Earlier this month, the United States government released a sobering assessment of Nigeria’s human rights record in its 2024 Country Reports on Human Rights Practices. Among the stark revelations was the shamefully low national minimum wage of ₦70,000—a figure described as “woefully inadequate” amid rising inflation, a weakened naira, and an ever-worsening cost of living.

At just $47.90 per month by current exchange rates, this wage is not merely insufficient—it is an affront to human dignity. In a nation where food inflation is rampant, housing and transportation costs are out of reach, and public services like healthcare and education are largely privatised, this figure doesn’t just reflect economic hardship—it exposes a broken system.

But the problem is not just numeric. It is structural. It is ethical. And above all, it is political. The report reflects what ordinary Nigerians already live with: a government that fails to protect its most basic obligation—to guarantee a living wage and dignified retirement. With 70–80% of Nigeria’s workforce toiling in the informal sector—largely outside the reach of any legal protections—and even the formal sector struggling under selective and inconsistent enforcement, the minimum wage has become little more than a political showpiece.

Many state governments have flatly refused to implement the minimum wage law, hiding behind the tired excuse of “fiscal constraints.” This excuse rings hollow when these same governments continue to pour billions into white elephant projects— grandiose monuments —all designed to facilitate corruption through kickbacks and padded contracts. It is not that there is no money. It is that priorities are skewed. Leaders would rather line their pockets than meet their obligations to workers and retirees who built the states they now exploit.

Nowhere is this dereliction of duty more evident than in the cruel abandonment of Nigeria’s retired police officers. These men and women spent decades risking their lives to keep law and order, only to be discarded in retirement like used rags.

The 2004 introduction of the Contributory Pension Scheme (CPS)—meant to fix the broken Pay-As-You-Go system—was supposed to bring transparency and security. But for police officers, who face extraordinary physical and psychological burdens, the CPS has been a disaster. It fails to reflect the unique hazards of policing and treats officers as if they were mere desk workers.

The consequences are tragic. Many police pensioners receive drastically reduced payments, often after long, humiliating delays. Some receive nothing at all. The result is a growing population of aged, abandoned citizens—living in poverty, begging for medicine, relying on handouts just to eat. This isn’t simply poor governance—it’s institutional cruelty.

To make matters worse, corruption has gutted what little hope pensioners had left. The infamous ₦22.9 billion police pension fraud scandal—where funds were looted by senior officials—is still a bleeding wound in Nigeria’s conscience. And yet, it’s hardly an anomaly. Corruption runs rampant in pension administration, and impunity remains the rule.

What message does this send to those still in service? That sacrifice means nothing? That service ends in suffering? That loyalty is rewarded with neglect?

This crisis extends far beyond the police. Teachers, healthcare workers, local government employees, and factory hands face similarly bleak futures. Many who gave their lives to the service of their communities are now left to die in silence—unpaid, unrecognised, and forgotten.

The Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU), too, stands as a symbol of Nigeria’s long war against its own workforce. For decades, ASUU has waged an exhausting and principled struggle—demanding not only fair and meaningful wages for its members but also the revitalisation of the university system to meet global standards. Yet their calls have been met with empty promises, prolonged strikes, vilification in the media, and outright neglect. Successive administrations have treated the intellectual backbone of the nation as disposable. The result? Crumbling infrastructure, brain drain, underpaid lecturers, and a generation of students robbed of quality education. The resistance of ASUU is not just about salaries—it is about preserving the very soul of higher education in Nigeria. That their struggle continues unabated, and largely unrewarded, is yet another indictment of a system that punishes those who care enough to fight for its future.

And as the masses groan, the Revenue Mobilisation Allocation and Fiscal Commission (RMAFC) finds it fitting to propose salary increases for political office holders. At a time when millions can’t afford one decent meal a day, the political elite is busy voting to pad their pockets. This is more than tone-deafness—it is a grotesque mockery of justice and it should be said clearly: this is not a policy failure. It is a moral collapse.

State governors who owe pensioners and refuse to implement the minimum wage should hang their heads in shame. They have chosen opulence over obligation, vanity over responsibility. They approve bloated budgets for needless construction and luxury convoys, while senior citizens die waiting for pensions they earned with decades of service. This is theft—plain and simple. Not of money alone, but of dignity, of peace, of life.

And while some retirees and workers in some states have bravely faced insecurity and taken up subsistence farming just to survive, even these modest efforts are being undermined. In several states, despite massive government spending, affordable fertilizers have not been delivered to the people. Where fertilizers do arrive, they are hijacked by political cronies who divert them for resale at cut-throat prices, profiting off the desperation of the very people they were meant to assist. This is not just mismanagement—it is economic sabotage against the vulnerable.

If this country is to reclaim its conscience, the following must be done—urgently and without compromise:

1. Create a separate, well-managed pension system for the police, akin to that of the armed forces, tailored to the unique demands of law enforcement.
2. Immediately pay all outstanding pension arrears. A special intervention fund must be established to settle these debts without further delay.
3. Digitise pension records, enforce routine independent audits, and establish an autonomous pension oversight authority. Anyone found guilty of mismanaging pension funds must be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law—no exceptions.
4. Enforce the minimum wage in every state and across all sectors—public and private—with no loopholes and no exemptions.
5. Pay all arrears owed to the Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU) without further delay, and begin a transparent, accountable process to honour all past agreements reached with the union. Nigeria’s universities cannot be rescued without fairly compensating those who run them.
6. Strengthen the Ministry of Labour. Equip it with the manpower, independence, and tools to monitor compliance, especially in the vast informal economy where exploitation is rampant.

President Bola Ahmed Tinubu now faces a defining moral test. Will his administration confront the rot in Nigeria’s labour and pension systems, or will he allow this betrayal to fester, leaving behind a legacy of despair? This is more than governance. It is about justice. It is about restoring the dignity of those who served—and protecting the rights of those still serving. To ignore this crisis is to abandon the soul of the nation itself.

The U.S. report is not foreign meddling—it is a mirror. A painful but necessary reminder that Nigeria cannot continue down this path of indifference. Because justice delayed is dignity denied. And a country that abandons its workers, abandons its very soul.

By Shu’aibu Usman Leman

Source; thenicheng