There is something deeply moving about the first day of May in Nigeria. In every state, from the bustling commercial centres of Lagos to the quieter corners of Bauchi, Nigerians take a moment to acknowledge an often-overlooked hero: the worker. It’s not just another public holiday; it is Workers’ Day, a time carved out to honour the spirit, sacrifice, and resilience of those who keep the country running. In Nigeria, where the odds are frequently stacked against the average worker, this day bears more weight than mere celebration. It is a moment of reckoning, a sobering reflection of perseverance amidst persistent hardship.
Workers’ Day, known globally as International Labour Day, traces its roots to the 1886 Haymarket affair in Chicago, where workers rallied for an eight-hour workday. In Nigeria, it was officially recognised in 1981, championed by labour unions pushing for better conditions and fair compensation. Over the years, the day has evolved from union parades and fiery speeches to something more nuanced: a reminder of the daily grind, the broken systems, and the unwavering dedication of millions who wake each day to face work, not out of convenience but necessity, and sometimes, remarkably out of passion.
Despite its abundant natural resources and youthful population, Nigeria continues to rank low on the Human Development Index. Unemployment and underemployment are a familiar scourge. According to the National Bureau of Statistics, youth unemployment has hovered around 30 to 40% in the past few years. Inflation, currently in double digits, has gnawed away at salaries, while public infrastructure fails to support a thriving workforce. Yet, in the face of these realities, Nigerians keep working. Teachers continue to show up in dilapidated classrooms. Nurses still tend to patients in underfunded hospitals. Artisans, tech developers, traders, and civil servants, all wake up with a singular intent to keep going.
This quiet resilience forms the emotional core of the Nigerian workforce. Work in Nigeria is not just a job; it is often a lifeline. For many, especially those in informal sectors, it is the only means of survival. And yet, beyond survival lies a more complex story of purpose. There are Nigerians who continue to pour themselves into their craft not just because they need to, but because they believe in what they do. Passion, for them, is not a luxury but a coping mechanism. It is the teacher who pays for chalk out of pocket, the startup founder coding late into the night despite erratic power supply, the market woman who turns modest profits into school fees, the doctor who remains in the country against all odds. Their stories do not make headlines, but they are the backbone of a functioning society.
Still, it would be misleading to romanticise this perseverance without acknowledging the underlying cost. Burnout is rampant. Mental health is becoming a critical issue among workers, especially young Nigerians struggling to balance ambition with reality. The toxic narrative that glorifies suffering in the name of resilience needs challenging. Many workers are tired, not just physically, but emotionally. They are tired of unpaid salaries, casualisation, job insecurity, unsafe work environments, and lack of pension support. Workers’ Day, therefore, is not only about celebrating the spirit of labour but calling attention to what must change.
It is also a day to reflect on what work means in a country where the definition of a career is evolving. Nigeria’s gig economy has exploded in the past decade. With limited white-collar opportunities, many youths have embraced freelancing, digital marketing, content creation, and ride-hailing services as viable sources of income. These jobs, though flexible, come with their own precarities such as lack of social protection, income volatility, and poor regulation. Yet, this new wave of workers mirrors the same spirit celebrated on Workers’ Day: innovation in adversity, the hustle in hustle-and-bustle.
The pandemic and post-pandemic years have also shifted the dialogue. Remote work, hybrid schedules, and digital platforms have introduced new dimensions to the workplace. But access to these opportunities remains limited to urban areas and the elite, leaving many rural and lower-income workers out of the conversation. For them, working under the odds isn’t just a story, it’s their daily reality. A farmer in Benue who toils without irrigation, a primary school teacher in Bayelsa with no access to digital tools, or a nurse in Gombe using torchlight during night shifts, all these are tales of Nigerian workers navigating dysfunction with determination.
And so, this Workers’ Day, as slogans fill the air and public figures offer their tributes, the spotlight must return to the people whose labour sustains the economy. Not just in words, but in policies. Minimum wage must not be a political pawn but a living wage. Investments in education, healthcare, infrastructure, and worker welfare must be prioritised. Workers deserve more than gratitude; they deserve dignity.
It is often said that Nigerians are the most resilient people on the continent. While this may be true, it is time that resilience is matched with reward. And if passion continues to drive them forward, let it be supported with a system that does not punish loyalty or exploit necessity. To work in Nigeria is to swim against the current. And yet, millions rise each morning, dress up, and show up. This is not just a testament to the power of work, but to the unwavering spirit of a people who, despite being constantly failed by systems, never fail to show up for themselves. This is the story of the Nigerian worker. From paycheque to passion. From sacrifice to silent victories. And this Workers’ Day, they deserve more than applause. They deserve action.
