Editor’s Note: Some moments are so ridiculous they deserve their own movie. Welcome to another edition of The ‘Oops!’ Chronicles, where today’s story is brought to you by Seun—a 26-year-old with questionable decision-making skills and a car that didn’t understand boundaries.
Editor: Seun, tell us why this story has “Oops!” written all over it.
Seun: (laughs) That night was chaos. It was past midnight, and I’d been out with friends. My car, Bisi, decided to play low fuel alert at the worst time. So, I stopped at the only filling station still open. Big mistake.
Editor: Why? It’s just fuel.
Seun: That’s what I thought—until I saw the sign: “Self-Service After 11 PM.” Now, I’ve never pumped my own fuel. But I wasn’t about to let pride stop me. I grabbed the nozzle like a pro, thinking I’d be in and out in minutes. Spoiler alert: I was wrong.
Editor: Go on.
Seun: First, I couldn’t figure out how to start the pump. There were buttons everywhere, and none of them made sense. It felt like trying to solve an algebra equation with vibes. I pressed one button, then another, and suddenly—pssssshhhhhh!—fuel sprayed everywhere.
It got on my shirt, my shoes, even Bisi. I looked like I’d just survived a petrol tsunami.
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Editor: Wow. Did anyone see?
Seun: Oh, the night guard saw everything. He was standing in the shadows, silently judging me. When I finally noticed him, he goes, “Oga, you no sabi pump?” Like, excuse me, sir, I’m not here to be humbled.
He eventually came over, laughing, and showed me how to work the pump. By then, I smelled like a mobile refinery.
Editor: That’s rough. But it can’t get worse, right?
Seun: Oh, it can. As I’m trying to finish up, this guy on a bike pulls in. He’s wearing a hoodie and looking sketchy. He sees me struggling and says, “Abeg, help me pump my own.”
I wanted to say no, but he kept begging. So, I grabbed the nozzle again, and guess what? The pump stops midway. The guy starts yelling, saying I’m shortchanging him.
Editor: Wait, why was he yelling at you?
Seun: Beats me! I’m not the fuel attendant. But this man was acting like I personally siphoned his tank. The night guard gets involved, shouting back, and now it’s a full-blown midnight drama.
Just as I’m about to leave, the station manager shows up. This guy looks half-asleep, sees me drenched in petrol, and just sighs like, “Not again.”
Editor: Did you ever get out of there?
Seun: Eventually. But not before paying for my fuel, and the guy’s—because the manager wanted “peace.” I drove home with my windows down, smelling like I’d been hired to sabotage an oil rig.
The next morning, my friend enters my car and says, “Why does it smell like World War III in here?” Let’s just say Bisi got a serious car wash, and I now carry a jerrycan everywhere.
Editor: Final words for the Crackko fam?
Seun: If you ever see “self-service” at a filling station, run. Or better yet, Uber.
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