Lagos tanker mishap: Scooping fuel or scooping death?

Lagos. A place where usually, the senseless do not thrive, carelessness of the highest order reigned supreme when a tanker tumbled on Liverpool Bridge, and its belly split open, spilling diesel like black blood from a wounded beast. Crowds gathered, not in horror, but in haste—buckets, jerrycans, and bare hands dipping into the slick promise of survival, as if the ground itself had cracked open a vein of fortune.

It would seem that Nigerians, forged in the fire of daily strife, have grown numb to the whisper of warning. Danger no longer quickens the pulse; it blends into the backdrop of broken roads and empty pockets. What once might have screamed retreat now sings a siren’s song of quick gain. Scooping fuel from a fallen giant— is it a lifeline or a noose? The line blurs in the haze of hardship, where every spill seems a spill of mercy, not a summons to the grave. Yet history hums its haunting refrain: explosions that swallow crowds whole, lives lost in a flash of misplaced hope. In this latest spill on January 19, brave or blind, they came in droves, ignoring the spark that could ignite their end.

And where were the guardians of order? The government agencies, tasked with taming chaos, slumbered in their irresponsibility. No swift cordon, no stern enforcers to bar the path of folly. The scene unfolded unchecked, a wanton lapse that courted catastrophe. Emergency responders arrived eventually, transloading the remnants and averting flames, but the void of vigilance speaks volumes.
Law enforcement, absent when the reaper hovered near, allowed the people to court their doom under the guise of gathering gold. If only the grim one had struck, what lament would follow? But mercy held, this time, though the lesson lingers like smoke: irresponsibility reigns when duty deserts the desperate.

This is no isolated echo; it’s a chorus of calamity waiting to crescendo. The government must declare the haulage of petroleum a state of emergency, treating tankers not as mere trucks but as ticking threats on teeming streets. Brake failures, spills, and scoops—these are harbingers of horrors far vaster than a bridge’s blockade. Imagine the inferno if diesel turned to petrol, if crowds swelled unchecked: lives erased, communities charred. Regulations must tighten like a fist, inspections sharpened like blades, and penalties imposed to pierce the veil of negligence. For in the pulse of progress, safety must sync with speed, lest the next fall fells more than metal.

Beneath it all beats the broken heart of a nation: people who no longer weigh the worth of warning, for survival itself feels like a slow surrender. Living standards languish, pushing souls to the precipice where risk is routine. They see harm in every empty meal, every unpaid bill—so why flinch from a fuel-flooded road? In vast numbers they flocked to that Lagos bridge, vessels in hand, eyes on the prize, blind to the blaze that could bloom. Desperation dulls the senses, turns death’s door into a doorway of defiance. Yet in this poetic peril, a plea persists: awaken to the rhythm of reform, before the next spill silences the song forever.

ONE OTHER THING!

ILORIN LOSES A COLLOSUS.

Oh death!! In the quiet hush of dawn’s embrace, where the minarets of Ilorin stand sentinel against the fading stars, the soul of Sheikh Muhammad Bashir Saliu, the revered Chief Imam, slipped away on Monday, January 19, 2026, at the age of seventy-five, leaving behind a legacy woven in wisdom and faith, a tapestry not torn too soon but very painfully regardless, from the loom of life. His passing, like a gentle ripple across the still waters of the Kwara River, serves as a solemn reminder that death dances indifferently among us all—noble scholars in flowing robes or ordinary folk in humble garb, kings upon thrones or beggars in the dust; it claims without prejudice, a universal equalizer that whispers the fragility of our fleeting days. Yet, until its cold shadow falls upon our closest kin, our beloved guides, it lingers in the realm of myth, a distant tale told in hushed tones, unreal and remote, as if the grave were but a story from ancient scrolls, not the inevitable door we all must cross. For this writer, the old adage rings hollow and far from truth—death is no thief in the night, slinking through shadows to pilfer what we hold dear; no, unlike a thief who might be ensnared by watchful eyes, bound by chains of justice, or warded off with sturdy locks and vigilant guards, death arrives unbidden, uncatchable, unprosecutable, unavoidable, a decree from the Divine that no fortress of flesh or fortitude can defy. Again, I say, it is no mere marauder to be outwitted or outrun; death is the silent sovereign, the appointed hour that bows to no mortal plea, rendering our securities as illusions in the grand design. To the resilient people of Kwara State, that harmonious haven where faith blooms like the eternal gardens of paradise, I extend heartfelt felicitations in this hour of shared sorrow; may your strength flow from the wellspring of belief, for as the religious abode of unity and peace, you know better than any that from Allah we have come, and to Him we shall all return, a comforting creed that binds hearts in resilience and hope. And so, farewell, O noble Sheikh, guardian of the minbar for over four decades, voice of tolerance and truth; may Allah’s infinite mercy envelop your soul like a silken shroud, forgiving any whispers of human frailty, and may He grant you entry into the exalted halls of Jannatul Firdaus, that VIP sanctuary of the righteous, where rivers of milk and honey flow unending, and peace reigns eternal in the presence of the Most High.

Muhammed M. Belgore writes from Abuja.

E:mail – Moh4gunners@yahoo.com