In recent times, a curious slogan has slithered into our everyday conversations, advertisements, and online banter—”This is not for civil servants.” It sounds like a joke. It feels like satire. But is it merely humor, or a mirror to a society that’s slowly losing its soul?
What started as a casual quip has evolved into a cultural talking point, thanks in part to a stirring critique by Folorunsho Fatai Adisa in his piece “This is Not for Civil Servants: A Mockery Masquerading as Marketing.” In it, he challenges the moral foundation of a phrase that seems harmless on the surface but, upon closer inspection, cuts deep into the dignity of a workforce that silently holds the country together—teachers, nurses, clerks, secretaries, and countless others who embody public service.
According to Adisa, the phrase doesn’t just exclude—it mocks. It reduces hard-earned humility to something laughable. It tells millions of Nigerians that their sweat isn’t worth status, that their paychecks disqualify them from aspiration, taste, or celebration. In a society already hooked on the dopamine of display and status, this slogan is salt on a festering wound.
Naturally, the slogan sparked fiery exchanges across public platforms. One contributor, DanielBolt2015, dismissed the outrage: “But is a N3.5 million ram for civil servants? It’s just humor. Not that deep.” Another, Apeh Paul, took a more reflective tone, pointing out that the bitter laugh should provoke a demand for better governance, not just outrage.
Vilret Kundi, a self-declared civil servant, offered a sobering twist: “That ram of N3.5 million? Definitely not for civil servants. But my mechanic can afford it—and has even built his own house in Abuja in his 30s. No civil servant can do that unless they steal or inherit.” He believes the phrase is a wake-up call, not a dismissal—an invitation to think beyond overstretched government jobs and explore overlooked vocations like farming, craftwork, and entrepreneurship.
Still, others saw humor as a cloak for cruelty. Emma Agada recalled the infamous moment during the ASUU strike when a tea seller asked, “Tea like the ASUU type or for delegates?” The joke landed—but beneath the laughter lay truths too painful to ignore. Our society, once quietly enduring, is now loudly cynical. The slogans have changed, but the sentiment is familiar: “School na scam.” “Who school help?” “Teachers’ reward is in heaven.”
The class-conscious branding isn’t new. In my own community, students’ hostels are nicknamed “Millionaire Quarters” and “Billionaire Quarters”—not for the luxury, but for the illusion of importance. Then there’s the classic GRA—Government Reserved Areas—an institutionalized version of exclusion that few questioned. Yet somehow, “not for civil servants” struck a deeper nerve.
And maybe that’s the point.
This slogan, for all its flaws, is an inconvenient truth wearing a designer coat. Even the poorest Nigerian dreams of royal treatment. That’s why phrases like “Strictly for Paupers” never gain traction—no one wants to wear the crown of poverty. We’re all chasing prestige, even if it’s wrapped in debt.
From a marketing standpoint, the slogan is brilliant. It seduces with a whisper: You’re not like them. You belong here. Even those who can’t afford the product suddenly aspire to it. But behind that genius is a poison slowly corroding our values—one that equates self-worth with spending power and buries integrity under luxury.
On our group platform, I compared this trend to the story of a popular actress who told a man, “You can’t afford me.” Imagine introducing a product and loudly declaring: “Not for teachers. Not for nurses. Not for civil servants.” Even if said in jest, the subconscious damage is real. It reinforces the idea that money—not virtue, not vision, not contribution—is the only currency of relevance.
In my community, boys once said, “We pray for money, not work.” They mocked those who prayed for jobs, convinced that wealth was a miracle, not a mission. I once flirted with that mindset—until I realized sustainable success requires sweat. The glamorization of wealth without labor is a slippery slope that leads to 419, cybercrime, phone snatching, cultism, and corruption.
Still, after reflecting deeply, I find there’s a twisted value in this bitter mantra. If it shocks us into abandoning the “do-or-die” obsession with civil service jobs, maybe it can serve a higher purpose. Maybe, just maybe, it can redirect our youth toward innovation, agriculture, digital content, private enterprise—toward industries where dreams don’t wait for pensions.
The perception that civil service is a “safe haven” has shackled many to underachievement. In an economy where salaries can’t feed a family or fund a future, “This is not for civil servants” may become the uncomfortable catalyst we need to inspire risk, creativity, and entrepreneurship.
Yes, the slogan insults. But it also invites a reckoning. Will we let it demean us—or define a new ambition?
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