“I Paid a Fake Agent to Take Me to Europe Through Libya” – A Journey of Regret and Survival
Posted anonymously on August 12, 2025Quick Overview AI Summary
Samuel's journey begins with desperation in Nigeria, where he dreams of a better life in Europe after losing his job. Enticed by tales of prosperity and a smooth passage through Libya, he entrusts his savings to a charismatic agent, Uncle Ben, who vanishes after promising a swift journey. Samuel's odyssey quickly spirals into a nightmare as he endures a grueling two-month trek through the Sahara, facing extortion, dehydration, and death. In Libya, he confronts the brutal reality of human trafficking, witnessing violence and enslavement. Sold to a brick factory, Samuel's spirit is nearly crushed by forced labor and relentless abuse. Salvation comes at a steep price when a fellow captive arranges a ransom. With hope rekindled, Samuel boards an overcrowded dinghy bound for Italy, his fate uncertain as he clings to a fragile dream of freedom and survival.
It started with a promise.
My name is Samuel. I was 24 years old, living in Port Harcourt, Nigeria, when the idea first took root. I had just lost my contract job with an oil servicing company. The economy was tightening, food prices rising, and my younger siblings were looking up to me. I felt like a failure.
Then one evening, I overheard two guys at a roadside suya joint talking about Europe—how someone they knew had “crossed” through Libya and was now working construction in Italy, earning in euros. They mentioned a man, Uncle Ben, who helped people get there. No visa needed. Just money and courage.
Desperation silenced my doubts.
---
The Agent with the Silver Tongue
Uncle Ben lived in a large compound in Asaba. He welcomed me with warm arms and even offered me a cold malt. He had photos—lots of them—of “successful crossings,” and videos of people waving at the camera in what looked like European parks.
His pitch was simple:
* ₦950,000 (\$2,000)for the whole trip.
* Bus to Kano.
* Cross into Niger.
* Then through the Sahara Desert to Libya.
* From there, a boat to Italy.
“Na 2 weeks, you go reach Europe. If you get luck, maybe 10 days.”
He made it sound so easy. He even introduced me to two other guys who were “leaving next week.” I called my aunt in the U.K. and lied—I said it was for a study abroad opportunity. She sent me money for “visa fees.” I emptied my savings. The rest I borrowed from friends.
I paid Uncle Ben in full. That was the last time I saw him.
---
The Bus Ride That Never Ended
Instead of two weeks, it took two months.
The journey from Kano to Agadez (Niger) was the first reality check. Packed like sardines in an old Peugeot 504 with 10 others. The heat was suffocating. Water was rationed. We were told not to speak when we crossed military checkpoints, and once in the desert, silence became law.
In Agadez, we were “processed” into a ghetto—just a fenced yard with plastic sheets for shade. That’s where we met Hassan, a smuggler who “worked with Uncle Ben.” He said we had to pay another \$300for the next phase.
“Your agent only paid for Phase One,” he shrugged. “No money, no movement.”
We protested. Hassan didn’t argue. He just walked away. Later that night, one boy from Sierra Leone who refused to pay was dragged away by men with sticks. We never saw him again.
I borrowed again—from another Nigerian boy who was planning to call his brother in London to send more cash. Somehow, we moved on.
---
The Sahara: Where People Disappear
Crossing the Sahara was nothing like I imagined.
We were 28 people crammed into the back of a pickup truck—bodies, jerry cans of fuel, plastic containers of water, and old tires used to soften our ride. The desert had no roads—just GPS on the smuggler’s phone and tire tracks on the sand.
The heat boiled our brains. The wind burned our skin. Two women fainted. One boy from Ghana jumped off the truck in confusion during a sandstorm. We begged the driver to go back. He didn’t.
We buried him in the sand. With our hands.
Three tires burst before we reached Sabha (southern Libya). We ran out of water twice. We urinated in empty bottles and drank it to survive. No one talked anymore—we just existed.
---
Libya: The Hell They Don’t Warn You About
I thought the Sahara was the worst part. I was wrong.
In Libya, we were locked in a warehouse outside Tripoli with over 200 migrants—mostly Nigerians, Eritreans, Sudanese, and Gambians. Armed men in military boots called themselves “immigration officers,” but they were just another militia.
They beat us. They raped women. They sold people.
Yes—they sold us.\$400 per head. I was sold to a man called Suleiman, who ran a brick factory in Gharyan. For six weeks, I worked like an animal. No pay. No freedom. If you asked questions, they’d slap you or lock you in a dark room for days.
One boy from Benin tried to escape. They brought him back, stripped him naked, and beat him with iron rods. In front of all of us.
---
The Boat to Death
When Suleiman finally let us go—after one of the women we were with called a cousin in Germany to send ransom—we were handed to another smuggler. This time, the deal was “final”: \$700for the boat to Italy.
We boarded at night—over 100 of us on a rubber dinghymeant for 25 people. There were babies. Pregnant women. People who had been tortured. People who had already died inside, even if their hearts were still beating.
Two hours in, the boat started taking in water. The satellite phone didn’t work. The engine failed.
People panicked. Some jumped. Others prayed. I just held onto the rope and cried quietly.
By dawn, we were floating aimlessly. And by some miracle, a Tunisian fishing boat saw us. They called the coast guard. We were rescued—but not by the Italians. We were taken back to Libya.
Back to detention.
---
The Rescue and the Regret
I was detained again in Zawiya. But this time, I met a Nigerian journalist volunteering with IOM (International Organization for Migration). He saw me limping—my leg was swollen from an untreated wound. He interviewed me, sent photos to the Nigerian embassy, and two weeks later, I was placed on a voluntary repatriation list.
I returned to Nigeria eight months after I left. I was 15kg lighter. I had malaria, scabies, and chronic nightmares. But I was alive.
---
The Aftermath
I don’t tell many people what happened. Some still think I made it to Europe. Others see me as a failure. But I speak up now—especially to young boys on the streets asking me about “connections to Italy.”
“There’s no Europe in the desert,” I tell them.
“There’s no future in fake agents.”
“You may not come back to tell your story.”
---
Final Words
If you’re dreaming of Europe, dream responsibly.
Research. Use legal routes. Apply for school, for jobs, for visas.
Or stay and build something here.
Because I walked through hell thinking I was heading to paradise.
And the only thing I found... was survival.
---
Would you like this formatted for blog, video narration, or adapted into a social media series?
Comment as a Visitor
No account required - share your thoughts right away!