Do Not Click the Link

What being scammed taught me about speedrunning to adulthood 

While most 15-year-olds were busy wrangling their plaid skirts, pulling up their stockings, and racing the school bell, I was already an hour into another brutal shift behind a café counter. I saved every dollar I could, not knowing that it would all be taken away by a single text scam.  

From a young age, I was obsessed with freedom. This, however, was hindered by school. So, I dropped out — cutting the leash that was my childhood and accelerated into adulthood. But adulthood meant I needed money. So, I entered the hospitality world.  

Hours of my youth were spent inside a hot kitchen painstakingly crafting dozens of sandwiches, staring at the eye-watering, bright yellow, floral wallpaper. As more and more dockets printed, coffee machines screamed, plates clashed with cutlery, and the voices of customers merged into a steady buzz. I’d run my hands over my buzzcut, letting it prickle my palms, trying to steady myself.  

I worked six days a week, smoking a pack every three.  

I knew dropping out didn’t mean doing whatever I wanted. But as I stared out the window of my coffee shop prison, I knew this couldn’t be it. There had to be more to adult life than wage labour.  

So, at 17 I moved to Wellington by myself to study Fine Arts at Massey.  

To begin with, I did alright for myself. I found a flat, haggled for a Facebook marketplace bed, and purchased bulk soy sauce. CVs were handed out and my student loan application was approved.  

I was adulting. I told myself I could do this... until I couldn’t.  

Two weeks after moving, I received a text: “Your BNZ access has been placed on a temporary hold, go to https://emanagingbnz.com to resolve this issue.” 

Shit.  

It was too early to ask my new flatmates — who were all in their mid 20s — to cover my rent while I tried to sort it out. They’ll know I’m not a real adult. Oh god, they’ll hate me. I’m just a child wearing my mums' lipstick.  

I needed my money. 

I clicked the link. I went through each step. I rummaged around boxes and found my NetGuard card. I put through my access number, passed every authentication step, I was going to get my money back. Look at me go. Everything is going to be just fine.  

No.  

I froze. My stomach dropped. I gripped my phone so hard it could have snapped. No. No. No. I tapped into my BNZ app. 

“Instant balances are not available at this time.” 

I tried logging in. 

“You are unable to access your account at this time.” 

No. I am not an adult. I am a teenager who just gave a random website every single piece of information they need to get into my bank account.  

Panic ensued. I ran to the fridge, grabbed a half full bottle of wine, and skulled the whole thing before running to the bank. My ears stung from the harsh Wellington winds and the wine swished around in my empty stomach.  

At the till, I was met with a breather-turned-banker. He very slowly unlocked my account through signs and yawns. This man was winning the IDGAF war in a way I couldn’t comprehend. 

But I got in. 

Spending: $0.00 

Saving: $0.00 

I saw the transaction: WURAOLA: -$5,668 

I looked at the banker. “It’s all gone. They took everything,” I said numbly.  

“Aw ratchet. That sucks,” he replied. 

All that time I spent in that stupid café was wasted. I threw away childhood for independence and adulthood. I tried to speedrun through life, but in the process, I missed out on the lessons I was meant to learn along the way. Lessons like BNZ will never text you.  

I was humiliated. I couldn’t tell anyone out of utter embarrassment. It’s confused 90-year-olds who get scammed, not 17-year-olds.  

That night, I lay on the floor of the flat I could no longer afford and stared at the ceiling. 

The next day was payday. The mania took over. Suddenly, money didn’t feel real. Instead of paying rent or buying groceries, I bought a $500 T-shirt. If everything I’d worked for was going to be ripped away, I wanted to have a small amount of control in the matter.  

The weeks that followed were blurry. I tapped my card mindlessly on purchases I didn’t need. I got a high hearing the Apple Pay ding. Every imagined future I had created was suddenly out of reach. I felt numb and dissociated, almost like I was floating above my own body. 

As more time went by, I managed to accept the situation I was in. Now, I tell it as a funny story at parties or bars. However, my heart still races during big transactions and bank account admin. 

I don’t blame my scammer, Wuraola. I blame the inaccessible nature of financial education and the capitalist system which convinced me to leave school for a minimum wage job. The experience taught me about the childhood I lost. 

In a way, Wuraola taught me more about being an adult than anyone else. Sometimes, I almost appreciate her.

Well actually... not really.