It was one of those slow Saturday mornings—lazy, gentle, with the hum of life captured in buzzing WhatsApp groups and endless social media banter. News poured in like a tropical rainstorm—some funny, some alarming, others soaked in heartbreak and dry wit. I had planned a quiet morning with my phone and a few online laughs, just a little break from reality. But then, the need for a little cash dragged me from the couch to a nearby POS shop. My intention? Withdraw a few naira and return to my digital theater. What I didn’t expect was to stumble into a masterclass on economic hardship—unfiltered, unscripted, and more profound than anything a tweet could teach.
As I handed my ATM card to the POS operator, a middle-aged man burst onto the scene like a gust of desperation. His words, raw and sharp, pierced through the air: “I was debited yesterday trying to transfer just two thousand naira… my last hope.” He was trembling. The POS guy asked, “How much?” He replied, “N2000.” “You’ll need to go to your bank to complain,” came the mechanical answer.
That sentence crushed him. We saw it in his eyes—how they reddened with despair. His shoulders dropped. His voice cracked. “To what end?” he muttered, barely loud enough. “It’ll cost me N900 to go to the bank, and another N900 to come back. I just lost everything I had left.”
As he walked away, head bowed, something shifted in the air. We stood there, stunned—not just by his loss, but by what it revealed. A N2,000 loss was devastating because the journey to reclaim it cost even more. And just like that, the floodgates opened. Everyone had a story.
Rabiu, a stern-faced man with an edge in his voice, broke the silence. “My daughter’s school fees per term is N25,000,” he said. “But guess what? I spend N20,000 every month just to transport her there and back.” That’s N60,000 per term—just on movement. He paused, shook his head, and chuckled bitterly. “The fees are cheaper than the journey.”
I had already collected my cash, but I sat down again. The real wealth here wasn’t in my wallet—it was in the stories.
Another voice rose from the crowd. “Transportation within town now costs more than traveling interstate,” the man said, frustrated. “A short trip costs N500 to N700. Meanwhile, a two-hour journey outside the state can be N3000. It’s insane!”
Then came a quiet man, previously listening with folded arms. He finally spoke: “My family lives in Minna, I stay in Abuja. Used to visit twice a month. Now? Once in two months, if I’m lucky. Just transport alone gulps N30,000. It makes more sense to send the money home than to see them.” We all nodded, silently mourning the distance forced between families by fuel prices and broken policies.
And then—like a blockbuster twist—came a tale that struck us all dumb. A man, face lit with nostalgia, told of a family member in Lagos who recently had a child after years of waiting. The family wanted to travel en masse to celebrate. They calculated the cost of hiring a Sharon car—N180,000 to go, N180,000 to return. Total? N360,000. It would cost each relative N40,000 just for the journey.
But then, wisdom showed up in old age. “Why not,” an elder asked, “instead of wasting all that money on transport, let’s each contribute N10,000 and send it to him?” Within minutes, they raised N400,000. The new father called in tears, saying, “You all did more than attend the naming—you funded it. God bless you.” That was celebration without locomotion. Joy delivered wirelessly.
Suddenly, the conversation swirled beyond stories. It turned philosophical. We often obsess over rising food prices, and rightly so. But how often do we pause to consider that perhaps transportation is a more silent killer—one that limits our choices, isolates us, and strangles our freedom?
Parents now prioritize school hostels—not for safety, but to save money on fare. On campuses, rent has skyrocketed due to the demand from students avoiding daily commutes. Some students skip lectures because they simply can’t afford the trip. In Abuja, it’s said that a student can spend between N2,500 to N5,000 just to reach Gwagwalada daily. How is that sustainable?
A young woman, Hassana, shared her own ordeal. She lives in Gwagwalada, yet spends over N3,000 daily just to attend lectures at the main campus. “Some days,” she said, “I just stay home. What else can I do?”
Transportation has started to determine employment. A job offering N30,000 monthly is worthless to someone spending N1,000 daily just to get there. Companies now prefer local hires—not for talent, but for proximity. Even ATMs are falling out of favor. People would rather risk shady POS shops than burn fuel or fare to find a working cash machine.
Civil servants are caught in this web too. One confessed during our gathering that he often goes to work with nothing in his pocket, saved only by the office bus service. “If not for that,” he said, “I’d stay home. Or worse, go into debt just to appear productive.”
And so, the economy has quietly become a prison. We’re not chained by law, but by logistics. We no longer choose schools, jobs, or even markets based on quality, but based on location. Physical socialization has become luxury. Celebrations are now virtual. Tourism is shrinking. Postgraduate programs are populated mostly by locals. Not by choice—but by necessity.
The World Bank has warned us. The International Transport Forum too. Affordable transport fuels development, drives growth, reduces poverty. But here? It’s doing the opposite. It’s stalling trade, choking education, and shrinking dreams. Research confirms it—where movement is cheap, economies thrive. Where movement is costly, people stagnate. Families scatter. Hope flickers.
Economic theories from transportation cost models to spatial economics back this truth: lower transport costs equal higher prosperity. Yet we walk in reverse.
As the conversation wound down, faces were tired but grateful. It felt like group therapy. I remembered a lecturer who once confessed that he sleeps in his office just to avoid the back-and-forth. I thought of friends I haven’t seen in months, who live only a few kilometers away.
So next time you wonder why someone didn’t show up, didn’t enroll, or didn’t accept that job, think of the fare. In an economy where movement itself is expensive, freedom isn’t just about rights. It’s about affordability. And right now, many Nigerians are free only in theory—because the economy has chained their feet.
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