Con and Confidence or How I Paid Double for the Privilege of Being Scammed

My recent quest for a genuine Nissan spare part led me down a rabbit hole filled with red flags I enthusiastically ignored.

It all began with a Google search to find the local official Nissan service centre. Two numbers popped up. One rang endlessly The other was “Out of service.” Bravo, Nissan, very helpful indeed! The first “bell” should have dinged but I really did not want to drive out there to find them.

A day later and now urgently needing the parts, a third number mysteriously appeared on Google search, and it was answered! By an “Alfonse”. I asked for the parts department, and Alfonse declared I had reached it. I was almost squeaking with delight.

Then came the magic. I rattled off the parts I needed, and Alphonse, with the speed of a seasoned auctioneer, gave me a price. He even asked me to repeat the second part number. My first thought wasn’t “Hmm, too good to be true?” but “Wow, efficiency! This is unheard of for official dealers!”  then the price also wasn’t an arm or leg. The second bell should have clanged. But I was so impressed by this newfound digital dynamism and the seemingly reasonable cost that I took the bait.

And the cherry on top, “We’re having a special on fitting this month! It’s included in the price!” Fire alarm bells should now have been ringing. But no, I was too busy congratulating myself on being such a resourceful and energetic surfer. Totally chuffed with myself, I booked the car for the following morning.

A quote on official letterhead landed in my inbox. At least it looked…official. Very official. There were other subtle signs that became obvious when Nissan pointed them out later, but how is the average customer supposed to know what to look for.  

The catch, you ask? Oh, it was a beauty. To qualify for this fantastical discounted fitting, I had to pay upfront. Someone, anyone, should have hit me with those bells. Hard. But my cat, the only witness to this unfolding drama, was fast asleep on the desk, oblivious to my impending financial misfortune.

So, armed with an “official” Mpesa Paybill number, I dutifully transferred nearly 40K. A hefty sum, but I was getting genuine parts AND fitting, right? I wasn’t too worried about a receipt, assuming I’d pick it up with my shiny new parts the next day.

The following morning, I rocked up to the service center, ready for my automotive makeover. They looked at me blankly, they way you actually expect dealerships to.  “Who are you?” they asked, quite literally. My joy de vivre deflated faster than a punctured tire.

In about two minutes it was established there was no Alfonse. The quote was on a fake or stolen letterhead. And, to top it all off, they had no record of my booking. Zero. Zip. Nada.

Feeling foolish, I accepted the grim reality. But I still needed those parts! So, I asked. And they had them at half the price I’d already “paid.” And they even offered a “sympathy discount.” I drove home, new parts onboard feeling slightly mollified.

The full-blown anger took a day or two to mature. But in the interim, I had meticulously documented everything: phone numbers, Mpesa Paybill, WhatsApp chats, Mpesa codes – the whole nine yards. A beautiful digital paper trail that I fired off to the bank.
The bank, completely unhelpful, took 14 days to respond. Their gem: “Safaricom say that the Paybill account is now empty and they cannot refund any money.” Fourteen days for that. 

Shhh..We’re covered by the notice

Safaricom were not interested in talking to me because the transaction was done through the bank. but as they had to respond, they deflected responsibilty stating the phone number I’d been communicating with, was a “competitors service,” so they’d “passed it on.” This, despite the Mpesa Paybill being an actual Mpesa account! Funny, isn’t it? When you or I want a Safaricom line or a Paybill, we practically need to provide our grandparents’ dental records and a DNA sample. But when it comes to tracing the owner of a scammer’s Paybill, they do not want to know. 

It seems there’s a conspiracy of indifference. Scammers know that the service providers and banks are disinterested in tracking them. As a result, hundreds are scammed. Daily.  After all the institutions lose nothing, so why invest in preventing this. The best they offer are useless messages about being aware of scammers, thus covering their legal responsibility in the small print. Conman paradise.
The million dollar question is, how did Alfonse manage to put a fake number on a search result link to Nissan’s official site and then remove it as soon as the con was complete?  Some consolation is that I wasn’t the only Nissan customer taken for a ride that month. Alfonse had better remain in hiding because I’ll super glue his phone to his ear if I ever find him. Yes I will.

So, there you have it. My genuine Nissan part saga. A testament to gullibility, the brilliance of scammers, and the astonishing inability of our financial institutions to do anything remotely helpful. And my car? Well, at least it has new, genuinely-discounted, actually-fitted parts.

Have you ever been taken for a ride in a similar way? Share your tale of woe (and maybe a little sarcasm) in the comments below! And, spread the word if this was worth the read.