The harmattan wind had barely settled over Lagos when the news crashed like a hammer blow: — the Nigerian Union of Petroleum and Natural Gas Workers (NUPENG) — was threatening another strike.
In Nigeria, strike is not just a word. It is a dagger to the heart of daily life. It means fuel queues stretching beyond sight. It means black-market chaos. It means your child’s school closed, your hospital generator silent, your wedding postponed. It means life itself grinding to a halt.
But this time, the strike wasn’t about unpaid wages or hazardous working conditions. It wasn’t about bad government policy. No. This was about one man — Aliko Dangote.
Dangote, Africa’s richest man, was about to roll out over 4,000 brand-new CNG-powered trucks, delivering fuel straight to filling stations — no unionised drivers, no NUPENG chokehold. For the first time in decades, the fuel distribution chain would bypass the union that had treated Nigeria’s lifeline as its personal property.
For everyday Nigerians, this was salvation. But for NUPENG, it was nothing less than war. And, as always, their first weapon was the threat to shut the country down.
It is hard to believe this is the same NUPENG that once stared down the iron fist of General Sani Abacha. Back in the 1990s, when fear choked the land and soldiers stalked the streets, NUPENG — under the fearless Frank Kokori — became the thunderclap that broke the silence.
They didn’t just talk — NUPENG acted. Tankers stopped rolling. Depots locked up. Petrol stations turned into graveyards of dust-covered pumps.
Nigeria gasped. Generators went quiet. Hospitals rationed power. Schools shut down. Lagos — usually a snarling, honking beast of traffic — fell silent. And though the suffering was real, there was respect. “They’re fighting for us,” people whispered in endless fuel queues.
Abacha’s wrath was swift. Soldiers threatened tanker drivers. Union leaders were dragged away. Kokori himself was locked up for years. But NUPENG held firm — a lion roaring in the dictator’s face.
Then democracy returned. The soldiers left. But NUPENG stayed — more powerful than ever. Slowly, the lion’s roar changed. By the early 2000s, strikes were no longer about democracy. They were about money, perks, and political favours.
Some union leaders crept into politicians’ homes in the dead of night — not to demand justice, but to secure personal deals. Their children no longer schooled in Nigeria. And when former NUPENG leaders threatened to reveal the list of politicians with kids studying abroad, some politicians laughed and replied: “We also have dirt on you.”
NUPENG still controlled the arteries of the nation — the tankers. Without them, petrol didn’t move. And they knew it. Presidents, governors, and ministers learned the hard way: when NUPENG shut down, Nigeria bled.
For the common man, it became a permanent hostage situation. Christmas? Prices soar. Elections? Fuel disappears. Black-market sellers grow rich. Hospitals cancel surgeries. Families postpone burials.
I remember speaking to a woman in Ibadan during the 2012 strike. Tears streamed down her face outside a powerless hospital. Her brother was dying inside. “They say they fight for the people,” she spat, “but the people are dying.”
And now, in 2025, Aliko Dangote has walked onto the battlefield. His refinery is up. His trucks are ready. No middlemen. No union gatekeepers. Just refinery-to-pump delivery.
For station owners, it is liberation. No more buying or maintaining expensive tankers. No more parking fees. Just place your order — and the fuel arrives.
For NUPENG, it is an extinction-level threat. And so, in a moment dripping with irony, they have threatened a strike — not to fight dictatorship or injustice, but because Dangote won’t let his drivers join their union.
In 1994, NUPENG risked everything for democracy. In 2025, they risk Nigeria’s stability over membership cards. The lion has become a petty gatekeeper, snarling not for the people — but for its own feeding trough.
We’ve seen it all before. Student unions turning into thug factories. Anti-corruption agencies shielding the corrupt. Now, NUPENG — once a hero — is a shadow of its former self. And yet, the price for ordinary Nigerians remains the same: higher fares, empty pumps, failed businesses, and needless deaths.
But, perhaps, this year, the script will flip. Imagine: NUPENG declares a nationwide strike. Lagos braces. Abuja panics. But instead of chaos, Dangote’s gold-painted convoys glide past every blockade.
Fuel flows. Queues never form. Panic never comes. For the first time in decades, NUPENG’s roar echoes into an empty wilderness.
And that would be poetic justice — the same justice NUPENG once demanded for Nigeria, now returned to Nigeria in the form of humming CNG trucks. The hostage, finally freed.
Mogaji Arisekola writes from Ibadan.
