On The Money is a PiggyVest editorial series that explores the personal stories and lived experiences behind the data points in the annual Piggyvest Savings Report.
A typical weekday sees Dorcas* rising at 5 am, achy and heavy-eyed from the previous day’s stress. The middle-aged mom of two gets up before the sun to scrape up a simple breakfast for her family before readying her children for school and packing lunch for her husband. As the home empties — children skipping off to school and her husband departing for his modest electrical shop near their Mafoluku residence — Dorcas boards a bus to Obalende to earn her daily wage.
Dorcas works a physically demanding job: she is a porter (or alabaru), carrying heavy loads for shoppers in exchange for little pay. Each day, she takes on the chaos and convoluted maze of the prominent Lagos Island Market, also known as Balogun Market. Reflecting on how she got here, Dorcas told Piggyvest, “It’s only primary school I went to, and I was learning sewing before my husband brought me to Lagos. I was not doing anything until two years ago, when my friend told me about this work; I believed it was something I could do.”
“I can’t just sit down at home; I have to support my family,” she added, weariness evident in her voice.
Our daily bread — Realities of Nigerian wage workers
The backbone of the Nigerian labour market is largely supported by millions of workers who rely on daily earnings for survival. These workers span a wide range of industries and skills and, despite their diverse roles, share the commonality of relying on manual labour for their livelihood. Most Nigerian labour workers are between 25 and 45 years old and have limited formal education or specialised skills. They are craftspeople, petty traders, street vendors, or manual labourers. Nigeria’s informal economy is built on the blood, sweat, and tears of this underappreciated workforce. From hawkers spilling into the spaces between vehicles in traffic jams to factory workers assembling products with practised ease, they keep the wheels of our society turning. There are masons, carpenters, plumbers, and electricians who earn more calluses than cash, building the infrastructure that holds our society together. And there are domestic workers who do backbreaking labour to sustain our homes.
According to Dorcas, working as a porter is more gruelling than one might expect. “My work is to be carrying the load on my head and following them. Sometimes, they’ve finished buying, and I will just carry their load to the car park. Other times, I’ll follow them around as they’re buying [other items].”
When asked how much she makes daily, she added, “Some people are stingy o! Sometimes, they will only agree to pay ₦1,000 or ₦1,500. At times, I can see up to ₦2,000 if it’s somebody that does not have wahala.”
However, strength and endurance are not the only skills needed to navigate this occupation. The competitive spirit is fierce amongst alabarus. Despite the scorching sun, pouring sweat, and her sore and screaming muscles, Dorcas has to, more often than not, compete with colleagues for customers, the job going to whoever makes the first, best, or loudest impression on the customer.
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On average, Dorcas makes around ₦7,000 daily and slightly north of ₦90,000 in a great month — much less than her counterparts earn. She explained the math, “I always feel pain in my back and neck and waist. I only go during the week, and I have to come back early because of my children. And even then, it’s not every day I can go. Sometimes I stay at home to rest, for like two days or a week. Because my husband takes care of us, I don’t have to overdo it.”
Abdul*, a former security guard turned factory worker, is another example. The 24-year-old father of two had worked as a gateman for eight months before learning about an opportunity in an FMCG company in early 2024. At the time, the job paid ₦2,200 daily and ₦2,500 in overtime on the weekends—this came to about ₦48,000 monthly without overtime. When asked to describe his work conditions, Abdul told Piggyvest, “There are different departments, but my work is to package boxes of drinks. We put them inside cartons, seal them, and then, arrange them in boxes. We resume by 6 am and close by 6 pm. But this is just for men. Women work from 8 am to 4 pm, and they mostly pack snacks in nylons.”
This 12-hour shift as a line assembler was a better option for Abdul than the 24/7/365 demands of being a security guard. “The gateman work was paying me ₦25,000 a month, so I prefer this one. Last year, they increased our money to ₦3,500 a day. So in a month, I make ₦75,000.” The demanding nature of the job keeps him on his feet all day and offers minimal breaks, but he is content as he can financially support his family and elderly mother.
Abdul and Dorcas’ stories paint the reality of the uncertainties of being a wage earner in Nigeria, but they’re the norm, not outliers. According to the Piggyvest Savings Report 2024, they represent 1 in 3 Nigerian income earners. Their precarious lives — a sum of good, bad and lean days — portray the Nigerian spirit: a commitment to the grind, an endless pursuit of elusive financial stability, and unyielding hope in the face of insurmountable demands.
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The true cost of financial insecurity
Individuals in the informal sector are most affected by Nigeria’s inflationary economy, which is characterised by stagnant wages and a soaring cost of living. Living below the poverty line affects more than a person’s ability to indulge in luxuries. At least 133 million Nigerians live in multidimensional poverty, trapped in an a-dollar-a-day lifestyle plagued with impossible choices.
Financial insecurity is a mirthless companion for those earning less than ₦100k monthly. The stress of keeping up with needs (food, rent, power, transportation, medical bills) greatly impacts the mental and physical health of labour workers. Some families cannot afford basic needs like school fees or medical bills and often have to make tough calls that strain their relationships and family dynamics. For instance, Abdul had to leave his family in the village to cater for them on a security guard’s salary. He complained about missing his wife and kids, as well as his mother’s deteriorating health, “Every time my wife calls me, I panic. It’s either they’ve rushed my mother to the hospital, or she needs money for food.”
While Abdul grapples with feelings of depression and loneliness from being away from home, Dorcas is more concerned about her health. Though the true cost of keeping food on the table is her physical and mental well-being, Dorcas doesn’t seem to have another option. “Almost every day, I take painkillers and use hot balms all over my body before I sleep. I don’t want to crash. I’ve been thinking of stopping the work, but I don’t even have any savings.” Like Dorcas, many Nigerians in this earning bracket face systemic obstacles that limit their access to educational or economic opportunities that would help them climb the income ladder. For this demographic, the daily wage is a double-edged sword: a lifeline and a curse, and despite continuous efforts, financial security strays farther from their grasp.
Escaping the rat race
In 2023, the Nigerian government rebased the unemployment index, leading to a significant drop in the country’s unemployment rate; from 33% to 5%. According to the National Bureau of Statistics, as of Q2 2024, Nigeria’s unemployment rate was 4.3%. Many organisations may provide data on employment and other economic indicators, but the stories of Abdul and Tina show a far more nuanced, austere, and grossly undocumented reality.
The unsettling unemployment level in Nigeria has driven many individuals to entrepreneurship. The Q1 2024 Nigerian Labour Force Survey by the NBS revealed that 84% of working-class Nigerians are self-employed. Insights from the Piggyvest Savings Report 2024 also show that almost three in ten Nigerians own a business, with women being more likely to own businesses than men.
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While the path to financial security remains difficult, the Nigerian spirit perseveres. Tina*, a braider in her forties, is one of the Nigerians who continue to decide their fate. Eighteen years ago, she left her home in Onitsha and moved to Ibadan with her husband. Since then, she has tried every business under the sun to earn an income. “I was a hairdresser in Onitsha before I got married. My husband promised he would open a salon for me once we came back.” However, her husband could not fulfil his promise due to unexpected financial setbacks, and she found work as a maid, but had to stop after she got pregnant for her first child. She never abandoned hairdressing and would make little money from braiding for her neighbours and church members. “The money was not steady, so I needed to find another work.” Tina told Piggyvest, “I started working as a cleaner and did that work for twelve good years, until COVID. I was collecting ₦2,000 to ₦3,000 per job, depending on the size of the house.”
Losing her main income during the pandemic caused Tina to reevaluate her options. “I talked to my husband, and we gathered money to buy a container for me to use as my shop.” And she considers this the best outcome for her, “I love making hair; that’s my handiwork. There’s less insult and stress, and I am my own oga. I also train people, so I have two girls helping me right now. I don’t charge too much, and I do only braiding, so I have regular customers.”
Tina’s rates are significantly lower than other hairdressers, charging ₦4,000 to ₦5,000 for long box braids and ₦3,500 for cornrow styles. “I can make more than ₦15,000 a day now, but after I pay my girls, buy fuel for my generator, buy my work tools every month, my monthly money will be around ₦130,000. It’s better than the work I used to do before.”
While ambition and hope are crucial tools for escaping the rat race, it is also important to address the systemic issues perpetuating the struggles of Nigerian wage workers. Poor wage structures, limited access to small business loans and microfinance, and lack of skill acquisition and educational opportunities are some of the hindrances Nigerian wage workers face. We must also acknowledge the dignity of wage workers in Nigeria and show more appreciation for their contributions to society. Empowering wage workers is a giant step toward building a culture where everyone can thrive regardless of income class.
Some social intervention schemes like the N-power and National Health Insurance Scheme (NHIS) implemented by the Nigerian government are positive steps. “Our plan costs ₦45,000 a year, a fair amount for our family of three,” Hannah*, a Lagos seamstress disclosed. “In a way, it helps cut down healthcare costs, so it has its positives.”
However, ensuring these systems work as intended while lowering the barrier to entry for these initiatives will accommodate more informal workers and alleviate their suffering. “Everything moves so slowly. Before you get verified and get an appointment to see a doctor, your condition might have worsened. The insurance doesn’t give you access to every drug you need, and sometimes you have to pay half price or completely out of your pocket. It’s even worse if you need surgery. Even if the procedure is covered, you need a loved one to advocate for you and provide all other medical supplies like catheters, blood, and IVs so that you’re not stranded.”
*Names have been changed to protect their identities.
