In the Idi-Oro area of Mushin, a bustling district in Lagos, 47-year-old Fatai Lasisi crouches under the scorching sun, his muscles taut as he swings a battered shovel into the dusty ground. The clinking of tools and shouts of laborers create a chaotic symphony around him, but Fatai’s thoughts are elsewhere—on the two children waiting for him at home and the gnawing emptiness that is as much a part of his life as his tools.
Fatai works at construction sites as a laborer; his days blend together in a relentless cycle: digging grounds, fetching water, mixing cement. His tools—a worn digger, a shovel, and a rusty headpan—are his only companions. Yet, despite his tireless efforts, Fatai’s story is one of desperation.
As a bricklayer’s assistant, Fatai earns meagerly, barely enough to put food on the table for his family. His days are spent toiling as a laborer, earning ₦4,000 on a good day. Yet, this is barely enough to put food on the table, let alone send his eldest son, 12-year-old Saliu, to school.
Saliu is a bright student, but he faces an impossible choice: pursue his education or help his family survive. Fatai struggles to keep Saliu in school while managing the younger siblings. “Saliu is the brightest in his class,” Fatai says with a mixture of pride and despair. “But if I can’t pay his fees, he’ll have to drop out and hawk on the streets like other boys.”
His voice falters, heavy with the weight of impossible choices. Every day is a gamble—feed his children or pay off debts to moneylenders, who charge interest that swallows what little he earns. Most nights, in order to prevent his kids from going to bed hungry, Fatai eats before bed. “I’m trapped,” he declares, his eyes low with fatigue. “My efforts are never sufficient, no matter how hard I work.”
The physical toll of his labor is evident. Fatai spends money on drugs to alleviate the pain and weakness that come with his demanding work. “Sometimes, I wake up weak, but I have no choice,” he says. “I must work to feed my children.”
The suffering of Fatai epitomizes what’s going on in Nigeria as millions of families live on the line between a choice of survival over indebtedness amidst very high inflation rates, highly increased food prices, and abject poverty.
A Nation on Empty Plates
After India, Nigeria has the second-highest number of people living in severe poverty, according to the World Bank, which evaluates that 87 million Nigerians are living below the poverty line. The same poverty levels are expected, according to the 2024 Economic Outlook report from PwC, to surge this year to 38.8%.
This stark reality manifests in heartbreaking ways. The upcoming year will see the food insecurity and hunger among more than 33 million Nigerians, one of the worst states of the hunger crisis in the country.
The Nigeria inflation rate rose for a second straight month in October 2024, reaching the highest level in four months at 33.9%, up from the 32.7% in the previous month, data from the National Bureau of Statistics said, underlining an increase in food price pressures, surging energy costs, and lingering volatility in the foreign exchange markets.
Food inflation accelerated further to 39.2% in October from 37.8% in September. Transportation inflation also quickened to 29.3%, driven by higher petrol and gas prices after subsidy removal, while housing and utilities inflation increased to 28.8% from 28.6% in September on the back of higher electricity tariffs.
With spiraling inflation, survival has become even more precarious for Nigerians. Everyday essentials are now luxuries for millions. Nigerians are now forced to choose between keeping the lights on, paying for their children’s medication, and feeding their kids.
The smell of roasted plantains fills the congested streets of Abule Egba at midday, when the Lagos sun is always hot. By a roadside stall, Racheal Emmanuel fans a glowing heap of charcoal, flipping the plantains with practiced precision. Sweat streaks down her face as she flips the plantains over the flames in swift, precise movements.
“This is not how I imagined my life,” she says in a steady voice but laced with despair. “But what choice do I have? I roast plantains from morning till night just to feed my children. Still, it’s never enough.”
Her daily income averages ₦8,000 ($3.80). After deducting the cost of supplies, she’s left with barely ₦2,000—insufficient for feeding, clothing, and schooling two children. This forces her to make gut-wrenching decisions. “Do I buy food or medicine? Send my children to school or buy more plantains to sell?” she asks, her hands never stopping as she fans the flames.
Racheal recounts a recent visit to the market. “Charcoal, plantain, even groundnut—they’ve all gone up,” she says. “Some days, I sell all my plantains and still don’t make enough to buy food for the night.”
For Racheal, the dream of a better life is slipping away. Her children’s schooling hangs by a thread, and her family often goes to bed hungry.
Despite this, her dreams for her children remain unwavering. “I want them to go to school and have a better life than this,” she says, her voice firm. “I’m doing everything I can, even if it kills me financially.”
As she speaks, the fire under her plantain grill burns low. She fans it with renewed energy, her determination unbroken despite the odds stacked against her.
The Silent Epidemic of Hunger
Like Racheal, 32-year-old Zainab Balogun sits by the roadside in Agege, amidst the vibrant market stalls and lively chatter, as the economic crisis has turned everyday life into a desperate struggle. She sells vegetables—handfuls of water leaves and spinach, measured not by cups but by coins.
Zainab’s red-rimmed eyes, a result of sleepless nights, reveal the despair behind her struggle to keep a brave face. Her voice cracks as she recounts the most devastating truth: “I can’t feed my family anymore.”
Her husband, bedridden after an accident, can no longer work, leaving Zainab as the sole provider for their three children. Debt, illness, and hunger now define their existence.
As she speaks, the cacophony of the market swirls around her, as hawkers walk round calling out prices for their products, motorbikes whizzing past. Yet, Zainab’s world has shrunk to the confines of her debt, her family’s survival hanging by a thread. “I’m drowning in debt just to keep my children alive,” she whispers.
The weight of her debt threatens to suffocate her children. The effects are already visible in Zainab’s children. “My youngest has been falling sick often,” she says. “The doctor said it’s because he’s not eating enough. But what can I do?” As Zainab’s voice fades, the market’s din returns, a harsh reminder of the city’s indifference.
Not Zainab alone, but many others are suffering due to this hunger crisis that has been at epidemic levels in Nigeria. Economists warn that unless drastic interventions are made, the situation will spiral further out of control.
A Perfect Storm of Poverty
Nigeria’s hunger crisis has been caused by a convergence of poor economic policies, global inflation, and climate change. Removing fuel subsidies has tripled transportation costs and added to the households’ already strained budgets.
Ololade Samson, an economist, says inflation hits the poorest the hardest. “The price of food has doubled in under two years,” he explains. “Without targeted interventions like food subsidies, millions will continue to suffer,” Ololade tells AllubTimes.
Climate change compounds the crisis. “Farmers can’t grow what they used to because of floods and droughts,” adds Ololade. “We need policies that equip them with tools to adapt, or this cycle of hunger will never end.”
Resilience Amid Ruin
In Lagos Mile 2, Musa, an onion seller, stands by the roadside, his onions laid out like a plea for help. His eyes, bleary from countless sleepless nights, reflect a resilience born of unimaginable hardship. He says, “Customers complain, but what can I do?” This drastic price hike has left Musa teetering on the edge. leaving him struggling to make ends meet.
As Musa speaks, the sounds of the market swirl around him—hawkers calling out prices and motorbikes zooming past. Yet, his world has shrunk to the confines of survival. “I’ve taken loans from my friends, but paying them back is now the problem because we don’t sell much,” he confessed.
On some days when sales aren’t encouraging, to make ends meet, Musa hawks his onions, walking for miles under the blistering sun. “Sometimes, I leave the market and hawk,” he explains. “I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve walked for hours without selling a thing.”
Musa’s voice echoes the desperation of many: “We’re just trying to survive, but it feels like the system is against us.”
A Cry for Change
The hunger crisis has eroded trust in Nigeria’s leadership. Promises of relief remain unfulfilled, and citizens are growing weary of empty rhetoric.
For Musa, the government’s promises of relief are nothing more than empty words. “They said subsidy removal would save money for the poor,” Musa says, anger flashing across his face. “Where is that money? All I see is more suffering.”
The government’s failure to address the crisis has forced citizens to rely on themselves for survival. “We’re now surviving on our own. It’s even like we have no president. The people demand change. They demand effective solutions to the challenges facing the country,” Musa said.
Experts like Seun Ogungbe, an agronomist, believe solutions are possible but require political will. “We need subsidized food programs, affordable loans for small businesses, and better management of public funds. We must also address systemic issues like corruption and inefficiencies in public spending,” Seun told AllubTimes.
Seun further highlights the need for climate adaptation strategies. “Nigerians need to practice small-scale farming and need access to climate education. We need to take charge ourselves. With this, we can sustain their livelihoods,” she says.
Like Musa, millions of Nigerians are innovating to survive. Back in Agege, Zainab has started growing vegetables in her backyard to reduce costs. “We can’t wait for the government,” she says. “We have to save ourselves.”
Her resilience reflects a broader truth: while Nigeria’s poor are the most vulnerable to the ongoing crisis, they are also the most resourceful.
As Zainab tends to her makeshift garden, her words echo a haunting warning: “Many people will die if help doesn’t come on time.” Her fears are not unfounded. The government’s inaction has created a perfect storm, leaving the most vulnerable to fend for themselves.
