Bolu* (27) had a simple plan: spend a week in London with loved ones, head to Spain for a birthday trip, then return to life in Lagos. But everything changed when his backpack — carrying his passport, laptop, and phone — vanished on a train.
Just when it felt like all hope was lost, two close friends, Akin (31) and Kayode (28), stepped in and pulled off what felt like a real-life heist movie.
This is Bolu’s story, as told to Daniel Orubo.
I arrived in London from Lagos in late March 2025. The plan was to enjoy a week with family and friends before heading to my main destination: Spain. I’d spend a few days in Barcelona before going to Tenerife for a friend’s 30th birthday celebration.
My first stop was my grandma’s house. While heading out to see a friend, she told me to hold my phone tight because of the city’s rising theft rate. I had visited London about four times before, but this was the first time she had given me that warning.
It took less than a day for the warning to make sense.
I was heading back to her place, checking Google maps, when a masked man on a bike tried to snatch my phone. It happened quickly, but I had a tight grip, so he couldn’t pull it away. Seconds later, I saw him grab a woman’s phone a few feet away and speed off. I was a bit shaken watching her scream and chase after the guy, but I just felt lucky it wasn’t me.
The next day, I was in a great mood, feeling like I’d conquered London. So I headed to Borough Market with a friend to try the Instagram-famous strawberry and chocolate dessert, which was delicious — London strawberries and Lagos strawberries are not mates. Then we capped it off with an incredible Michael Jackson show at the Prince Edward Theatre.
I was on a high while heading back to my friend’s house, but that was when my luck finally ran out.
Earlier that day, I’d packed my backpack with my MacBook, a change of clothes, my passport, some cash ($150 and ₦30k), and my second phone. I remember having my backpack on the seat next to me on the train one moment, and the next, I was getting off without it. I nearly had a panic attack when I realised.
The train had already left, so I lodged a complaint at the station, but it was almost midnight, and the staff couldn’t do much. Luckily, my second phone was in the bag, so I checked Find My. It said the phone was about two kilometers away, in the opposite direction. I couldn’t make sense of it because it had only been a few minutes since I noticed my backpack was missing.
I was devastated, so I called Akin, one of my guys who lived nearby, and went to crash at his place. Kayode, his brother and one of my closest friends, was also there.
As much as I appreciated being around loved ones, I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept tossing and turning, frantically trying to retrace my steps. I was holding out hope, convinced that the station would call with good news, and choosing to ignore the confusing locations Find My kept showing me. But as the hours passed, I started to feel defeated. I was sad about my MacBook and the Spain trip I was about to miss, but I was mostly worried about not having my passport in a foreign country.
A friend I spoke to in Nigeria reassured me that I could always go to the embassy and get a travel document to return home. I had some clarity on what to do next, but it didn’t erase my crushing disappointment.
After going through the five stages of grief in two days, a glimmer of hope finally appeared.
I received an alert from Monzo, the digital bank I use in London, that a transaction on my card had been denied at a store. Thankfully, Monzo’s notification included the exact time and location of the transaction: 11:16 am at Ilford. I checked Find My again, and it confirmed that my phone was in the same area, about 3 minutes away from the store.
I told Akin and Kayode, and they immediately swung into action. They’d stayed optimistic about finding at least my passport — especially Akin. The moment I showed them the notification, they didn’t even let me take a shower. We hopped on a train and began the one-hour and 30-minute journey to Ilford.
When we got to the store, the woman at the counter was surprisingly open to helping. She said we could check the CCTV footage, but we’d have to wait six hours for her boss to arrive. I was ready to give up, but Akin wasn’t having it. He offered to pay the boss to return early. That seemed to show her how serious we were, so she called someone else who could operate the CCTV. He said he’d be there in about 45 minutes.
While we waited, we decided to do some investigating of our own. Find My was still showing the phone in a nearby building, so we snuck in and started going floor by floor — 11 floors in total — pinging the device as we moved, hoping to hear a sound.
On the eighth floor, Find My suddenly changed from “5 mins ago” to “Now.”
There were four flats on that floor, but only one had the lights on. We took it as a sign. Akin knocked on the door, and a white girl opened it. The moment she saw the three of us, she shut the door, then came back with a friend.
We explained that we were tracking a stolen phone, but they both looked confused. They said they were just 17 and babysitting their brother. They gave us details about the other tenants on the floor and wished us luck with our search. I thanked them for their help and gave them my number to reach out if they saw anything.
We continued checking other floors, but the location kept shifting — “3 mins ago,” then “Now” again when we returned to the eighth floor. We were sure the phone was on that floor; we just couldn’t prove it.
Since it was almost time for the CCTV guy to arrive, we returned to the store. When he got there, he pulled up the footage for us. We watched closely as a guy in a hoodie showed up around the time of the attempted transaction — we were sure it was him, but he paid in cash.
Then, right before the clock hit 11:17, we saw three girls walk in. One of them pulled out my red Monzo card to pay. It declined, and they played it off, then paid with cash.
Two of the girls were the same ones who had answered the door on the eighth floor.
We ran back to the building, armed with the video evidence. We knocked gently at first, but they didn’t answer. Akin eventually lost his patience and started banging on the door, shouting that we had proof and would call the police if they didn’t hand over the backpack.
They started screaming from behind the door, denying everything and telling us to leave.
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We tried calling the police, but the call wouldn’t go through. So Akin told me to head to the nearest station and get someone in person. On my way down, I ran into a lovely Jamaican woman in the lift who pointed out she hadn’t seen me in the building before. I gave her the gist of what was happening, and she was instantly invested.
She told me I didn’t need to go all the way to the station — I just needed to call the emergency number, 999. She even helped me explain everything over the phone. The police said they’d be there in about an hour.
I went back upstairs to make sure no one tried to leave while Kayode and Akin waited downstairs for the police. As I stood there, a Black guy showed up and asked if I was the one banging on his door — the girls had called for backup.
He walked into the house, and I quickly called Kayode to come upstairs in case things escalated. A moment later, the guy came back out with two girls. One was carrying a massive Ghana-Must-Go-type bag filled with bras and underwear. She said she was going to a doctor’s appointment, but I told her they couldn’t leave until I found my backpack.
Kayode joined us, and we all agreed to head downstairs to sort it out. It was becoming clear the guy had no idea what was really going on. As we explained, you could see it click for him that he’d been lied to.
By the time we got downstairs, the police had arrived and were speaking to Akin. That clearly rattled the girls. The one holding the bag tried to hand it off to the other, but she refused.
The guy pulled them aside to get the truth. That’s when they dropped the bag, and there it was: my backpack, buried under a sea of underwear.
I checked to find the money gone — I’m still not sure what ₦30k was supposed to do for them in London — but my MacBook, passport, and second phone were still there.
It felt surreal.
The guy apologised, saying he thought he was coming to defend his friends. Then the two girls ran off. We finally went upstairs to tell the police we’d found my backpack.
They asked if I wanted to press charges, but I said no. I was too relieved, too tired.
As I said that, the girl who opened the door started screaming, demanding an apology for banging on their door. Kayode, who had been calm all through, finally lost it. He started screaming at her, but the police asked us to let it go.
They praised us for our detective work and told me I could still press charges later if I changed my mind. The case was now on file.
As we walked away, I could only think: Thank God for my guys. Because of them, I left with my passport, MacBook, and a hell of a story.
