The debate over whether Nigerian lecturers should be described as poor or rich is as intriguing as it is revealing about the human tendency to construct narratives that suit convenience. I recall an online exchange where a respected social critic, Baba Ali, asked with disarming curiosity: “Can Nigerian lecturers be said to be poor?” He wasted no time answering his own question with a firm “Certainly not!” The platform, however, fell into silence—neither approving nor dismissing his hypothesis. Perhaps the quiet was not due to disinterest but rather the uncomfortable truth that no clear answer exists. The question itself exposes a paradox: if lecturers are not poor, does that automatically make them rich? Or are they trapped in a liminal space where identity shifts depending on circumstance, interest, or rhetorical need?
Human beings often wear masks, presenting different versions of themselves to suit the moment. Nigerian lecturers are no exception. In one breath, a lecturer may downplay his economic condition, invoking poverty to justify unpaid debts or evoke sympathy. In another, he may reject the very label of “poor,” insisting that the dignity of scholarship elevates him above material lack. This duality is not hypocrisy but a reflection of how social perception operates—yesterday’s “villain” may be tomorrow’s “hero,” depending on who is telling the story and what they stand to gain. As the philosopher Michel Foucault would remind us, power and identity are fluid; discourses shift and reshape reality. Thus, a lecturer who embraces the title of “poor” when negotiating salary increments may later bristle at the insult of being reduced to a struggling citizen. The truth, like much of life, resists neat categories.
To interrogate this further, one must confront the slipperiness of the concepts “poor” and “rich.” While some define wealth solely by income, such a measure is misleading. A professor earning ₦500,000 a month may appear prosperous, but once obligations to family, professional development, conferences, and research costs are deducted, his disposable income may scarcely cover basic needs. Meanwhile, someone earning half as much but living debt-free and without such burdens may feel comparatively “rich.” As Amartya Sen’s capability approach to poverty argues, true wealth lies not merely in income but in the ability to live the kind of life one values. By this standard, many Nigerian lecturers, despite their academic prestige, are deeply constrained.
Institutions also wrestle with definitions. The World Bank’s global poverty line of $1.90 a day is far too blunt an instrument for Nigeria’s unique context. The National Bureau of Statistics sets the threshold at ₦137,430 per year, branding over 82 million Nigerians as poor. But poverty, as the United Nations insists, is multidimensional—it is about access to healthcare, education, clean water, and dignity, not just income. Against these measures, lecturers, though more privileged than many citizens, still face systemic hardship. Delayed salaries, underfunded research, and pensions described by ASUU leaders as “paltry” reduce the academic elite to financial precarity.
Society, of course, attaches its own meanings. To be called poor can be an insult—signifying laziness, exclusion, and failure—but it can also be a badge of humility, simplicity, or spiritual closeness to God. Similarly, wealth commands admiration in some contexts and suspicion in others. In Nigeria, where inequality and corruption run deep, the rich are as likely to be envied as they are to be scorned as exploiters. Lecturers therefore stand on contested ground. Economically, they may not fit the textbook definition of “poor,” but emotionally and socially, many of them experience the deprivation, anxiety, and insecurity associated with poverty. Their dignity may rest on intellectual capital, yet their lived reality often echoes the struggles of the average Nigerian worker.
In truth, there may never be a definitive answer. The idea of Nigerian lecturers as “rich men” is a narrative constructed more for dramatic flair than for accuracy. It reads like a super story—entertaining in fiction, but devoid of realism. The hard reality is that professors who cannot raise ₦8 million for urgent medical care, who juggle multiple loans to survive, or who decry salaries of $300 a month, are not living in wealth. They are caught in a paradox where the richness of their minds contrasts starkly with the poverty of their pockets. Perhaps, then, the most honest conclusion is that Nigerian lecturers are both poor and rich—poor in material comfort, but rich in knowledge, resilience, and sacrifice. And yet, in a society where money defines respect, even the richness of intellect struggles to silence the cry of an empty stomach.
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
