A man joins a fuel queue in Ikeja on a humid Thursday morning. He is not desperate, his car tank is half full, but he has spotted a line and instinctively joined it.
By the time he drives out, one hour later, he feels oddly triumphant. The petrol in his tank is no different from what he bought last week without stress, yet it feels more valuable.This is The Queue Premium.
It is the invisible surcharge Nigerians add to products when effort, patience, or struggle are part of the acquisition.
Across the country, we see it everywhere.
Customers at a supermarket happily pays for products after waiting in a long checkout line.
Fans about securing concert tickets of their favourite artiste, even when resale prices online may be higher but require less stress.
Lagos Drivers queue for Road Worthiness Certificates as early as 6am in the morning.
University students’ queue for registration, then later speak with pride about “surviving the process,” as though the value of the service increased through the ordeal.
The logic here is psychological, not monetary.In behavioral science, there is a concept called effort justification.
It’s the idea that people place higher value on things they worked harder to obtain.
Nigerians have localised this into a lived culture. Waiting in line is rarely just about access. It becomes a badge of resilience.
The sweat, the noise, the small talk with strangers, all feed into the sense that the eventual product or service carries an added weight.
Fuel scarcity is the most visible stage for this behavior.
When petrol is abundant, its value is purely transactional. But during shortages, every litre obtained through long queues carries symbolic power.
It is more than fuel; it is proof of tenacity. Nigerians will even store surplus kegs as though preserving trophies.
But The Queue Premium extends far beyond petrol stations.
A good example is the immigration office.
Nigerians who secure passports after repeated visits and long hours of queue and waiting often narrate the ordeal as part of the passport’s value.
The document itself hasn’t changed, but the story attached to it makes it feel more precious.
The same is true of scarce wares in markets, from fabrics to viral sneakers. If you waited, pushed, or sweated for it, you believe it is worth more than its face value.There’s also a social dimension to this.
Queues in Nigeria are rarely silent. They become temporary social clubs. People share stories, gossip, jokes, ideas, and frustrations.
These micro-communities create a sense of collective achievement. When the queue disperses, people leave not just with goods but with stories. In Nigeria, narratives travel fast, that shared struggle adds intangible value to the product.
Businesses, knowingly or not, exploit this. Some restaurants and clubs engineer scarcity by allowing queues to form visibly outside, even when space is available inside.
The perception of demand raises the product’s status. A new lounge in Abuja may deliberately delay entry, creating a line of waiting customers who then feel more rewarded once admitted.
This aligns with a concept in consumer psychology known as social proof i.e., if others are waiting, it must be worth it.
Interestingly, Nigerians often perceive products obtained without any struggle as slightly suspect.
A too-easy passport process, a concert ticket bought without hassle, or even a hospital appointment secured without delay can feel unusual, almost incomplete.
We have been conditioned to expect friction as part of consumption. Ease can breed suspicion, while effort breeds confidence.
For businesses, this insight has double edges. On one side, efficiency and speed are universally appreciated. Nobody enjoys wasting time.
But on the other side, removing all friction may strip away perceived value. The challenge is to design experiences where customers feel both respected and rewarded.
The queue, if it exists, must feel purposeful, not punitive.This is why digital platforms that replicate some of the “waiting ritual” often do well in Nigeria.
Examples are e-commerce flash sales, countdown timers on apps, or limited stock banners. They mimic the psychology of scarcity and effort, giving customers the satisfaction of “winning” access, even in a digital space.
Ultimately, The Queue Premium shows us something interesting about Nigerian resilience.
We are a people accustomed to systems that test patience, so we have learned to convert inconvenience into meaning.
Queues are rarely wasted; they become conversations, connections, and proof of determination.
The takeaway for businesses is simple: value in Nigeria is not only about price or quality. It is also about the story that comes with the acquisition process.
If a customer sweated, waited, or endured for it, the product will live longer in their minds. That endurance becomes part of the brand’s equity, whether intended or not.
The Queue Premium is about transforming struggle into value. In Nigeria where nothing comes easy, the line itself has become part of the product.
