By Yusuf Danjuma Yunusa

The faint hum of generators, once the relentless backdrop of life in the heart of its place, a heavier quiet has settled—born of grim resignation as the ripple effects of a distant geopolitical storm crash onto the wallets of ordinary Nigerians.

Here in Mararaba, the complaint is not just about the new numbers on the fuel pump. It is about the arithmetic of survival that no longer adds up. The latest hike in the price of Premium Motor Spirit (PMS), which dealers attribute to the escalating crisis in the Middle East—a conflict many here note involves the United States, Israel, and Iran—has plunged residents into familiar but increasingly unbearable hardship.

To understand the human weight of this policy, I took to the streets and queues of Mararaba, annex to the Federal Capital Territory, to speak with those who feel they are paying the price for a war thousands of miles away.

At a crowded NNPC filling station in Nyanya, where the queue of vehicles stretched nearly a kilometer under the harsh sun, I met Nasir, a commercial bus driver. He leaned against his battered Korope bus, wiping sweat from his brow, watching the attendant update the price board.

“Look at this,” Nasir said, his voice a mix of anger and exhaustion. “Just last week, I was managing. Now they tell us because there is war between Israel and Iran, and because America supports Israel, the price must go up again. What does that have to do with us in Abuja?”

Nasir’s math is simple but devastating. “I used to buy fuel here for around N700. Now we are pushing N1,000 and above, and they say it might go to N1,500 if the crisis continues. My transport fare? If I double it, my passengers—civil servants, traders, students—cannot pay. If I don’t, I go home with nothing. The politicians in America and Israel are fighting a war with our stomachs.”

His lament echoes the reality of transport inflation, which has spiked dramatically since the removal of subsidies, now worsened by global tensions.

Across town on Abacha Road, at a modern but nearly empty restaurant, I found Yakubu, a small business owner who runs a catering service. For him, the fuel hike is a “tax” on everything he buys.

“It is a chain. I cook with gas, but the price of gas goes up because the dollar is high and the market fears the war. I transport food to clients, but fuel for my van is now this much,” he said, snapping his fingers. “The government tells us it is ‘market forces’ and the war in the Middle East. I am not a fool. I know the Middle East is unstable because of the US and its allies. But why is Nigeria’s economy tied so tightly to their conflicts? Why are we still importing fuel when we have refineries? We are suffering for their wars and our leaders’ incompetence.”

At Mararaba market, the complaints are less about geopolitics and more about the immediate struggle to fill a pot. Anwar, a tailor, sat idle at his sewing machine. The shop beside him, a provisions store, was dark.

“My neighbor cannot afford to run his generator today,” Anwar said, gesturing to the dark shop. “He sells cold drinks and water. If he has no light, he has no business. If he uses a generator, his profit is gone because diesel is over N1,000 in some places. This is the reality. America, Israel, and Iran are fighting, and my neighbor loses his livelihood.”

The sentiment is backed by data. According to a recent NOIPolls report, 85% of Nigerians disapprove of the fuel subsidy removal, and 93% believe the country is heading in the wrong direction. For people like Anwar, the official explanations ring hollow.

“They say it is deregulation, that it is global politics,” he continued, shaking his head. “I say it is abandonment. We are being buried alive by policies made in Washington and Tel Aviv, carried out by Abuja.”

The geopolitical angle is a particularly bitter pill to swallow. In a country already grappling with high living costs, the idea that a conflict far removed from Africa’s Sahel could dictate the price of commuting to work or powering a small clinic breeds deep resentment.

Ibrahim, a retiree and civil servant, sat on his veranda in Angwa Katsinawa listening to the rare silence where generators once roared.

“Since 2023, when President Tinubu said ‘subsidy is gone,’ we have been on a rollercoaster to poverty. Now this war gives them the perfect excuse to finish us off. The government says the NNPC made this decision based on ‘market realities.’ What reality? The reality that America supports Israel, and Iran threatens retaliation? Why must my pension suffer for that?”

His frustration touches on a key point raised by experts: the escalating conflict threatens to push the subsidy burden—or the cost passed to consumers—past a staggering N644 billion monthly if oil prices spike.

As the sun set over Mararaba, taxis and buses were fewer on the roads. Many drivers, like Sadiq, a university graduate who drives for a ride-hailing app, simply parked for the day.

“I cannot make money if I spend all day in a fuel queue or if 70% of what I earn goes into the tank,” Sadiq said, scrolling through his phone, which showed a fraction of his usual earnings. “They talk about the crisis in the Middle East. But we have a crisis here. It is a crisis of hunger. Until the US, Israel, and Iran stop fighting, we suffer. Until our government decides to fix our refineries, we suffer. We are just pawns.”

As I left him, Sadiq called out, “Tell them we are tired. We are tired of paying for wars we did not start.”

It is a sentiment that hangs heavy in Nigeria’s air—a feeling of being trapped between the anvil of global politics and the hammer of local economic policy.