I open the first page of my personal diary. It marks my first day in Nigeria, where the first scrawled entry ready, “Fuel crisis”. The nerves of being in a new country come through even in my handwriting. I remember exactly the situation: a driver from my office picked me up from my Hotel making our way on one of the big highways of Abuja for the first time. He mumbled something in pidgin and soon after, I would understand his concerned face. He maneuvered the big SUV through a chaos of parked cars all gathered around a gas station. I watched him speak with several people there, only to return to the car, shaking his head. “There is no fuel” he declares hinting at the unpredictability that I will learn to get used to soon.
The days after my arrival, the shortage of fuel was so drastic as kilometer-long queues of cars were marking the roadside in front of gas stations. People talked of five-hour waits and traded tips on social media about which stations might get a refill next. My office began all movements, unsure whether the office cars could their fill.
The shortage was only thread of a bigger story. Nigeria, despite holding some of the world’s largest oil reserves, lacks a refinery to produce fuel out of the crude oil domestically. So, while crude oil is exported, fuel is imported, making the country deoendent on international oil prices. For years, the government subsidized fuel to keep it accessible for its people, but with the promise to cute state expenses and direct money towards infrastructure investments, the new president lifted these subsidies. The consequence, a fuel price four times higher than a year ago. Everything is transported by road- on the highway, big old trucks dominate the landscape, their cargo beds piled high with goods and held together by little more than ropes. With fuel prices driving up all transport costs, nearly every product has become more expensive, pushing inflation to around 30%.
One way how Nigerians get around the fuel shortage is by turning to the black market. In a country where informal work makes up the majority of the economy, the unofficial markets are as visible as the official ones. Alongside fruit, peanut and painting vendors, you’ll also find fuel offered along the roadside. The term “black market” might sound ominous, but here it’s part of everyday survival- it manifests itself as young boys with fuel cans and a tube in hand, ready to sell to passing drivers.
A similar situation is unfolding with money. Coming from Europe and having traveled a bit, I assumed I could simply withdraw cash with my credit card. When I asked my supervisor about an ATM, she have me a half-laughing half-pitying look. “Your card won’t work here” she said firmly. “Trust me, it will”, I replied, naively. After the third ATM rejected my card, it dawns on me she might have been right, and I get nervous- how will I be able to access my money? Later I would learn that international credit cards only work in a handful places like big Hotels. Due to inefficiencies and low integration with global financial systems, people here avoid banks as much as possible. A visit to the bank is an undertaking of a whole day thanks to long lines of customers. The frequent power cut-offs stop their systems from working and customers are sent home to come back the next day hoping for electricity to be back. Once, my friend called me to help her out and pay her Uber via a transfer as her account just would not work. It turned out that all accounts in this bank were frozen for a whole week due to a system problem at the bank.
There are ways in which inefficiency and corruption push business into the informal economy. Official bank exchange rates are so poor that people refer to banks as “thieves”, making the black market the obvious choice for cash exchange. A UN contact confided that many international workers and wealthy Nigerians keep their money in dollar accounts, withdrawing large amounts in cash to exchange on the black market, where rates are significantly better. It still is unbelievable to me how easily people standing by the roadside handle the exchange of thousands of Dollars into Naira without batting an eye.
After my credit card issue, I also turned to this convenient yet unofficial institution for my transactions. My colleague passed the dollars I had with me through the window after negotiating the conversion rate. When the dealer realized it was two fifty-dollar bills instead of a single hundred-dollar bill, the rate dropped. “Black market rules,” I thought recalling cheesy crime movies I had seen. They handed me back a hefty bundle—160 banknotes of 1,000 Naira each, the highest denomination, equivalent to about 50 cents. Because there are no larger bills, carrying cash in a wallet becomes almost impossible due to the sheer volume of bills required for everyday transactions. But as usual, for every problem, there is an unofficial but effective solution. Thanks to fast banking apps and highly efficient fintech solutions replacing banks, transfers are made within milliseconds, which makes it the preferred form of payment for high-class restaurants and street vendors alike. Another solution to the cash problem marks the aesthetic of roadsides and street corners. A sturdy sign reading “P.O.S” dangles from an umbrella, with a small plastic table underneath and usually two to three people chatting as they wait for customers. Points of Service (P.O.S.) act as mobile banking services, handling all banking needs without any bureaucracy: cash withdrawals, transfers, and deposits. For a small service fee, you can essentially avoid stepping inside a bank altogether.
In Nigeria, the likelihood of daily essentials failing is high. There might be no fuel, maybe water is out, and electricity is bound to cut off at some point. One day your bank account might be frozen. As everybody anticipates these challenges, there is a collective openness to find solutions and have understanding for other people’s struggles. It helps that assistance is often just a call away. Sending money to friends and family in need is a routine practice for Nigerians. If someone asks for financial help, it isn’t a matter for consideration; it’s viewed as a duty to fulfill. While the social network is crucial for these practices, it can also create pressure on individuals to provide financial support to acquaintances or others within their community, even if they’re hesitant about it. This practice is culturally deeply rooted; however due to increasing instability and economic hardship, fewer people have the resources to extend help, as they focus more on managing their own needs. Nevertheless, this network of transactions among individuals what feels like an unofficial system of redistribution and social security, where small transfers provide support within certain segments of society. In a landscape where official structures often struggle to meet needs, it’s the unofficial mechanisms that enable daily life to function, showcasing the resilience of communities to navigate economic challenges.
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