Saints, Scammers, and Area Codes
Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 5
It started with a WhatsApp message from my uncle…
the uncle who never texts me unless he’s getting married.
He’s been married three times, so statistically, the odds weren’t terrible.
I actually missed the last wedding and told my mom over the phone,
“It’s fine. There will be other weddings.”
She told me not to ever say that in front of his wife.
But this time, instead of a fourth wedding invitation,
my uncle (or so I thought) was asking for $1,500.
The message started with:
“Dear my beloved.”
And instantly I knew...
that wasn’t my uncle.
That was the Nigerian Prince.
So I called one of my brothers to find out what was going on...
yes, the same one the sewer clown once praised
for achieving perfect balloon symmetry
when he volunteered to help inflate them.
A man with that kind of precision tends to know things.
The scammer had gone entrepreneurial,
sending different amounts to everyone in my uncle’s contacts:
some people got asked for $200, others for $500.
But me?
He went straight for $1,500.
Maybe it was the Beverly Hills area code still attached to my number…
a relic from the old days that apparently signals “try the higher tier.”
Or maybe he saw that video of me and my nephew
stuffing a piñata with 100 Grand bars and gold-foil chocolate coins
and assumed it was our secret stash.
In the video, my mom had my nephew supervising me
because I can’t be trusted with candy.
He wasn’t guarding the treats... he was guarding me from myself.
Sugar is my drug of choice.
Anyway,
just because one Nigerian Prince has lied to me before
doesn’t mean all Nigerian Princes are the same.
So I needed clarity.
Why was my uncle using a Nigerian Prince to contact me?
But I don’t send four-figure donations without confirmation.
Turns out, his account had been hacked.
Still, I didn’t reply.
I wanted to verify it the old-fashioned way...
through a phone call, like a 1990s goddess with trust issues.
By the time my uncle realized what had happened, it was too late.
The scammer had already hit “send"
Only one person fell for it.
A church lady from my uncle’s friend circle...
the kind who bakes cookies for fundraisers
and still writes checks in cursive.
She didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t call.
Didn’t second-guess.
She just sent $200 to help someone she believed was in need.
Everyone else laughed and called her gullible.
But I kept thinking:
What if she was the only one who passed the test?
She didn’t need proof or backstory.
She didn’t ask for verification or screenshots.
She just gave.
That’s sainthood in its purest, unbranded form...
compassion without calculation.
It wasn’t logic; it was love.
The type of person we all wished we had as our emergency contact.
And if there’s an afterlife rewards program,
she’s probably been upgraded to the VIP Heaven Suite;
complimentary halo, early check-in, no waitlist.
Meanwhile, the rest of us sat there congratulating ourselves
for being too smart to fall for it.
But maybe that’s the real geometry of faith:
our cynicism keeps us safe,
but our kindness makes us holy.