•Bad roads, bandits, fuel costs: the ordeal of Ibadan fruit sellers
Behind every basket of fresh fruits displayed in local markets lies a difficult journey. Travel is full of sacrifice, uncertainty and survival. ELIZABETH BABAWALE, Nigerian Tribune intern, writes about the effects that bad roads, bandit attacks along certain routes and the continuous increase in fuel prices have on the financial survival of fruit sellers. Traders at the popular Oje market in Ibadan tell their story.
It was 9:00 am. The setting was the popular Oje market in Ibadan, Oyo State, widely recognized as the home of fruits in the sprawling city.
Fruits such as oranges, tangerines and other citrus fruits; mangoes, African star apple when in season; Watermelons, bananas, bananas and the like are displayed daily in this market. The day’s activities had begun. The fruit sellers were heading to their stalls.
One by one they gathered, anxiously awaiting a truck that should have delivered their merchandise, this time oranges, 12 days earlier.
They knew that the delay could be attributed to two main factors: the attack by bandits, which has turned agricultural routes into no-go zones, and a road so damaged that travel hours are prolonged, leaving drivers and passengers exhausted, and the fruits transported facing phases of change.
When the long-awaited truck finally arrived at the market with a whimper, the sellers heaved a sigh of relief.
Everyone was waiting for the delivery of rotten oranges, which meant a total loss, but there was a glimmer of hope, the hope of making some money appeared on their faces when the oranges fell from the truck.
The skins of these oranges were already soft, having lost the firm texture and shiny, waxy, shiny, fresh appearance that the oranges supplied a few days earlier had.
This is the experience of the Nigerian fruit seller, who the burdens of insecurity, bad roads and rising fuel prices conspire to ruin his profits before a single customer arrives.
The arrival of the truck triggered the usual routine.
Mr. Kamarudeen Ishola, who sells a variety of fruits in the market, started sorting them.
“We have to sort them immediately,” he said, pointing to the piles of sacks of oranges that could no longer be sold at the normal price due to the effect on them of the delay caused by the broken down vehicle transporting them from the farm.
The delay, he explained, had already consumed a significant portion of his capital.
“The truck carrying the oranges came from as far away as Benue State. It was supposed to supply the fruits in three to four days. Unfortunately, the journey took 12 days as it broke down en route.
“We should have sold the fruit last week, but they delivered it to us yesterday.”
The threat to the survival of the fruit selling business, however, does not begin with the truck, but rather began in the communities that are home to fruit farms.
Nowadays, bandits have taken over these areas, making it a dangerous gamble for farmers to tend their crops or harvest at the right time.
Fruits left on the trees too long become overripe; those who are harvested in panic are left bruised.
The fear that takes over the farm travels with the products and reaches the market like a hidden wound that the sellers can only discover when it is too late.
Transporting surviving agricultural products to the city also involves an exorbitant expense.
The sharp increase in fuel prices has doubled the cost of transportation.
Mr. Blessing, Chairman of Oje Market Fruit Vendors, said: “The increase in fuel price has a big impact on our business. Before the increase in fuel price, we used to buy a bag of oranges for between N7,500 and N8,000, but now we buy them for no less than N10,000 per bag. Most of the time, we buy the bags of oranges from the farm at N12,000. naira, excluding other expenses.
But the financial trap does not end with the cost of transportation. Behind many positions hides a quieter and more implacable leak: debt.
Most of these traders do not own the capital they use to purchase their shares. They take loans from microcredit schemes, cooperative societies or local moneylenders and must repay them with interest whether the fruit is sold or rots.
As one of the traders explained, the loan must be settled even when the profit has long since turned into mush.
“We collected loans from cooperatives and banks to run our business and we are yet to repay the loan with interest. We have survived thanks to the mercy of God.”
Near the market there is a government-provided waste container, but its usefulness carries a bitter irony.
The air around them is a thick cocktail of fermented oranges, rotting banana peels, and rotting watermelon. “We have a place where we get rid of our spoiled fruits, a place provided by the government,” Blessings added.
“But the people who help us remove the rot also raise money. We use money to get rid of money. It’s one of the biggest challenges here.”
Iya Tunde, a banana and plantain seller, explained that once their fruits start to overripe, they are not wasted. They are sold at low discounts to women who transform them into a snack, popularly called Ikire dodo, a local fried banana.
While the fruit is being rescued, he said: “The profit margin is gone. It’s a salvage operation, not a sale.”
At 1:00 pm, the early and careful display of these fruits, backed by the hope of abundant sales, gives way to urgent reorganization.
The pile of “must sell now” grows. Prices become whispers of despair.
A mango that sold for a reasonable price at dawn is offered at half its normal price and then, as the day progresses, at a quarter of its value.
And if, unfortunately, no hand picks it up to buy it, at sunset it will join the bucket of rot and loss.
Despite these daily encounters or experiences, these merchants stay.
When asked what keeps them anchored in a business that breaks their hearts as often as it fills their pockets, Mr. Ishola’s answer was simple.
“As long as we have not seen an alternative, we will continue,” he said, adding that passion also unites them to this precarious trade.
Selling fruit is often dismissed as a low-level, barely profitable activity. But if you spend enough years watching things ripen and rot under the sun, you’ll start to see more than just fruit.
You see the shape of the economy, the failures of the state, and the path you pray your children never have to travel.
It’s a life that hones a particular kind of wisdom, and marketers aren’t shy about sharing it.
Ask Mr Ishola about the young graduates who complain that there are no jobs and he will give you a straight, unapologetic look.
“There is work here,” he said. Fruit trading, he insisted, teaches a person to negotiate honestly.
“Don’t let the certificate you carry blind you to what your hands can do.”
Another salesman, watching the transaction, nodded and added his advice.
Blessing concluded: “Young people today should not just sit back, but should strive to develop.”
There was no bitterness in their voices, only the clear, unvarnished conviction of people who have learned that dignity is not stamped on a title, but is earned in the daily effort of creating value from something perishable.
And pleading with the government, they ask for what should be basic: security for farmers who risk their lives to plant and harvest, good roads that don’t turn a day’s trip into a fruit-killing odyssey, and affordable fuel that doesn’t devour their capital before opening a single sack.
Blessing pleaded for the government to support his businesses by providing financial backing.
Above all, they want the government to see them, not as a footnote in the food chain, but as a vital artery that is being cut off, slowly, by negligence.
Adding to this, Mr Ishola said there is a fruit sellers association called Nigeria Food Dealer and Seller Association registered under the Cooperative Affairs Commission which should be funded by the government and a bus should be given to the association to facilitate transportation.
As night fell on the market, the unsold fruits were covered with damp cloths, a last, fragile shield against the night.
The waste drum received the last of the day’s casualties.
The lenders’ ledgers, however, remained open, unmollified by the sight of a bucket of rotten oranges. Tomorrow the clock would reset. Another truck, if the roads allowed it, would arrive with more fruits, more hope and more hidden losses. And the sellers, as they always have, would be there to sort through the rubble, searching for the perfect orange that would make all the brutal trip and loan interest worth it.
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