi.”

I laughed when I read that. Typical Gen Z request. But as a Lagos realtor, I’ve heard crazier.

So here I was, talking to the property owner, a man in his late fifties with a thick Igbo accent and an even thicker gold wristwatch.

“₦350 million,” he said calmly, like he was selling roasted corn.

I blinked. “Sir, the last buyer offered ₦300 million. Why the extra ₦50M?”

He smiled. “Because that last buyer was not you.”

At that moment, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Inside the duplex, my client walked around with his AirPods in, snapping videos for his Instagram story.

“Bro, this kitchen is giving… it’s giving Dubai vibes!” he shouted.

“Check the backyard too,” I said, pointing at the swimming pool glowing blue under the sun.

He whistled. “Omo, I’m sold. Lock it in for me. ₦350M? I’ll wire it.”

I froze. “Wait… you’ll pay full price without bargaining?”

He shrugged. “Time is money, my guy. And this house is screaming CEO vibes. I don’t even care.”

For a moment, I thought I had just closed the smoothest real estate deal of my life. But Lagos had other plans.

The next day, I got a call from the property owner.

“Agent,” his voice thundered through the phone, “your client transferred ₦350 million to the wrong account!”

My heart stopped. “What do you mean?”

“He sent the money to one scammer account pretending to be me!”

I nearly dropped my phone. My client was on Twitter ranting already: ‘Lagos real estate agents are all frauds. Don’t trust anybody.’

I rushed to his office in Yaba. He sat there, hands on his head, muttering, “₦350 million… gone… just like that?”

I felt my stomach twist. “Bro, please, hear me out. I’ll fix this.”

He glared at me. “You? Fix ₦350M?”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I replayed everything—how the scammer intercepted our emails, how the fake invoice looked exactly like the real one. I thought my career was over.

But then… the twist.

Two days later, my client called. His voice was shaky but calm.

“Guess what?” he said. “The bank froze the account before the guy could withdraw. Money’s safe. We’re good.”

I almost cried on the spot. “Thank God!”

He laughed. “You owe me suya, though. And maybe a free service fee.”

I grinned. “Free service fee? Bros, that one na scam inside scam.”

We both burst into laughter.

When we finally closed the deal, I stood in that Lekki duplex one last time, watching him unlock the door as the new owner.

He looked back at me and said, “This house almost became the most expensive heartbreak of my life.”

And I replied, “Welcome to Lagos real estate. It’s not Monopoly—it’s chess.”