Held Hostage by UBA: My Father’s Money, Their System, and Our Anguish.

By Shiloh Akinyemi.

Last week, I watched my father, a man who has given everything to raise his family with dignity be humiliated and pushed to the brink of another health crisis. Just weeks after a traumatic ordeal with GTBank that sent him to the hospital, we hoped for a fresh start with UBA. We were wrong. On Tuesday, he moved ₦500,000 into his UBA account from his Broker Account, money he earned, money he needed. But instead of access, he got locked doors. He was told his account was dormant. What followed was a four-day nightmare that left him stripped of his peace, his autonomy, and his ability to care for his 94 years old father. UBA didn’t just fail at service, they failed at humanity.

On that Tuesday morning, after receiving an SMS debit alert from his Broker Account confirming the half a million naira has been successfully transferred to his UBA account, my father went to the bank, expecting to withdraw effect transfer to his father and Palm credit. He was informed that the account was dormant, and he was prepared to sort it out and get on with his day. He didn’t expect to spend the entire day caught in a web of “we’re working on it.” Nothing was resolved. No access. No direction. Just a man sitting in a banking hall, hoping again that a system designed to serve him wouldn’t destroy him.

The rigmarole of protocol and repetition of requests show that the regular bank in Nigeria are about to go the way of Lagos Yellow Taxi; to the dustbin of history through ineffectiveness and make the way for the online “ride”  of banking services.

What does it take to open an account with a Fintech? NIN! With his NIN I opened a Fintech Account for the old school who has never considered them for once for fear of not having a physical address. The world has moved, service was done in micro second, but not UBA.

The next day, I took time off to go with him. I had already seen what banking stress had done to him with GTBank, and I wasn’t going to let that happen again, not if I could help it. We got to the UBA branch just before noon. We didn’t leave until 5:30 PM. Five hours of forms, waiting, signatures, bureaucracy. At the end of it, we were assured confidently, with the kind of smile that makes you believe that everything was finally in place. “Just 24 hours,” they said. “You’ll have full access tomorrow.”

Thursday afternoon came. Nothing.

We returned to the bank, again. Tired, but determined. This time we were told, “It’s receiving utmost attention,” and “you’ll have access to the funds before close of business today.” So we left. We believed them. We trusted a system that has proven, time and time again, that it is not designed to care. They never called. They never followed up. They let the day end.

And then came Friday. A public holiday. So, would be Monday.

Do you know what it feels like to have money and not be able to access it?

To be forced into silence by a banking system that takes your funds and gives you nothing but apologies and delays?

To be on the road for your family retreat and reunion and not be able to give your father—the patriarch of your lineage the financial support you planned to, simply because a bank couldn’t do its job?

My father was forced to go to Abeokuta for the holiday empty-handed, not because he lacked the means, but because UBA held his money hostage. For days, we’ve waited with nothing but hollow words and shrugged shoulders. Today, June 9th, someone from the bank finally called. A soft apology. A promise to “work on it” tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

How many tomorrows does it take to restore someone’s dignity?

This is not just bad service. This is cruelty in a suit and tie. This is a failure of process, a breach of trust, and a blatant disregard for the physical and emotional wellbeing of customers. My father is contending with diabetes, battling high blood pressure. Every delay, every queue, every form, every unanswered question is not just inconveniences, it is a risk, that could trigger his health negatively.

UBA needs to be held accountable.

What Do I Want?

An immediate reactivation of my father’s account.

A formal apology—public, not private.

Compensation for the stress and the days lost.

Structural review of UBA’s dormant account reactivation process.

I refuse to let this be another silent episode in the endless string of banking trauma in Nigeria. I want answers. I want restitution. I want justice. And I want it to be loud enough that no other family has to endure what mine just did.

Shiloh O. Akinyemi fondly called ShillyPepper, is a writer, book reviewer, and social commentator who is passionate about literature, faith, and social justice. She curates book recommendations and literary discussions on The Book Chef, where she amplifies Christian fiction and thought-provoking narratives.

As a keen observer of societal issues, Shiloh uses her voice to challenge injustices and advocate for accountability. When she’s not writing, she’s either lost in a book, or exploring ways to foster meaningful conversations about faith and culture.
She can be reached via akinshiloh1@gmail.com