Online shopping is a magical thing. You tap a screen, imagine a better life and wait. Somewhere, a box begins its journey. It passes through warehouses, vans, bridges and several people who say “it is on the way”. Eventually, it arrives. And that is when the story really begins.

This is the tale of Nneka, a happy shopper with a phone, a budget and a great deal of hope.

The Perfect Photo

It started on a Friday night. Nneka was lying on her bed, scrolling through a shopping app, when she saw it: a sofa. It was a deep blue velvet masterpiece, set in a bright living room with a vase of fresh flowers. A woman in the picture sat on it, smiling, holding a cup of tea, looking as though her life had no problems at all.

“That is my sofa,” whispered Nneka.

The price was surprisingly low. The description said “Premium, comfortable, elegant, perfect for any home.” There were forty-three photos, each more beautiful than the last. She added it to the cart before she could think. She even paid for express delivery, because she was a woman of vision.

The Waiting Game

Delivery was promised in three days. On day three, the app said: “Your order is being prepared.” On day five: “Your order is on its way.” On day eight: “Your order is almost here.” On day eleven, she received a message that said, “We apologise for the delay. Your order is still on its way.”

She called the customer service line. A cheerful voice said, “Madam, your package is in motion.”

“Where is it moving?” she asked.

“It is moving closer.”

“Closer to where?”

“To you, madam. Everything is closer to you if you wait long enough.”

It was an answer so philosophical that she did not know whether to be angry or impressed.

The Delivery Day

On day fourteen, at 5:40 p.m., a dispatch rider arrived with a small parcel. It was about the size of a shoebox. Nneka looked at it, then at the rider, then at the sky, then back at the parcel.

“Is this the sofa?” she asked.

“I do not know, madam,” said the rider. “I only carry what they give me.”

She signed for it, because hope has a way of making people sign things. She carried the parcel inside, put it on the table and opened it with the slow ceremony of a person approaching a mystery.

Inside was a small, round, bright-blue cushion, about the size of a dinner plate. It had a tag that said “Premium Velvet Pouf (Mini)”. On the box, in tiny letters, were the words: “Not actual size.”

The Investigation

Nneka sat on the floor. She opened the app and scrolled back to the listing. This time, she read the small print, which she had previously treated as a decoration. At the very bottom was a line: “Picture shows full-size sofa. Product sold is miniature accent version. Dimensions: 12 cm.”

“Twelve centimetres,” she repeated.

It was, technically, correct. It was also, technically, a cushion. She scrolled further and found the customer reviews, which she had also ignored. There were hundreds. They were short, honest and very funny.

“Beautiful pouf for my cat.”
“Fits in my pocket.”
“My husband thought it was a hat.”
“Great for resting a very small elbow.”

She laughed so hard that she had to lie down. Then she looked at the cushion, which was soft, cheerful and weirdly cute, and gently placed it on her bed.

The Great Refund Attempt

The next morning, she called customer service again. “Good morning,” she said. “I ordered a sofa, and I received a very small cushion.”

“Madam, our records show you ordered the Premium Velvet Pouf.”

“It looked like a sofa.”

“That is a style photo, madam.”

“What is a style photo?”

“It is a photo that shows what your life could look like if you bought many things.”

Nneka stared at the wall. The agent continued kindly, “But we can offer you a refund, subject to approval, in seven to fourteen working days.”

She accepted. Then she added, “And please, can you tell me who writes your descriptions?”

“It is our creative team, madam. They are very talented.”

“I can tell,” she said, and hung up with a smile.

The New Rules

That week, Nneka made a list of rules, which she posted on her fridge. Rule one: read the reviews. Rule two: look for the size in centimetres. Rule three: if the price seems too good to be true, ask a friend. Rule four: never trust a product photo with a woman holding tea.

She also discovered something unexpected. The mini pouf was surprisingly comfortable. She started using it as a footrest, then as a laptop stand, then as a pillow for her cat, Biscuit, who adored it more than any toy she had ever bought.

Weeks later, when her refund finally arrived, she stared at the money and thought about buying a real sofa. Then she smiled, opened a different app and typed “sofa dimensions”. She read forty reviews. She measured her living room twice. And when the next parcel arrived, a proper, enormous, delightfully real blue sofa, she sat on it slowly, carefully and with great respect.

Biscuit hopped up beside her, carrying the little pouf in his mouth, and placed it on her lap. It was, she decided, the best purchase of her life. Not the sofa. The lesson.

Some people buy a smartphone and become better organised. Others buy a smartphone and begin a long, emotional relationship with a device that seems to know more than they do.

This is the story of Baba Chuka, a proud man in his fifties, his brand-new phone and the family who had to live through the first month.

The Unboxing

The phone arrived on a Saturday, in a white box with a picture of a happy person on the front. Baba Chuka held it up like a trophy. “This,” he announced, “is the future.”

His daughter Adaeze offered to help set it up. “No, no,” he said. “I know how to do it. I am a man of the world.” He threw the instruction booklet over his shoulder with the gesture of a man who disliked paper. It landed in the plantain bowl and remained there for three weeks.

Within five minutes, the phone asked him to create a password. He typed “password”. It said, “Too weak.” He typed “password123”. It said, “Too common.” He typed his own name. It said nothing, but he felt judged.

The PIN Problem

At last, he created a PIN. He chose a number he would never forget, and then promptly forgot it. The next morning, the phone locked itself and asked for the code. He typed his birthday. Wrong. His wedding date. Wrong. The year of the national football victory. Wrong, though he felt it should have been right.

After five attempts, the phone said, “Please wait one minute.” He waited. Then it said, “Please wait five minutes.” Then fifteen. At one point it said, “Try again in one hour,” and Baba Chuka stared at it like a man who had just been told his own house did not recognise him.

His wife, Mama Chuka, who had been calmly knitting in the corner, said, “Did you write it somewhere?”

“Of course not. That would defeat the purpose of a secret.”

“Then how will you remember it?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and picked up the plantain bowl, which also contained the instruction booklet.

The Accidental Video Call

The next problem arrived on Tuesday. Baba Chuka wanted to call his old friend Mr. Eze. He pressed a button that looked like a telephone. It was, in fact, a video call button.

Mr. Eze answered, but the screen showed only the ceiling of Baba Chuka’s sitting room, a small part of his ear and, briefly, a close-up of his nose. “Hello? Hello?” said Mr. Eze. “I can only see your nostril.”

“It is the phone,” said Baba Chuka. “It is shy.”

The call lasted twenty minutes. During that time, the camera showed the ceiling, a lamp, the family cat and one accidental view of Baba Chuka’s slippers. Mr. Eze did not mind. He said it was the best conversation they had had in years, because he could not see his friend’s face and therefore did not have to pretend to listen.

The Online Shopping Surprise

By week two, Baba Chuka had discovered online shopping. It was, to him, like a market that came to your house and politely asked what you wanted. He browsed with delight. He pressed buttons with confidence. He added things to a cart, removed them, added them again and, one evening, pressed “Buy Now” on something while looking away.

Three days later, a delivery rider arrived with a large box. Inside was a set of twelve wooden spoons, a pair of pink slippers in the wrong size and a small machine for making ice cream.

“I did not order this,” said Baba Chuka.

Adaeze examined the receipt. “You did. It is your account.”

“Then the phone ordered it itself.”

It was a defence that did not hold, but the ice cream machine was kept anyway, and the family ate surprisingly good ice cream for a week.

The Phone Takes Over

By week three, the phone had begun to talk back. It suggested songs. It reminded him about appointments. It offered to “optimise” his battery, which he agreed to, though he had no idea what that meant. Once, late at night, it spoke aloud to him: “I did not quite catch that.” He nearly fell off the sofa.

“It is spying on me,” he whispered to his wife.

“It is the voice assistant,” she said. “You pressed the wrong button.”

“Then it is a very nosy assistant.”

Mama Chuka sighed and finally took the instruction booklet from the plantain bowl. She wiped it, opened it and began to read. Ten minutes later, she knew more about the phone than he did. Twenty minutes later, she had changed the PIN, recovered his contacts and silenced the voice assistant. Thirty minutes later, she had found the missing ice cream recipe.

The Smart Decision

That evening, Baba Chuka sat beside his wife, watching her thumb glide over the screen like a pianist. He cleared his throat. “My dear,” he said, “I have decided to appoint you as the official manager of the phone.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. It will free me to focus on bigger matters.”

“Such as?”

He paused. “Such as making ice cream.”

She laughed. He laughed. The phone, sitting on the table, glowed softly, and the screen displayed a notification. “Congratulations. You have become smarter.”

He chose not to ask who it was talking to.