Sylva Nze Ifedigbo
I had used that ATM machine a couple of times in the past. UBA had no branch in Kubwa, a satellite town in Abuja but the presence of two ATM machines at the popular Ignobis Hotel sort of gave we, their customers some relief. Parting with extra N100 each time I used another banks ATM wasn’t quite funny. So I usually trekked all the way to Ignobis, by-passing Fin bank and Oceanic, to withdraw from my meager finances at the UBA ATM machine.
I arrived Ignobis this afternoon particularly very broke. Dinner at Little Villaije, the new eatery close to my place the night before had taken up every kobo in my wallet. I needed to get into Abuja town, a distance of about 25km to continue my job hunt. I needed to eat. I walked into Ignobis like someone being chased by a beast. I approached the two money “vomiting” machines and fished out my wallet to produce my card.
I immediately noticed there was something different about the machines. They both were now singing. It was the popular UBA television advert song. Something that sounded like “Wise men bank with UBA….”. I was fascinated. Not because an ATM Machine was producing sound, but because a UBA ATM machine was producing sound. Who said my good old bank wasn’t getting in on the groove?.
Then just as I wanted to slot in my card, I noticed the motion picture on the machines screen. It was an advert of one of their many packages. Wow!!. I stood back and watched. A man’s car breaks down in the middle of the road; his friend drives past with a healthier car. The children in the healthier car wave at those in those in the broken down car who are hiding in shame. Man with the sickly car is in front of a computer screen applying for a UBA loan package. The man drives a brand new car home and his wife and kids rush out and give him a rousing welcome. It looked so simple.
I smiled and pushed in my card eager to pick my little change and go. The hunger was biting. It was 12.07pm and I was yet to have breakfast.
My fingers punched in the pin numbers. I selected all I needed to and then the usual “wait as your transaction is processing” was announced. I stole a look around. At a guest and a lady, his girl friend by my assessment just arriving the hotel. The lady clung to the man, like her very existence depended on him. The thought of what she was really clinging to, his money, amused me. I shifted my eyes to the cars parked at the other end of the hotel; I could recognize a Nissan Xterra, a Honda Baby boy and a Peugeot 504 saloon. The latter reminded me of my Fathers’ old jalopy which he had refused to discard close to twenty five years after. My attention returned back to the ATM.
I couldn’t believe what I saw, “Your Financial Institution is unavailable”. This had happened to me a couple of times in the past when i used a card on a different banks ATM, never when I was using a card from the same bank. I inserted a UBA card into a UBA ATM which was alive with so much music and video a while ago, and was being told my financial institution which was UBA was unavailable. It didn’t make sense. I ended the transaction and re-inserted the card. The hunger was biting. Time was running.
This time, after the “wait” announcement, it took close to five minutes, during which time I was almost concluding that the machine had swallowed my card for keeps before it came alive again. My relief was immeasurable. I couldn’t add the troubles of going to a UBA branch in town to complain that one of their ATM machines in Kubwa had eaten my card. It would have taken perhaps a whole week to retrieve my card after long grammar and “please help me” pleas. In any case, I didn’t even have the money that would take me into town to lay the complain. I was happy the card was still safe.
But then the message on the machine’s screen was heartbreaking “Temporarily Unable to dispense cash”. I almost exclaimed aloud in pain. I punched the side of the machine twice in subdued fury. “What sort of nonsense in this?” I asked to no person in particular.
Someone however volunteered a response. A passer by, a girl dressed in the hotels’ waitress uniform. She must have noticed my anguish as she walked by.
“That machine no dey work of oh”
I turned in the direction of the voice, my ears seeking to hear more.
“Since how many days now, e no dey pay any body. E be like say money no dey inside”
I made a sound with my throat that roughly translated in words to “is that so”
A dizzying feeling came over me. Perhaps just to confirm what I had been told. I slotted the card in once more. I knew was running the risk of not only leaving without any cash, but also without my card.
After another long wait, the machine pushed out my card with the message “Out of service”. Reacting would have been unnecessary. I gratefully picked my card and walked out, my head in the clouds.
Down the road from Ignobis, I was forced to eat the humble pie. I walked up to another ATM machine (not UBA). I needed the money badly. I knew no one who could give me a raise. Summoning courage, I slotted in the card. This particular machine wasn’t singing. Between my slotting in the card and collecting the money, I must have said a million Hail Marys. The money graciously came out. I was happy to part with the extra hundred naira charge.
I mentioned the incidence to a friend later that day. He took time to gist me of his own travails. For three weeks now, he has been battling to get a refund of an amount he never withdrew. He had used an Intercontinental bank card in a UBA machine. The card came out without the cash, but his account was duly debited for the said amount. Between UBA, Interswitch and Intercontinental bank, his ten thousand naira went missing. I began to feel lucky after listening to his sadder tale.
So many other such sad tales abound. I hate to say the technology is ahead of us. But the troubles we go through due to poor maintenance and inefficiency of the IT department of these banks are overwhelming. It feels cool to walk up to an ATM and in less than two minutes you have your money. But it sure feels different when they tell you one of their many stories. You begin to yearn for the good old days of queuing inside the bank, a pass book in hand.
