Calamity App: Nigeria’s Digital Payment as Stress Test

Femi Akintunde-Johnson

“This Transaction Cannot Be Completed at This Time” is the melody of the daily torment many of us dance to, by-force-by-fire, as a consequence of Nigeria’s internet banking and digital dysfunction.

It is the 23rd century, or at least it feels like it for the rest of the world, where you can blink twice and your rent is paid, groceries ordered, and an Uber hailed – all before your third blink. Meanwhile, in Nigeria, you dare not sneeze near your phone when making a transfer lest the spirits of digital confusion scatter your destiny into “transaction failed” limbo. There is nothing more Nigerian today than pacing up and down in frustration, staring at a mobile screen, begging “Abeg, credit am now, I don show you alert!”

 In a country teeming with fintech start-ups, billion-naira venture capital-backed platforms, and more bank apps than credible electoral results, the Nigerian is constantly betrayed by the very technology meant to make life easier. On a bright Monday morning, a young graduate in Yaba (Lagos) walks into a buka to buy breakfast. He taps his phone, hoping to transfer the grand sum of ₦900 for amala and ewedu. The POS lady, already used to the drama, smirks and warns: “No network now o…you go wait.” But the young man, brimming with the confidence of a supposed ‘cashless economy’, insists. Three taps later, two error messages, and one shriek of despair, he walks out – hungry and humiliated.

A businesswoman in Abuja recently lamented how a client’s payment disappeared in cyberspace for five days. The receipt was generated, the money was deducted from the sender’s account, but the woman’s account balance looked her dead in the eye and said, “Never heard of it.” When she visited the bank, the teller greeted her with the customary prayer: “It will reflect, ma.” This is the Nigerian digital banking experience – a miracle-based economy where faith replaces efficiency.

  For salary earners, the nightmare peaks at month’s end. Just as salaries begin to trickle in, the bank apps develop selective amnesia. One Lagos-based engineer shared how, on payday, his app collapsed like an overworked NEPA pole. He was stranded in traffic on Third Mainland Bridge, trying to buy fuel with a digital wallet that kept rebooting like a confused robot. Eventually, a Good Samaritan paid for his fuel, but not before he contemplated leaving his car and swimming home.

There is also the matter of duplicated debits. You pay once, the system deducts twice – sometimes thrice. You call customer care, and they recite their mantra: “It will be reversed in 24 to 72 working hours.” That is, of course, if Mercury is not in retrograde and the Central Bank hasn’t sneezed in the wrong direction. Even as you read, yours truly is waiting forlornly on this particular queue!

Beyond the financial horror lies the emotional and physiological toll. There are stories of customers developing actual high blood pressure after online banking fiascos. One elderly man in Benin (Edo) nearly collapsed when ₦250,000 disappeared from his account after a failed transfer attempt. His daughter, a medical doctor, had to treat him for anxiety-induced palpitations. Tell me, how many fintech CEOs have factored cardiology bills into their apps’ user experience?

Psychologically, the damage is deeper than a debit alert. There is a constant dread, a learned helplessness. Nigerians now carry out transactions with clenched jaws, knowing full well that no matter the interface upgrades or jazzy slogans – “Banking made easy!” – disaster lurks behind every “processing…” screen. A woman in Port Harcourt (Rivers) jokingly renamed her banking app “See Finish Bank,” after the fourth time it refused to process a simple DSTV payment but sent her five deduction alerts for the same transaction.

Yet, despite these burdens, we must ask: is this peculiarly Nigerian? Are we alone in the valley of failed digital dreams?

Not quite – but we may be leading the pack. In countries like Estonia, internet banking is so seamless that citizens are more likely to report a delay in snowfall than a failed transfer. In Singapore, even roadside fruit vendors can accept contactless payments, with receipts emailed to your inbox before your fruit bag hits your hand. In Kenya, M-Pesa has revolutionised mobile money to the point where even bus conductors issue SMS receipts. So yes, some challenges are global, but the depth and frequency of ours border on economic witchcraft.

Of course, a few countries also struggle – especially in parts of South America and some Asian regions where broadband penetration is weak or digital literacy lags behind. But where they falter due to lack of resources or geopolitical instability, Nigeria stumbles with embarrassing consistency despite an educated population, active youth base, and a bustling tech scene.

The reasons for our peculiar situation are manifold. Poor infrastructure, epileptic power supply, unregulated bandwidth monopolies, and the unbearable cost of data – all combine to choke the life out of smooth digital experiences. Then there’s the elephant in the server room: our banks. Many still operate on outdated core banking systems that were revolutionary during the era of fax machines. They patch them with sleek app interfaces while the engine coughs like a 1987 Peugeot 504.

Government regulation isn’t helping either. Policies are often reactive and sluggish, with little collaboration between the Nigerian Communications Commission (NCC), the Central Bank, and fintech stakeholders. Meanwhile, the average citizen pays the price in interrupted transfers, delayed alerts, and premature grey hairs.

In the end, what we have is a nation trying to run on digital legs while shackled by analog chains. The vision is there – we want to leap into the future. But the execution is a comedy of errors with tragic consequences.

One must wonder: how many more salaries must vanish into the cloud? How many mothers must weep over unprocessed school fees? How many young lovers will lose credibility because the Valentine’s Day dinner “refused to go through”?

Nigerians are resilient, yes. But resilience is not a policy. It is not a strategy. And it should not be the only survival tool in a nation aspiring to digital excellence. The suffering is too constant, too predictable, too normalised to be ignored.

Until banks become accountable, telcos expand infrastructure, and regulators wake from their prolonged sabbatical, Nigerians will continue to wrestle with ghost transactions, phantom alerts, and spiritual transfers. In the meantime, keep your receipts, record every session, and pray – very hard – that your money returns from cyberspace unscathed.

n Nigeria, the most difficult journey isn’t Lagos to Maiduguri – it’s ₦5,000 from GTB to Zenith!