New York Times Throws Shade At Nigeria In New Article

If you thought your commute was bad, try getting gas in
Nigeria writes Dionne Searcey of New York Times. The
article goes on to describe the deplorable and laughable
situation of power in Nigeria as well as the extreme hardship
faced by Nigerians queueing for fuel at gas stations. The
article also displayed pictures of Lagos streets in total
darkness.
I've always been the one to defend Nigeria against
foreigners' attempt to tarnish our image but this time I have
nothing to defend. Mr Searcey's article is nothing but the
sad truth. It's a shame how our reputation as a country
continues to get slammed and battered all around the world.
While the name of some countries open doors for their
citizens, the mere mention that you are a Nigerian most
times gets the door slammed in your face in the
international network. See the link to the article below.
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
unraveling 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,” Mr. Buhari told
Nigerians on Friday. “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 into gasoline.
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.
“A certain amount of pain must be endured,” said Garba
Deen Muhammad, a spokesman for the Nigerian National
Petroleum Corporation. “Everybody must make
sacrifices.”
At the gas station in Lagos, Olafay Segun and Abu Bellow
tried to sleep away the pain of losing a morning of
valuable fares in their yellow minibus. They joined a huge
line of vehicles backed up along the expressway. Both
men stretched across the old metal seats. In the beating
sun, it was like sleeping inside a TV dinner.
Suddenly, the car in front gave up on the wait, pulling out
of line and leaving a gap. Mr. Bellow bolted for the
driver’s seat, turning the key. Nothing happened. Long
seconds passed as both men panicked that someone
would pull in front of them. He tried the key again.
Success. The bus jolted ahead a few feet.
They wound up behind Adeanike Oso, whose mind was on
her chickens. As the owner of Oso Farms, a 3,500-bird
operation outside Lagos, she worried they might not have
enough food and water.
That morning, Ms. Oso had dropped off her children at
school before heading to the farm, but her Nissan
Pathfinder was running low on fuel so she pulled into line.
That was two hours ago.
Toward the front was Toyin Adeniyi, who was on her way
to work as a school administrator. Three hours after
arriving at the station, she was still waiting.
As midmorning arrived, young men holding plastic gas
cans gathered. “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 Mr. Tungi, to
prevent fuel from slipping onto the black market. People
had been filling jerrycans and selling gas at high prices to
drivers looking to skip long lines at filling stations. Mr.
Tungi and the others were optimists, hoping to sneak a
few liters.
First they would have to get past Nike Olorunfemi, 50, the
station supervisor. Wearing a straw hat and 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,” Ms. 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, having mercy on no one.
“I’m late already,” grumbled Peter Ademola, a swimming
pool maintenance man. He had hopped into a minibus,
heading to a repair job, but it was low on fuel. Now he
was stuck in line, wiping his brow. Tiny beads of sweat
formed above the purple lipstick of the passenger next to
him.
“What can I do?” Mr. Ademola said.
Another driver, Ify Ezeobi, a shopkeeper, figured every
hour of waiting cost him $100 worth of business at his
store. “I’m sick and tired of this,” he said.
It was almost noon when the line stopped altogether. The
station’s supply had run dry. Vehicles squealed away to
search for fuel elsewhere. It was anyone’s guess when
the next fuel truck would arrive.
Some drivers made use of the empty hours until more fuel
came. A policeman read over a stack of witness
statements. One driver repaired a busted side mirror. 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.
A billboard with a man clutching his head taunted the
stalled motorists: “Need pain relief?”
Ms. Olorunfemi — Madame No Nonsense — 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.
“Anybody jumping the queue, they call Action Lady and I
send them out,” she said. “I hate cheating.”
But by afternoon, cheating was in abundance. Some
drivers employed a fried-chicken strategy: gaining
entrance inside the station’s parking lot by claiming they
were patronizing the adjoining KFC.
At 2 p.m., a fuel truck rolled in, eliciting a cheer. But
unloading its 33,000 liters would take hours.
Two men lugging a heavy generator rested it on the
driveway. Three elementary-age boys, sent by their
mothers, arrived after school with plastic cans to try their
luck.
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 station’s gates scraped open.
“O.K.,” Madame No Nonsense said. “Let’s go.”