In today’s Nigerian workplace, a growing army of workers clock into jobs daily without job security, health insurance, or the faintest hope of a pension. They are not officially unemployed, yet they are far from empowered. They are the contract staff — the human face of a silent exploitation that has become normalized across banks, telecoms, and even government institutions.
Outsourcing, originally introduced to promote flexibility and reduce operational costs, has mutated into a tool of corporate abuse. Under the guise of “efficiency,” many companies now pass off critical roles to third-party vendors, who, in turn, employ staff on precarious terms — no job security, no bargaining power, and little protection under Nigeria’s labour laws.
Take a stroll into any major bank in Nigeria, and beneath the polished marble floors and air-conditioned lobbies lies a quiet injustice. The tellers attending to long queues, the security personnel standing alert from dawn till dusk, and even the customer service agents smiling behind the counters — many of them are not direct employees of the institutions they serve. They wear the corporate colours, but not the corporate identity. Their ID cards do not bear the names of the banks they faithfully represent, but the logos of faceless outsourcing firms.
They perform the same duties as their fully employed colleagues — balancing accounts, resolving customer complaints, upselling services — and in many cases, they do so under stricter scrutiny and heavier pressure. Yet, in the hierarchy of recognition and reward, they occupy a lower caste: second-class workers in a shared workspace, constantly reminded — whether subtly or overtly — that they do not belong.
They are invited to staff meetings but excluded from decision-making. They celebrate the organization’s milestones but are absent from the payroll structures that reflect growth and stability. They walk the same corridors, but their footsteps carry the weight of exclusion.
What’s worse — and perhaps most insidious — is the emotional and psychological toll this system exacts. These workers operate in a constant state of anxiety, their professional lives suspended in uncertainty. Every email from HR is a potential termination notice. Every mistake, however minor, feels like a noose tightening around their already fragile security. They show up early, stay late, and bend over backwards to meet unrealistic targets — not because they are driven by ambition, but because they are haunted by the fear of being replaced without explanation or empathy.
They endure verbal abuse, harassment, and toxic supervision, yet remain silent — not out of weakness, but out of necessity. The knowledge that their contracts can be abruptly revoked without warning or justice robs them of voice and dignity. Speaking up is not an option; it’s a luxury they cannot afford.
Many have toiled in these conditions for years — some for over a decade — without promotion, without medical benefits, without any formal acknowledgment of their contribution. Their names do not appear on company memos. Their birthdays are not celebrated. They are ghosts in the system — visible enough to labour, invisible enough to discard.
In truth, they are not just underpaid; they are undervalued, unprotected, and unrecognized — victims of a corporate culture that sees them as disposable tools rather than human beings with hopes, families, and futures.
This trend is not only unethical but also regressive. It undermines national productivity, fosters resentment, and discourages loyalty. It is also a violation of the International Labour Organization’s (ILO) Decent Work Agenda — which Nigeria claims to support.
But where are the regulators? Where are the voices of labour unions? Why does the Ministry of Labour remain largely silent?
Nigeria’s labour law must be reformed to address this growing abuse. Employers who engage contract staff for roles that are clearly permanent in nature must be held accountable. Recruitment firms should be regulated with strict penalties for exploitative practices.
Most importantly, we must shift the public conversation — exploitation is not modernization. The dignity of labour must never be outsourced.
As we continue to chase economic growth, we must ask: At what human cost?
The future of work in Nigeria must be fair, humane, and inclusive — and that starts with how we treat our most vulnerable workers today.
Samuel Jekeli writes from Centre for Social Justice, Abuja.
