The last time I bought fuel at a filling station in the wake of the recent scarcity nightmare was on Monday, March 20, 2015. I was cruising along the Kubwa Expressway, Abuja, when I suddenly sighted a filling station with an incredibly short queue. I could not believe my luck. I joined the line-up and tagged along. In less than 15 minutes, I found myself within the pump area. I filled my tank with a 25-litre jerry can to boot.
For six weeks running, the scarcity persisted. Many motorists who had no patience to join the queues stretching over one kilometre in most cases where fuel was being sold or keep vigils at filling stations, were forced to patronise the black marketers that included the physically challenged, pregnant women and nursing mums… unmindful of the danger that is associated with the illegal trade. A 10-litre petrol sold for between N2, 000 and N6, 000 at various times at the peak of the scarceness. I was among those that survived on black market.
The good news is that the agonising queues have vanished in Abuja to the extent that most filling stations now appear empty as if they lack fuel.
Fuel scarcity is not new to me. It dates back to the Shagari era when the pump price was far below N1 per litre. When I travelled from Jos to Wukari in 1981 to pick my tear-leather Peugeot 504 GR car, it cost me only N3.50k to fill the 50-litre tank. That translated to about 70k per litre.
The upward climb of pump prices began the moment the military president, Gen. Ibrahim Babangida, emerged on the scene in 1985. Apparently angry that a bottle of Coca Cola was cheaper than a litre of petrol (the drink was sold for N1 whereas a litre of fuel went for 70k), he evened the pump price to N1.
There are two unforgettable experiences I can never be tired of retelling. The first was the encounter with a one-armed bandit during one of the acute scarcity periods in the late 80s. There was this petrol station situated along Ahmadu Bello Way, Jos.
After queuing for hours on end, I pulled up to the pump end to be served. The attendant dipped the nozzle into my tank. The metre was reading quite alright but unknown to me, the machine was underperforming. I drove off expecting my fuel gauge to rise. But it never did. I pulled to a stop to check my fuel tank, believing there must be a leakage somewhere. There was none. That was when I concluded that I had been fleeced by a “one-armed bandit”… the arm being the long hose of the fuel pump.
The second experience had to do with some con artists. I had gone to hunt for fuel during another scarcity at a filling station located opposite the Jos Polo Club. It was in the early 90s. The station ran out of fuel when it was my turn to be served.
Frustration and anger suffused my face. One guy emerged like a bolt from the blue and offered to help. He told me he knew the manager of the NNPC depot, Jos and he could help me with what had become the most essential commodity in the Tin City. Without a second thought, I told him to hop into my car and we raced to the Rock Haven residence of the manager. He introduced me to the depot boss and I parted with an amount enough to fill my 50-litre jerry can. I had hardly eased myself into the sofa when a drama began to unfold before my eyes. The depot boss pointed at a young chap who sat in one corner, looking subdued.
“You see that man, I helped him to escape arrest by the Customs folks at a checkpoint. He claimed to be carrying a box loaded with wrist watches. Unknown to me, he had a huge amount of US dollars concealed in a false bottom”. As he was berating the chap, one of the manager’s boys climbed down from the staircase of the duplex armed with a bucket. After fiddling with the content of the bucket for a short while, he pulled out a dollar bill. And more bills followed.
Then he turned to me and said: “You see… that box contained about 13 million US dollars. All we need is more chemical to wash the negatives. You can be part of this windfall. Aren’t you lucky to be here at the right time?”
He told me I should raise some cash to enable them buy more chemical from a Lebanese who lodged at the Hill Station Hotel, Jos. My share of the windfall would depend on how much I could contribute to buy the chemical. I dropped my lower jaw in pretence and long enough that if I had been in an abattoir environment, a battalion of flies would have taken refuge in my mouth. I acted along, determined to see the drama to its very end. Only if they knew they were dealing with a printer and publisher who knew the process of minting currency notes.
I told the boss to release the cash and the jerry can to me so that I could buy fuel in the black market to enable me run around for my own share of the chemical money. “Cunny man die, cunny man bury am”, I said to myself. The chap who lured me there also promised to run around to raise his own contribution.
Having retrieved my money and the jerry can, I drove back home to catch a nap. After about three or so hours, I returned with a cheque for N50, 000. The crooks had all gathered in the living room waiting for me. I could notice that anxiety was already eating them up when I arrived. I told the boss that the day being Saturday, it was not possible to cash the cheque which a friend gave me at the bank.
Then I came up with a suggestion: “Why can’t we wash more negatives with the remaining substance in the bucket to enable us buy more chemical? On Monday, I will cash this cheque so that we can buy more chemical”.
The countenance of the big boss suddenly changed. He was so mad at my suggestion that if he had an AK 47 in his possession, he would have shot me between the eyes.
I apologised profusely and beat a tactical retreat. A couple of weeks later, I ran into the so-called NNPC depot manager around the Jos Ultra Modern Market. He was about to be ferried on “achaba”. Our eyes locked briefly. He must have recognised me. I shook my head and laughed. He shook his head too and returned the laughter.
