When the Federal Government announced a new minimum wage of ₦70,000, it was heralded as a major victory for Nigerian workers. Politicians hailed it as evidence that the state was listening, with promises that the new pay floor would allow families “live decently.”
But for many workers, the reality is far less optimistic. Against a backdrop of rising food prices, unstable power supply, transport hikes, and ever-increasing rent, ₦70,000 quickly begins to feel like little less than survival income. The cost of living has continued to erode purchasing power, raising questions about whether the pay rise is truly a step forward or just a temporary patch on a gaping problem.
What is it like to survive on ₦70,000? We spoke with six Nigerians across different states and sectors.
Grace Effiong, Nurse, Akwa Ibom State
When they announced ₦70,000 as the new minimum wage, I laughed. It sounded like progress, but I already knew how quickly it would vanish. My salary comes in, and the first thing I do is send ₦20,000 to my mother in the village. She raised me alone and sold firewood to get me through nursing school.
Transport to and from work eats another chunk. I spend at least ₦30,000 monthly because my hospital is far from home. Add food in between shifts. Small plates of rice, bread, and tea, and I’m left counting coins before the middle of the month.
I live in a one-room apartment with a thin mattress, no fridge, and no fan. The heat is constant. Sometimes, after twelve-hour shifts, I lie awake sweating. When colleagues talk about migrating abroad, I keep quiet. My passport expired five years ago, and renewing it is like planning a wedding.
Oluwaseun Adeyemi, Maths Teacher, Osun State
On ₦70,000, survival is mathematics, which I fail every month. I live in a flat with two other teachers. Rent alone is ₦180,000 a year. Splitting it helps, but it still feels like we’re working only to pay landlords. Printing lesson notes, buying chalk, even small things like red pens, they all come from my pocket.
Clothes? I rotate three outfits, washing every weekend and praying they don’t fade too quickly. My students tease me sometimes, but I turn it into a joke. I love teaching, truly, but whenever the landlord knocks or the NEPA bill comes, I imagine quitting and hawking puff-puff outside the school gate. At least there, cash is daily, not monthly.
Chinedu Okeke, Clerk at the Ministry of Justice, Abuja
When my salary alert drops, I don’t celebrate. I sigh. ₦70,000 in Abuja is like throwing ice cubes in the sun. Rent swallowed half a year’s salary upfront. ₦400,000 for a small room in a shared flat. Now I split a three-bedroom with three other guys, each of us clutching onto dignity.
Every day, transport takes a huge chunk. Food is another puzzle. I eat beans and bread more than anything else. At work, I wear the same shirt with different ties to look “presentable.” Abuja is a city of appearances. People think you’re doing fine if you’re in civil service, but if they opened my wallet, they’d see dust.
On weekends, I mostly stay indoors. One plate of shawarma can wreck my budget for the week. Sometimes I walk to Wuse market just to look at things I cannot buy. Survival here means discipline and silence.
Ngozi Anigbo, Cleaner in a Federal University, Enugu
People look at me like I don’t deserve dreams because I sweep offices. But I dream. I dream of moving my children to a better school, of buying a fridge, of eating meat without calculating. ₦70,000 is not enough for any of that.
My husband is a security guard at the same university, also on minimum wage. Together, that’s ₦140,000. But with rent, school fees, transport, and food, we’re always broke. We buy rice in cups, kerosene in bottles, and sometimes even soap on credit. Even candles are expensive now. Some nights, my children do homework by phone torch. I feel guilty, but I remind myself, at least I’m trying. I’m saving some money to open a provision store because I can’t continue to do this. My eldest son will be going to the University in two years, and a sweeping job can’t fund his education.
Adebanjo Olatunde, Govt Secretary, Ogun State
Our office is always half-empty. Many colleagues can’t afford the daily transport. With ₦70,000, I spend ₦25,000 monthly on bus fare alone. Garri, beans, and palm oil take another ₦20,000.
My rent is ₦150,000 a year. To pay, I save ₦10,000 monthly, but that means living with almost nothing. I wear old shoes, patch shirts, and sit at a desk typing memos for politicians who drive in with Prado jeeps. Their allowance for one committee sitting is three times my salary. Sometimes, I wonder why I still come.
Kabiru, Government driver, Benue
For seven years, I’ve been driving Oga. My salary: ₦70,000. My wife is a tailor. Her shop brings in small money, but the prices of fabric keep rising. We beg the school for time. Sometimes, I watch my children playing outside, barefoot, and wonder what future I’m giving them.
Once, Oga forgot his phone in the car. I saw his bank alert, one sitting allowance, ₦250,000. Three times my monthly salary for just sitting. I almost cried behind the wheel. I have thought of leaving this job, but I have seen people who left universities with no job. I’m grateful for the one I have, but it’s not sustainable at all.
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