Fuel hustle
A recurring do or die affair
My yellow fuel keg stood at the back of the line, twenty others ahead of mine.
There was enough time to count. The queue stretched so far, kegs nearly brushing the station entrance.
Cars on one side, "okada" on the other, and then kegs, like mine, creating a partition.
Yet, this order was merely a formality. After all, this is Nigeria, rules aren't our forte.
"They're punishing us. There's fuel, but they hoard it. Profiting off scarcity, hiking prices. No electricity and no fuel. It's every man for himself. As far as I'm concerned, there's no government in this country”.
I assume the man speaking was a teacher. Dressed formally, with a corporate wind-collar shirt. His tie, however, hung casually on his shoulder. His italian shoes bore scratches with it's lower sole lip open ajar as if to say "oga, I'm retiring soon".
"These are disturbing times indeed", the man continued.
"These days it's really hard to know those who are really sane and those who aren't. The problems in this country are enough to make one question his/her sanity".
He wearily leaned against his grey Camry as he continued discussing the usual: the state of the country.
"Make Buhari commot jare," another man chimed in.
Nigeria may have challenges of unity, but poverty of peace and plenty unites Nigerians.
Lasisi Olagunju (Monday lines)
In that moment, our plight was shared. We were all in this together. No tribal divison. I heard a fair-skinned Igbo man say, "My brother, the situation in this country is a 'soori' case." He dragged the "broda" and "soori" in typical Igbo accent. He was speaking to the man with tribal marks.
You'd think he'd wrestled a lion, those marks were unusual.I continued to stare; don't blame me! I'd never seen anyone like that. He caught me, and I looked away quickly. All leaned on the lecturer's Camry, discussing.
I began to muse about how we only unite when struggling for what we actually deserve. Fuel, COVID palliatives, or naira notes thrown by politicians during campaigns.
An average Nigerian's best skill is adapting; adapting to whatever difficult situation he's faced with.
Lasisi Olagunju described it as "fighting adversity with submission".
When fuel scarcity occurs; buying from black market is the alternative.
No tomato and pepper. Farmers have decided to hoard.
"a ma ra tomato paste nigbayen"(we'll buy tomato paste then),you'll hear a Nigerian mother say.
A young guy sat on his Toyota, labeled with a learner's sign. Sipping a local gin, he shouted to anyone who'd listen. Like a time bomb, he was ticking, and I could feel it.
Forty-five minutes in, people gave in, cracking jokes as Nigerians do. "Maybe if we stopped laughing and faced our problems, things might be better." I remembered this from Chimamanda Adichie's "Americanah" I read last year during the three-month ASUU strike. Nigerian logic doesn't often flow that way. "I cannot come and go and kill myself, I no fit kpai," they'd usually roar, then continue laughing.
"It's only a revolution, like the French, that would solve our situation in this country," my dad once said. He mentioned the role of draconian laws.
The first time the term"Draconian laws" reached my ears was on a rainy evening during a dinner conversation with my dad. It wasn't until much later, when I decided to look into the term, that I grasped its full meaning.
“Draconian laws encompass an array of excessively severe regulations, known for their disproportionate and harsh penalties assigned to various offenses”, I read out from google.
Abacha utilized it during his regime. It was characterized by international isolation, human rights violation and political oppression. His death on June 8, 1998, was heralded as a new dawn for Nigerians, or so they thought.
"There are whispers of segregation, an impending inevitability", he had said leaving the question of who would take action unanswered. As he took another spoonful of beans pudding, I observed his Adam's apple rhythmically bobbing, a fascination that had lingered since childhood.
But how many are willing to sacrifice their lives for this country for a revolution to be implemented?. Not many. We believe it's not worth it, and it's not our fault, considering what happened at the Lekki toll gate.
"The deaths that almost changed nothing.”
I balanced my weight on both legs. I'd been leaning on one. I moved my keg forward. Wiping beads of sweat, I looked around. Most sat on their kegs. Out of nowhere, a woman with a faded Ankara wrapper tied to her chest approached the man before me. I'd never seen a beggar with such confidence.
"Efu mi lowo (give me money)," she demanded, and to my surprise, he brought out a crumpled 100 naira note. She added it to her organized bundle of notes, placing the hundred naira where the hundreds were. She even had a 500 naira note.
"Chaii! Bi like say this begging business dey pay, na to find 'abo' (plate) and tear my clothes remain," someone commented, and everyone laughed. It was serious yet comical. She left without a "Thank you".
She moved on to another well-dressed guy, demanding, not begging, as if a charm was working for her. A guy this time with a gold chain and dreads on his head. "In this economy?" he questioned, going back to his phone, ignoring her. The charm didn't work on him, it seemed. Someone once commented that one would need spiritual fortification to collect money from anyone, given the economic situation. However, it was only an exaggeration as to how bad things were.
The queue moved, and everyone stood to move their kegs. I was three kegs away when a fight broke out. A group had smuggled their tanker-sized kegs from a black Lexus, bypassing the queue. The young guy who'd been drinking earlier decided to make a point and spilled fuel from a keg. Chaos erupted, everyone scattered.
I was at the entrance when I realized the commotion had settled as fast as it had begun. To them, getting fuel was a do or die affair. I was the only one worried the station might catch fire.