NIGERIA’S GAS WARS
In an oil-rich country, why are people lining up for hours at the pumps?
LAGOS, NIGERIA— Young men became entangled in a swirl of flying fists. Gas station workers swatted away boys hoping to fill their plastic cans. A mother with a sleeping baby in her minivan was chased off, rightly accused of jumping the line. A driver eager to get ahead crashed into several cars, the sound of crunching metal barely registering amid the noise. Nigerians were getting used to days like this. But then came the ultimate insult to everyone waiting at the Oando mega gas station: A bus marked Ministry of Justice rolled up to a pump, leapfrogging no fewer than 99 vehicles. “Service With Integrity” was painted on its door. A gas station supervisor who calls herself “Madame No Nonsense” stepped aside to let it fuel up before anyone else. The crowd howled at the injustice.
Plummeting oil prices have set off an economic unravelling in Nigeria, one of the world’s top oil producers, and the collective anger of a fed-up nation was pouring out.
“Starvation in the land of plenty,” said Tony Usidamen, a public relations consultant waiting for fuel.
For months, many Nigerians have endured painfully long lines for gasoline and power failures that last for days — with no fuel for backup generators. Scant power means water cuts for homes that rely on electricity to pump it. Everyday items are missing from stores, and those that remain cost more than usual.
In this country of rampant inequality, the poor have long been desperate, and the rich are still able to buy their way out of problems. But the situation in Nigeria, Africa’s largest economy, is having an outsize impact on the expanding middle class, which has become accustomed to air-conditioning, owning a car and going out for Domino’s pizza. Now, even a bottle of Perrier is too expensive for many.
President Muhammadu Buhari is urging patience, noting that when he took office last year he inherited a corruption-plagued mess.
“We are experiencing probably the toughest economic times in the history of our nation,” Buhari told Nigerians last week. “I cannot promise you that this will be an easy journey.”
Low oil prices are not helping. The resulting shortage of dollars means less cash for imports, including fuel to power the nation. Though Nigeria produces millions of barrels of oil a day, it has long had to ship its own crude oil out of the country to be refined.
Imported fuel has been arriving in Lagos, a city of 20 million, by tanker truck, a trip that takes a week. Old trucks and bad roads cause delays. Trucks sometimes disappear across the border, where thieves sell the fuel and pocket the cash, and militants keep blowing up oil platforms and pipelines.
The lines at gas stations ebb and flow, depending on the day. But the government says the supply is getting better. It has finally fired up Nigeria’s three rickety oil refineries, and the wait in Lagos improved drastically last week. Eventually, officials say, Nigeria will make all of its own gasoline.
At the gas station in Lagos, young men holding plastic gas cans gathered at midmorning. “There’s no light, there’s no water, there’s no anything,” said one, Michael Tungi, venting about Nigeria. “Everything is spoiled.”
The station was not allowed to sell gas to Tungi, to prevent fuel from slipping onto the black market. People had been filling jerry cans and selling gas at high prices to drivers looking to skip long lines at filling stations. Tungi and the others were opti- mists, hoping to sneak a few litres.
First they would have to get past Nike Olorunfemi, 50, the station supervisor. Wearing a bright yellow vest, she hollered, sometimes with a bullhorn, to let them know they were waiting in vain.
“That’s why they call me Madame No Nonsense Action Lady,” Olorunfemi said. “I don’t take nonsense.”
The day had started out orderly and calm. Drivers inched forward. The procrastinators, the planners, the innocents — the line absorbed them all.
It was almost noon when the line stopped altogether. The station’s supply had run dry. Vehicles squealed away to search for fuel elsewhere.
Some drivers made use of the empty hours until more fuel came. A police officer read over a stack of witness statements. A doughnut saleswoman paraded alongside the vehicles. Old friends found one another in line, their reunion an upside to the otherwise grim day.
The hottest part of the day came and, with it, stress. A mother made the calculations of every busy parent — if she waited, would she get to school in time to pick up her children? Three energetic boys bounced in the back seat of another car, hanging out the windows and slugging one another. It was the first day of vacation and their father needed gas to reach their grandparents outside the city.
Olorunfemi was still trying to chase off the people holding gas cans. She snatched a can from one man’s hand and threw it onto the freeway.
At 2 p.m., a fuel truck rolled in, eliciting a cheer. But unloading its 33,000 litres would take hours.
At nearly 5 p.m., fuel was finally in the pumps again. Drivers started their engines. Wheels spun in the dirt. Station employees blocked off the cars at the KFC, dashing the hopes of line jumpers. Workers gathered around Madame No Nonsense for a pep talk.
“Don’t sell to anyone with a can,” she said. “Be nice to all your customers.”
Horns started blaring. A security guard in T-shirt and jeans, with an AK-47 slung around his chest, stepped in front of the vehicles. The gates scraped open.
“OK,” Madame No Nonsense said. “Let’s go.”