In 2024, a friend referred me for a website development project with a government agency in Abuja. Naturally, I was excited. Government contracts are often seen as a big break — financially rewarding and career-defining.
I was invited for an interview and gave it my all. There were about five candidates in total. A week later, I received an email informing me that I had been selected for the job. I was asked to submit an invoice so work could begin.
I quoted ₦10.5 million for the development of a full web application — properly scoped, secure, and professionally built. I submitted my invoice along with all requested documents, including my business details and tax clearance certificate. Everything was transparent and above board.
At that point, I was simply waiting for payment so I could commence work.
Then came the call.
Another person from the same office contacted me and said my invoice had been “corrected” and that I should adjust my figures accordingly. I didn’t think much of it at first. No wahala, I thought. I checked my email.
What I saw left me stunned.
The invoice amount had been changed to ₦50.5 million.
At first, I assumed it was an error. I double-checked. It wasn’t. I immediately called back to ask for clarification. That was when the real explanation came: once I received ₦7 million and some change, I would be expected to “settle” certain people with the remaining balance.
That was the moment everything became clear.
I am not pretending to be a saint, and I understand the realities of doing business in Nigeria. However, this project was meant to be a sensitive government platform. Policies can change overnight. Audits can happen at any time. Refunds can be demanded without warning.
If anything went wrong, where exactly would I find ₦50 million to refund?
As we say, if problem burst, where person wan run go?
I tried to negotiate a safer, more realistic arrangement. I suggested that we officially quote ₦20 million, take ₦15 million, and remit ₦5 million to whoever needed to be settled. The response was a firm no.
That was how I lost the contract.
Two Months Later: The Shocking Reality
Two months later, the website was officially launched.
I was shocked by what I saw.
The entire system was essentially a WordPress landing page. The frontend was basic HTML and CSS. The so-called backend was nothing more than JavaScript — a static setup. By simply inspecting the page, you could see login credentials hardcoded directly into the script.
This was a project that was originally designed to be built using Laravel and React — a proper, scalable, and secure architecture.
Yet during the demo, the presence of charts, figures, and pie graphs was enough to convince decision-makers. As long as things moved on the screen, it passed. I later learned that the developers were paid ₦5 million, while the contract itself was quoted at ₦50 million.
When the Law Caught Up
Eventually, law enforcement stepped in and arrests were made. However, the developers were later released. Their defense was simple — and valid. They delivered exactly what the agency requested and paid for.
According to them, they warned the officials that the system would not function properly in the long run. The response they received was blunt: “Is it your father’s company?”
Imagine if those developers had no backing or legal support.
Na so people dey enter trouble for work wey no be their fault.
The Bigger Problem
This experience explains why many official government websites — reportedly built with billions of naira — struggle to handle just a few thousand users at once. Pages crash. Forms refuse to submit. Citizens are forced to wait until midnight just to complete simple processes.
Unfortunately, this problem cuts across many government institutions in Nigeria.
The few months some people spend in detention over projects like this are not worth the risk. For me, peace of mind matters more than any inflated contract.
No shortcuts. No greed. No unnecessary risks.
If you want clean, professional work done the right way — I’m always open.
I choose peace.
