The sprawling, chaotic marketplace in southwestern Nigeria is Africa’s largest technology hub, where streets lined with shopping plazas and informal stalls sell and repair a plethora of devices across a range of price points.
Alawada waits eagerly while James, a phone reseller whose real name we are not using to protect his privacy, haggles with another customer on a WhatsApp call. The 21-year-old student is ready to switch from his old device to an iPhone.
“At school, when I want to (woo) a girl, I borrow my friend’s iPhone 14 Pro Max. If she sees me with an Android, she’ll think I’m broke,” Alawada laughs, though the pressure weighs on him. Soon, he hopes he will not need to borrow any more.
For many young Nigerians, the iPhone is more than a phone – it is a status symbol. Yet, a new one still costs more than most working-class Nigerians can afford. The price of the newly released iPhone 16 is more than 3 million naira – that is more than $1,800 in a country where the minimum monthly wage is $44.
While entry-level Androids sell for as low as 25,500 naira ($15), even older model, second-hand iPhones are pricier – a used iPhone 8 Plus, for instance, can cost about 150,000 naira ($88), despite its outdated iOS.
So, many like Alawada find alternative means of securing an iPhone.
At Computer Village, he is on a mission to sell his old Android, add the money to his pot of savings and use it to buy an iPhone.
As James continues his back and forth with the other customer over WhatsApp, Alawada waits, wondering if his father had bought his Android here. He remembers the thrill of unboxing the Tecno Phantom X in 2021 at the start of university – a family investment of more than 200,000 naira ($118).
Now, years later, that memory feels distant as he waits to sell the same phone in the hopes of affording a second-hand iPhone 12 Pro for 600,000 naira ($353) – an amount far exceeding his father’s salary and eight times Nigeria’s minimum wage.
Finally off the phone, the 35-year-old reseller inspects Alawada’s Android and shakes his head. “No one will buy this for a good price,” James says bluntly. “Androids don’t hold second-hand value.” He hands the phone back, and Alawada’s face briefly falls.
The student feels his plan slipping away in the rain-soaked chaos, but the disappointment does not sway him.
Flawless fixer
The global iPhone vs Android battle has raged for 17 years, with Android commanding about 70 percent of the market and iPhone holding 28 percent. That market divide holds in Nigeria too, but for many millennial and Gen Z users, phones are about more than just functionality.
Young Nigerians say the iPhone’s exclusivity and operating system give it a unique prestige. Apps popular with Gen Z, like Snapchat and Instagram, perform better on iPhones, due to the seamless integration with its camera, they say. The airdrop feature also makes it easy to share files within their network.
Still determined to get his hands on an iPhone, Alawada accompanies James through the labyrinth of Computer Village. Frenzied and fast-paced, the tech market snakes through seven streets – a cacophony of low-rise buildings, repurposed bungalows and iron-clad kiosks through alleys.
Its streets teem with umbrellas and clusters of traders. Idle cars serve as backdrops for fashion stalls, while food vendors weave through, feeding the bustling crowd.
Damp from the rain, James and Alawada finally reach a busy shop belonging to Solomon Dosumu.
Dosumu specialises in phone repairs, and has a clear preference for iPhones, which outsell Androids in his store. James says Dosumu’s repairs are so meticulous, they seem flawless to the naked eye.
In the store, customers sit in a waiting area; one telling James that Dosumu has stepped out to pick up replacement screens for an iPhone 11 Pro and a 14 Pro Max. Alawada waits impatiently, while outside the shop, a poster advertises iPhone 16 preorders for the largely unreachable 3 million naira price tag.
This year’s iPhone is the priciest in the flagship lineup, especially in African countries like Nigeria, which impose high import tariffs to encourage local producers and raise revenue. When contacted by Al Jazeera to comment on the extra cost burden for iPhones that consumers in African countries often need to bear, Apple did not respond to our emails.
Thriving informal market
The demand for old, repaired iPhones has fuelled an informal market where repairmen like Dosumu breathe new life into used phones, recycling them for resale.
In places like Computer Village, shops like Dosumu’s bridge the gap between luxury and affordability.
Android phones depreciate quickly in value due to the high cost of replacing their AMOLED screens, which can match the price of a second-hand device. Meanwhile, iPhones, while costly to repair, often use more affordable LCD or widely available OLED screens imported from China.
Many of these phones arrive from China in bulk, usually with minor defects – no Face ID, cracked back glass – and are shipped to repairmen like Dosumu in Nigeria. Once fixed, they’re resold.
Some are brand-new devices swapped by people eager to upgrade, while in rare cases, stolen phones are resold after victims are forced to log out of their iCloud accounts during a robbery.
Simple to complex repairs
Finally, Dosumu returns to the shop, flanked by two men carrying iPhone parts. One, a screwdriver between his teeth, briefly blocks Alawada’s view of the LED-strewn stands. There sits the Sierra Blue 12 Pro he has been eyeing, and Alawada’s anticipation heightens.
As an “engineer’s engineer”, Dosumu, 37, is accustomed to assisting fellow technicians. He began his journey years ago as an apprentice, fixing smartphones after leaving his petrol station job in search of something more stable – around the time the first iPhone was launched.
“I’ve always loved technology – phones, gadgets, all that. That passion made phone repairs an easy choice,” Dosumu says while working on the iPhone 11 Pro. “I came to Computer Village, met someone who fixed my phone, told him I wanted to learn, paid him for six months and enrolled. I ended up spending a year there.”
When Dosumu began his career in 2009, the iPhone 3GS was largely ignored in Nigeria, with even less interest in the iPhone 4 the following year. Blackberry dominated the market.
Now, Dosumu charges aspiring iPhone engineers 150,000 naira ($90) for six months of training, much of which he admits to learning from YouTube.
Dosumu’s journey to mastery has been filled with challenges, with dismantled phones as evidence of his struggles. “Screens are the easiest,” he says. “But more complex repairs – like the iPhone’s True-Depth Face ID or battery replacements – have cost me time, money and plenty of batteries. It’s not as simple as swapping out AA batteries,” he adds with a wry smile.
“When you replace parts, the phone displays Apple’s “unknown parts” message, and some features, like battery health, stop working,” Dosumu explains. “To fix that, I had to invest in specialised tools.” Among these are devices like the JCID Romeo Face ID Chip and the JCID Q1 iPhone Battery Health Repair Board, essential tools for bypassing Apple’s limitations and restoring full functionality.
It has been worth it. Thanks to the demand for used and repaired iPhones, Dosumu can support himself, provide for his family and keep up with his rent.
He picks up two small motherboards, each barely an inch wide, marked with model numbers ranging from the iPhone 6 to the 15 Pro Max. “These”, he explains, “are crucial for resetting batteries, recalibrating cameras and clearing error messages” – indispensable tools for navigating Apple’s strict repair protocols.
Dosumu then reaches for a black case, revealing its contents that he says cost him more than 300,000 naira ($180). Inside is steel hardware cradled in protective foam. “If you want to go far in this business, you have to invest. This one is for fixing Face ID. I just got it from China.”
Making a deal
Although Dosumu works on all types of phones, he says he cherishes his clients’ confidentiality and only deals in hardware. “I don’t hack,” Dosumu insists, explaining that iCloud-locked phones are nearly impossible to unlock and usually end up being sold for parts.
But for him, the hardware holds value. When someone brings a locked phone to him – whether disabled by repeated password attempts or marked as stolen – he refrains from probing the origin of these devices, seeing them instead as resources for future repairs.
“I have plenty in my shop. Sometimes, I use them to train apprentices,” he explains, securing the final screws on an 11 Pro. After sealing the back, he powers it on confidently, then advises the owner, “Don’t remove the nylon for a couple of days.” The nylon not only protects the screen but serves as a warranty marker. “Take it off, and the warranty’s void.”
Finally, turning his attention to Alawada and James, Dosumu confirms the student’s initial fears: with the naira’s decline against the dollar, rising customs fees and the release of the latest iPhone, the 600,000 naira ($361) he had saved will not be enough for the iPhone 12. But Dosumu takes pity on him.
“Your Android phone, what’s wrong with it? Just the screen?” Dosumu asks Alawada, inspecting the damage. He sends an apprentice to check for a replacement screen as Alawada hands over the phone after removing his SIM card and waits anxiously.
The apprentice sends a message to tell Dosumu that a replacement screen for the Android is available. “I’ll use your phone and the repair to make up for the iPhone (cost). I’ve seen you eyeing the blue phone since you came in,” Dosumu tells Alawada, pulling out his keys and opening the glass showcase.
As he hands the iPhone to Alawada, the young man’s eyes light up under the fluorescent lights. He inspects everything – the camera, battery, screen – and finds nothing amiss, without knowing the true extent of fixes that have been done on the device.
Alawada and Dosumu conclude the deal. The young man has finally joined the select ranks of iPhone users in Africa.
‘I will own an iPhone’
With uncertainty behind him, Alawada leaves Dosumu’s shop with his pre-used iPhone – plus a charger Dosumu threw in for free – snug in his pocket. He retraces his steps back to the accessories kiosk, hoping to buy a clear phone case he had seen earlier, without paying much attention to the bustling market and the people bumping into him as he walks.
Soon, Alawada finds himself lost in the market maze. He had forgotten to ask James for directions and does not want to bother him now. But as Alawada reaches for his phone, he realises it is gone. His hands shake as he pats his pockets, and scans the ground and crowd, hoping to see a guilty face. Then, the panic hits.
Alawada’s sobs break through the bustle as he collapses to the ground. A few passersby glance his way, but most ignore him – knowing what likely happened. The dark criminal side of Computer Village, once a rumour to him, has become his reality.
“Why are you disturbing our station?” Mr Bello, a policeman asks, towering over Alawada. In his hysteria, the student had not realised he was in front of the police station. “You’ve scammed oyinbo (foreigners), used their money to buy an iPhone, and now you’re crying because you’ve been scammed?” the officer accuses.
Alawada, trembling, holds up his ID. “Sir, I’m not a yahoo boy. I’m a student,” he says using the local slang term for scammers.
“A student?” Mr Bello scoffs. “Where did you get the money to buy an iPhone?”
Cornered, Alawada is unable to explain how he had scraped together the money and Mr Bello does not seem to care. To him, a young man with an iPhone means one thing: fraud.
Bello tells Alawada to go inside the station to write a statement, but Alawada and the others sitting there – all victims of a similar fate – know it is pointless. The phone is gone and the statement is a lost cause.
As Alawada sits at the station, the relentless hum of Computer Village – with its maze of tech hustlers and eager buyers – roars on; fortunes being made and lost with every transaction.
In this sprawling, unforgiving market, where even the best-laid plans can crumble, it is clear: The house often wins.
Now dejected and reeling from the loss, Alawada is more cautious than before. But he still holds onto his iPhone dreams.
“I will own an iPhone but I won’t be so eager to get one at any cost,” he says.
“It may take a while and a lot of sacrifices, but I will get one – and by God’s grace, it will be a brand new one.”
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الموقع : www.aljazeera.com
نشر الخبر اول مرة بتاريخ : 2024-11-12 08:13:16
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