There are certain times in every young Nigerian’s life when you must confront your God and ask them what you did to deserve such a dangerous reality (living in this country).

You might even wake up at midnight to speak with your creator. When no cars are driving by, all your talking stages are asleep, and it’s just you, the whirring of your fan (rechargeable in case NEPA wants to be funny) and God.

One of such times is when you have to visit a Nigerian bank.

Welcome, Dearest reader, to an account – a fancy way of saying long gist – of an experience I had with a bank recently that made me think, wow, the suffering we go through in this place is quite much.

Let’s talk about it.

Now, I have an account I last used quite a bit ago, there was a registration error that meant some of the details connected to the account were incorrect, and my address had also changed since then.

So, I decided, like an optimistic child of faith, that I would pop into the bank, get everything straightened out, and be on my way, no fuss.

I was so incredibly wrong.

The Great Network Hunt of May ‘24

The first hot slap was when I got to the branch I opened the account at, and they said, “Sorry Oga, xyz Bank no dey here again.”

Asper, they had moved.

I said okay, fair enough, it’s been a long time. I even respect a dynamic bank, they can’t let their enemies predict their next moves.

I went to the next branch.

Grand, geometric architecture, glass and steel everywhere, you’d think they actually know what they are doing inside.

Their AC was on full blast, and if you see the lighting? Bright.

But the hall was packed, and from the expressions of people inside, I knew that if I lit a match, there was a high possibility the whole bank would go up in a mushroom cloud of frustration and rage.

Bank run hack – don’t get into the hall and then immediately stand in line. Go up to one of the attendants and ask them if it’s possible to do whatever it is you want to do at that branch, and if they say yes, then you can go to the back of the line and wait.

If you don’t ascertain they can give you the service you want and you stand in line for an hour, I am very sorry for you.

Anyway, I went up to her and explained. She said, “So sorry, we can’t help with that, our network is down.”

Asper, the bank does not have network, so they can’t do anything.

“You can come back tomorrow, Sir. Early in the morning, there is usually network then”

I just said thank you and turned around.

Me that I took the day off work to sort out personal errands, when would I find the time again?

You know sometimes when you close your eyes and just chuckle to yourself, because how could I have even thought that I want to go to the bank and “quickly” do something?

Ko possible, nau.

So, I went to another branch.

Call it bullheadedness or whatever, I just knew that I wanted to get this thing done and over with.

This next branch was tiny, like those houses they’re building on Lagos Island these days that look like slices of bread stacked together in the nylon, slim and tall.

Again, the attendant was only too happy to let me know that the bank was, for all my intents and purposes, useless.

No network.

At this point, I was getting a headache, and starting to consider just sitting on the floor to breathe because what do you mean, “No network” in two branches of a bank?

In this Abuja sun?

(I was being driven around in an air-conditioned Mercedes but even though, please.)

The woman I spoke to had the grace to be apologetic, and I couldn’t even blame her, so I turned around and left again.

Hm.

So, I swallowed my more violent thoughts and decided that I would give it one more shot. Just one more try, and if it didn’t gel, then maybe my God was against this union.

I would simply go home and sleep.

This next branch was doubly as bright (both in colour and in lighting, and by then I had a theory that the brightness was intended to dazzle their customers so they didn’t realise they were being treated like prisoners), and just as geometric.

And the customer service desk was just as full.

But then, they told me the elusive network was present and I should wait in line.

You know when it’s the end of a movie and the main character – who has been through a lot – realises that maybe things won’t always be bad and there’s still some good left to look forward to?

That was me in that bank.

Little did I know that I had just finished one ordeal, and was entering into another.

A Study in Audacity and Brown Turtlenecks

The relief of finding a functioning branch briefly overshadowed just how long the queue I stood in was.

After some time spent standing (behind a lady who smelt very nice and had a great wig. 10/10, stiff where?) and pressing phone, I began to wonder if there really wasn’t a more convenient way to do this.

The banking hall was reasonably sized, so why didn’t they just install seating so customers could wait their turn? Why did we all have to be standing like prisoners awaiting trial?

Many minutes had passed as I occupied myself with these deeply philosophical, evidently novel and new-age quandaries when I saw a figure walk straight past me to the middle of the line, and stand beside the person already there.

At first, I thought, okay, maybe this new guy knows the person he’s beside, because the audacity he used to bypass everyone was quite something, so, surely, he’d been here before.

But then Ms Nice Wig looked back at me with mirrored confusion, before tapping the person before her to ask if the newcomer had been here before, to which he replied in the negative.

All of us now kept quiet for a second, maybe we were all giving the audacious newbie some time to remember himself.

After some time, Ms Nice Wig went to tap his shoulder and pointed out that there was a very long queue, and he had just cut it, so he needed to return.

This man looked at her up and down and said, “I’ve heard”, then faced front again.

Again, the audacity! The gall! The gumption!

I couldn’t believe it. Even the lady just returned in silence.

Not even the blatant disrespect to everyone else in the line, what offended me the most was the dangerous combination of clothes on his body.

All I’ll say is he was wearing a skintight brown turtleneck. In Abuja.

Anyways, Turtleneck stood there as the line crept forward, but contrary to what you would think, he did not attempt to go after the person he’d stood beside.

Oh no, he was waiting for someone he thought he could easily cut in front of.

Ms Nice Wig got to the middle of the line, then he tried to join, asper, slide in behind her, asper, chance me.

You know when lightning strikes dry earth?

That’s how my spirit activated within me to destroy any such notion.

You might even have called it an Avatar state, with how I ignited.

The way I used all the frustration in my body to look at him, I didn’t even need to say anything, he just respected himself.

The flare of irritation and annoyance shocked even me because I consider myself quite mild-mannered, and I think people can tell too, which is why they try to take advantage of it.

Which is what I suspected Turtleneck wanted to do.

Me that I’d been to three branches and used half of my day to get to this point?

God forbid, dear.

He then slid in after me, chancing the rest of the line. Maybe they were feeling particularly generous in spirit that day.

I definitely was not.

The whole thing made me think about how bold and entitled Nigerians can be.

How do you walk into a bank, see people who have been there before you, then decide that your own issue is more important than all the other people you met there, and try to cut ahead of them?

That level of entitlement was insane to me.

Then I thought, if we were such a naturally forward and bold people, why were we so shy to demand change or our rights from the government?

It might be a reach, but honestly, Nigerians are so smart and quick to defend themselves/their positions, and even take more than they are entitled to from anyone else, but you see government? That’s when we become shy.

Why?

Anyways.

The queue seemed to have gotten even slower the further I made it, and my legs were aching now. I’d been standing for over an hour, and I was sick of the woman at the back of the queue who had been on the phone for over 30 minutes discussing everything from how expensive things were in the market, to how her boss ate her moi moi from the fridge one time like that.

Customer Service and Internal Screaming

Another hour passed before I finally got to an attendant, and for the first few seconds, I was really just grateful to be sitting down.

This was before the gentleman to my right decided he’d had enough of the platitudes his attendant was offering him.

“What do you mean I can’t access my money yet? My own money again?”

The man was so pissed he was vibrating like a small generator.

At this point, the attendant seemed too tired and wasn’t even being very helpful or courteous anymore, so it turned into an argument that swelled to include everyone around.

The whole thing reminded me of the times during cash scarcity when Nigerians were going naked in banks and rolling on the floor because they couldn’t access their money.

One of the most embarrassing moments of this government, if you ask me.

But before it got to that, another attendant came over and diffused the situation then took the irate customer to his desk.

Thankfully, after that, my attendant faced me squarely. But again, I should have known that even then, even after all my trials and tribulations, things would still go awry.

I told him what my issue was, and he told me I’d need to fill out a form.

I said, okay, present me with this form, let’s get this shit on the road – it was almost 3 pm already, and banks close at 4 pm.

Then after a brief rummage through his desk drawer, he announced he didn’t have the form, then started to ask his colleagues if they had said form.

It took restraint from God himself for me not to turn into a ball of fire and roast everyone there.

After asking around to no avail, he then got up and went upstairs to hunt this form.

Internally, I wondered why he couldn’t print this thing out for me. Surely they had it digitally somewhere?

And why did I even need to fill it physically? Why couldn’t I do it online? What was the point of all this long talk?

I could apply for a visa to another country while taking a dump in my bathroom, but to fix a bank account registration issue, I had to go to the bank and physically fill out a form (mind you, they will still enter this information online o).

It didn’t make sense to me.

I sat there for 30 minutes, fuming silently, before he came back.

And with what? No form.

So, I asked him why he didn’t just print out the form for me to fill, and he said he couldn’t do that, something about bank policy or something not allowing them to print out the forms themselves.

I said (in my head), Osanubua, who do me this thing?

Anyway, after another more spirited search of his own drawer (the same one he checked at the start of all this), he then miraculously found the forms.

I didn’t even say anything or look at his face, I just waited for him to give me the form.

That, Dear readers, is when this man decided to mention that I would need a utility bill, a written letter, and a copy of my National Identity slip to process my request.

As in, they needed physical copies of these documents.

At this point, I began to wonder if my enemies had finally gotten my calabash in the village and were shaking it for pleasure.

Why me? Why all these obstacles?

Why didn’t you tell me all this before you started looking for the bloody form? Why did you make me wait here when I could have gone, gotten these things printed out at a cafe, and come back?

Then he began to apologise, gushing that there was a cafe nearby and it wouldn’t take long.

I acquiesced.

But, I told him that when I returned, I was not rejoining the foolish queue, I would come straight to his desk whether he was attending to someone else or not.

True to his word, the cafe wasn’t far and it didn’t take long.

I got back just as the bank was about to close, filled out the form, gave him the documents, and he started typing away on his computer.

I sat there for a while as he worked, just thinking about how incredibly inefficient the whole Nigerian banking system was.

I’d spent over four hours in that bank, and only the last thirty minutes had been productive. Again, why did I even need to be there? Why wasn’t this something I could do online? There were no biometrics needed, all the documents he requested I had on my phone already, so what was the point of all this?

And even if I did need to come to the bank, why was the process so horrendously disorganised?

It was like they deliberately made the experience as harrowing as possible, just so that people wouldn’t come to the bank at all. No seating, no numbering of customers or lines – so people like Turtleneck wouldn’t cut in front of others – just bright colours, a square logo, and vibes.

After a while – and numerous clarifications like he didn’t have the paper right in front of him – he looked up and told me it would be done and I was free to go.

I said ah, “Would be done” Asper, there is still MORE to be done?

Then he explained that my account officer still needed to provide more documents to ensure everything was in order before I could access the account.

So, I said okay, how will I know when I have access then? When would I receive an email or a text?

He said no, the bank wouldn’t send me a notification, but he would personally “monitor the case” and call me to let me know.

(Edit from the future: I’m yet to receive that phone call, and it’s been over a week now.)

At that point I didn’t even have the energy to debate the fact that he had just spent the better part of another 30 minutes inputting all my data, asking me for OTPs and confirming my email address, only to say the bank would not reach out to me, and I would have to physically come to the bank again or wait for him to call and update me.

I just said thank you very much and left.

Thinking Thoughts and Coming to Conclusions

In the car ride back home I was texting my friend about the whole ordeal and she said “Hm, Nigerian banks? That’s why I hate having issues with them.”

And it made me think, egbami, why should this be normalised? Why do we just shrug and accept dysfunction as a nation?

Have we been cursed? Did they use it to do us?

Nigeria is in such a dangerous place, both literally and figuratively, that if we keep on lying down and taking lashings, that’s how it will go on forever.

And maybe the first step to a better Nigeria is just talking about things.

Not being quiet about the struggles the country is putting us through. Whether it’s on social media o, in person o, calling your political representatives or going to your local government office to ask what’s going on, we are too spirited and boisterous to keep on letting people in power step on us so brazenly.

Haba!

Let’s not even get into how our dysfunctional relationship with power also stems from the foul respectability politics that Nigerians carry on their head.

I’ve ranted enough.

The moral of the story is, that bank, which I shall not name, but I believe the more enterprising readers will have figured out who they are by now, and the whole Nigerian Banking system needs a serious shakedown and reform.

We even put out a poll on Twitter asking the public about their worst banking experiences, and GT Bank was named quite a bit – 38%. Along with Zenith (25%), UBA (24%) and Access (13%).

There’s also one on Instagram if you want to see how your faves fared there. (Hint: Zenith Bank seems to be pretty popular. In a bad way.)

People use their hands to open accounts with these banks, yet they suffer as a result.

Imagine paying someone to stress you.

It’s not good, nau.

Anyway, this has been very therapeutic for me, and I hope this rant makes you realise that sometimes, make noise and shout.

No be everytime cool, calm, and collected.

Anyways

Bet you thought we wouldn’t give you an index, hm?

Well, to wrap things up, we thought it important to give you some resources you may need in your fight against principalities and powers (Nigeria).

Give it a browse.

The Banking Purgatory Index

 

Okay, now I’m curious, what bank do you think this is about? Also, has a Nigerian bank ever frustrated you this much? What happened?

Tell me in the comments, that’s kuku what they’re for.

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