WHY Electricity In NIGERIA HAS MORE DRAMA THAN NOLLYWOOD
WHY ELECTRICITY IN NIGERIA HAS MORE DRAMA THAN NOLLYWOOD
If you think Nigerian movies have drama, suspense, and plot twists, you haven’t spent a night waiting for electricity in Nigeria. Here, the lights don’t just go off—they disappear like a Nollywood villain in a thunderstorm, leaving families staring at each other like investors tracking a volatile cryptocurrency. Are they part of a reality show, a horror film, or an elaborate government IPO prank?
It all begins innocently. The sun sets, dinner simmers, laptops charge, Netflix is queued, and the fan hums like a reliable digital banking transaction. Then, like a diva refusing to enter a party without attention, electricity vanishes. No warning, no note—just gone. It abandons humanity like a hedge fund exiting an illiquid investment portfolio without notice.
. Households react differently. Some panic, checking the meter as if it owes them ROI calculations. Others blame neighbors. A few philosophical types sigh deeply: “This is life, and life is cruel, like market volatility.” Children, bewildered, mistake darkness for permanent change. “Mom, is this a blackout or an apocalypse?” “Electricity ghosted us,” comes the resigned reply.
Meanwhile, the power company issues a statement. They claim to be restoring electricity, using words like “technical difficulties” and “unforeseen challenges,” which in Nigerian English translates to: “We are sipping tea while your investment portfolio burns.” Citizens read these statements and laugh nervously because electricity promises are like projections in a risky trading strategy—optimistic but not guaranteed.
Streetlights, too, are dramatic. Sometimes they flicker like indecisive actors unsure if they belong in a comedy or a financial thriller. Other times, they stay off completely, forcing drivers into impromptu obstacle courses. Pedestrians dance across unlit roads like they’re hedging in a volatile stock market. Cities like Lagos, Abuja, and Port Harcourt join the collective darkness, starring in a Nollywood-style thriller: “The Night the Lights Left the Portfolio.”
Generators emerge as unsung heroes. The hum of a diesel generator becomes the new lullaby in Nigerian homes, like passive income flowing from a side investment. But generators have egos—they demand fuel, attention, and sometimes threaten rebellion by coughing smoke. Families bargain with generators: “Please, just for tonight, don’t betray us like a failed investment.” Peace returns temporarily, at the cost of diesel fumes and declining lungs, like inflation affecting purchasing power.
Electricity outages are deeply personal. Some homes get a brief 10-minute appearance before vanishing again. Others endure marathon blackouts stretching hours, days, or weeks, much like a volatile cryptocurrency market. During these absences, household social dynamics shift. Phones die. Arguments flare. A family TV might become a shrine of hope, like a treasured asset in a diversified investment portfolio.
The plot thickens with bills. Nigerian electricity bills are often more confusing than Nollywood storylines. You receive a figure claiming usage greater than the national grid output. Citizens stare at it like a cryptic hedge fund report. Then comes the existential question: “Do I pay for electricity that visits only in ghost form?” Some do, imagining guilt-driven returns. Others treat it as a puzzle, to be solved later with divine financial planning.
Electricity companies engage in theatrics. Every outage is an event, with press releases, social media updates, and assurances that problems are “temporary and under control.” Nigerians know better. Temporary is elastic, stretching from five minutes to five days, depending on transformer mood—like market liquidity in an illiquid asset.
Children turn blackouts into adventures. They play in candlelight, creating shadows, reenacting superhero battles. Unaware, they navigate a world more dramatic than a leveraged stock portfolio crash. Parents negotiate silently with fate, whispering apologies to appliances like investors apologizing to underperforming assets. Pets are confused. Dogs bark. Cats judge silently, like financial auditors observing compliance failures.
Social media thrives on tragedy. Nigerians turn darkness into entertainment. Tweets flood timelines: “Electricity left. Netflix judging me. I’m consoling my fridge like a fintech investment.” Instagram reels showcase dramatic candlelight dinners. TikTokers dance through darkness: “Who needs lights when you have passive income?” Memes proliferate, featuring transformers in chains, meters with passports, and electricity lounging on a beach like a rogue hedge fund.
Electricity’s disappearance inspires innovation. Citizens develop backup plans: solar panels, rechargeable lamps, mini inverters, animal-shaped lamps, and occasional offerings to voltage deities. Some even write letters: “Dear Electric Current, please visit. Your fans miss you. Signed, loyal investors.” Creativity blossoms, like diversified portfolios mitigating risk.
Restaurants and bars face drama. They play pre-recorded audio, as live electricity is a luxury. Cash registers become mysterious artifacts. Card machines require sunlight for activation, like trading terminals in low-voltage mode. Guests dine in semi-darkness, offering reviews akin to market analysts: “Ambiance 10/10, power supply 0/10.”
Electricity outages create unintentional reality TV. Families reveal secrets: who ate chocolate, who didn’t turn off the fan, who loves the neighbor. Every blackout is a psychological experiment without scripts. Friends become storytellers, comedians, and philosophers, navigating the darkness like traders in high-risk markets.
Extreme cases spark humorous social revolutions. Neighborhoods hold mock protests, candles in hand, chanting: “Return our light or return your manager!” Police watch, bemused. Journalists arrive, capturing the spectacle, adding captions like: “Citizens unite against vanishing voltage—ROI still pending.”
Even the political class is not spared. Ministers, senators, and governors tweet despair. They blame technical glitches, sabotage, or celestial conspiracies. Citizens know the truth: electricity enjoys drama, suspense, and unpredictability, like cryptocurrency speculation. It appears just long enough to tease—then vanishes, laughing silently.
Finally, reconciliation occurs. Lights return suddenly, as if nothing happened. Families cheer, appliances revive, laptops boot, and Netflix resumes like a bullish market day. Citizens feel relief, suspicion, and triumph simultaneously. Social media erupts: #LightIsBack, #AbujaShines, #FinallyElectricity. Generators sigh. Children declare victory. Dogs bark happily. Deep in a transformer, electricity smirks, knowing it tested patience again, like a volatile financial derivative.
In Nigeria, electricity is more than a utility. It is a character in a never-ending comedy series. It has moods, quirks, and dramatic timing, like a seasoned Nollywood actor manipulating investment returns. It tests patience, sparks creativity, inspires memes, and teaches citizens that humor is essential for survival—much like maintaining a diversified portfolio in uncertain markets.
Next time the lights vanish, remember: you are witnessing more drama than a blockbuster. Candles are co-stars. Generators, supporting cast. Phones, fans, laptops—extras who might exit dramatically. Electricity? It is the diva owning the stage, waiting for the perfect moment to return, reminding you that in Nigeria, power is not just out—it is performing, like a perfectly timed IPO launch.
😂 Don’t Miss Out On The Madness!
I drop brand-new funny, wild, and brain-sparking stories daily at exactly 10 AM & 6 PM — twice a day! From “Naija wahala” to global comedy gist, I deliver laughter hotter than Lagos sun ☀️ Subscribe now or risk missing your daily dose of “hilarious wisdom”! 😎🔥
🚀 Join the laughter squad — your inbox will thank you later! 💌 #DavidDWriter | Daily dose of joy, two times a day 😁
Comments
Post a Comment