3

As dawn breaks in Zuba, a bustling suburb on the outskirts of Abuja, the once-reliable stability of civil service jobs is fading, replaced by a daily struggle for survival. Ibrahim Musa, a mid-level officer at the Ministry of Works and Housing, embodies this shift. His morning commute in his grey Toyota Corolla has transformed into an impromptu taxi service. Rising inflation, soaring living costs, and stagnant wages have turned what was once a secure job into a source of quiet desperation. Civil servants like Musa are now resorting to unofficial side hustles just to make ends meet. In a city that reflects both power and hardship, these workers are redefining their roles, grappling with shame and exhaustion as they navigate an economy that fails to adequately reward their dedication. SOLA SHITTU reports

At 6:15 a.m., the air around Zuba is already thick with activity. Cars crawl along the high­way toward the city centre, head­lights cutting through the morn­ing haze. Among them is Ibrahim Musa’s grey Toyota Corolla. For Musa, the car is now a lifeline.

Every morning, before clock­ing in at the Federal Secretar­iat, he ferries six passengers from Zuba to the Central Area, charging ₦1200 each. He repeats the process in the evening, pick­ing up commuters on his way home. What began as a way to off­set rising fuel costs has become a daily survival ritual.

“It’s not something I’m proud of,” Musa says, lowering his voice. “But my salary can’t cover fuel, rent, and feeding my family anymore. If I don’t do this, I’ll be broke before the middle of the month.”

In Abuja, Nigeria’s seat of pow­er and a city once associated with the elite, hardship is reshaping lives. Civil servants, once consid­ered part of the country’s stable middle class, are quietly sinking into financial distress. Many now moonlight as kabukabu drivers, operating unofficial taxi services with their personal cars just to survive in an economy that no longer rewards honest labour.

Inflation in Nigeria has surged beyond 30%, food prices have tripled, and transportation costs have skyrocketed since the re­moval of fuel subsidies. Yet, the minimum wage remains ₦70,000 – an amount that wouldn’t even buy a single bag of rice at today’s market prices.

For the average civil servant earning between ₦80,000 and ₦150,000 monthly, the math of sur­vival no longer adds up. Rent in satellite towns like Karu, Kubwa, and Lugbe consumes half their pay. Transport to and from work eats up another quarter. What remains must cover food, school fees, and healthcare expenses.

“Government workers are now among the working poor,” says Dr Adewale Adetunji, a labour econ­omist at the University of Abuja. “They go to work daily, but their purchasing power has collapsed. The value of civil service employ­ment as a guarantee of stability is gone.”

Office by Day, ‘Kabukabu’ by Night

After official hours, as govern­ment offices empty, the streets of Abuja come alive with a dif­ferent kind of workforce. Many cars that once symbolised mid­dle-class comfort now serve as vital survival tools.

In Wuse, Garki, and Jabi, it’s become commonplace to see gov­ernment-registered vehicles pick­ing up passengers at night. Their drivers – civil servants, clerks, and even senior officers – trans­form into unofficial taxi drivers. Some register on ride-hailing platforms like Bolt or inDriver, while others operate informally, capitalising on the evening rush to earn extra income.

“I do Bolt three times a week after work,” confides Emmanuel, a staff member of the Ministry of Information. “I earn around ₦40,000 on a good night. That’s what I use to buy food. My sala­ry now only covers house rent.” The line between dignity and desperation is rapidly blurring. For many, it’s not about greed, but sheer survival.

The Morning Hustle to the Secre­tariat

Beyond the night runs, an­other, less visible hustle has emerged: the morning shuttle. Civil servants are now turning their daily commutes into infor­mal transport services.

Each weekday, the main roads leading into Abuja from Kubwa, Nyanya, Karu, and Lugbe are lined with commuters hailing down cars. Many of these vehi­cles are driven by civil servants headed to the Federal Secretariat, who pick up passengers along the way.

“If I carry three people to town at ₦700 each, that’s ₦2100,” says Grace, a junior officer at the Ministry of Education. “It helps me buy fuel for the day. Without that, my car will be grounded be­fore the week ends.”

By 8 a.m., the Federal Secre­tariat car park resembles a mar­ketplace of side hustles. Civil servants arrive with passengers, park their cars, and rush to their offices. The same routine plays out in reverse in the evenings.

A taxi union official at Area 1, speaking anonymously, con­firmed that the practice is now widespread: “We know many of the cars you see carrying peo­ple to the Secretariat are civil servants. They aren’t ashamed anymore; everyone is just trying to survive.”

Inside WhatsApp groups and Telegram channels, Abuja’s “civ­il service drivers” exchange tips, share information about passen­ger locations, and discuss fuel prices. Some have formed small syndicates where they rotate their cars for night driving.

A few even take out loans or hire-purchase agreements to buy Tokunbo (used) cars specifically for full-time driving. Others pool their resources to collectively maintain the vehicles.

“We call it ‘government hus­tle,’” jokes Kelechi, an officer in one of the ministries in Garki. “During the day, we serve the gov­ernment; at night, we serve the people.”

It’s gallows humour that masks deep frustration. With no salary increases in sight and the cost of living outpacing income, even those with steady jobs now face chronic financial anxiety.

For many of these workers, the hardest part isn’t the work itself, but the shame of being seen. “My biggest fear is running into a colleague or my boss while driving passengers,” says Musa. “I remove my office ID and wear a baseball cap.”

The toll is both physical and emotional. Some return home past midnight, only to wake up again by 5 a.m. to beat the traf­fic. Chronic fatigue, stress, and anxiety are now common among mid-level staff.

“I sleep four hours a night, and my blood pressure is rising,” says Grace. “But what can I do? My children must eat.”

Dr Fumilayo Adebisi, a psy­chologist at the Federal Staff Hospital, warns that the mental health toll of economic hardship on civil servants is worsening. “Many of them suffer in silence. They feel trapped between public expectations and private strug­gles. The result is burnout, de­pression, or withdrawal.”

Unions and Authorities Look Away

Nigeria’s labour unions appear overwhelmed. The Nigeria La­bour Congress (NLC) and Trade Union Congress (TUC) have held meetings with the Federal Government regarding wage reviews, but negotiations have dragged on for months.

“We know our members are suffering,” admits a senior NLC official who requested anonymi­ty. “Many have resorted to driving taxis or running side businesses. But until the government adjusts wages to reflect inflation, people will keep hustling.”

Government officials often downplay the problem. A direc­tor in the Office of the Head of Civil Service told the Saturday Independent that “civil servants engaging in private business af­ter hours is not illegal,” though he conceded that “the scale of it today reflects economic distress.”

Meanwhile, the Federal Gov­ernment’s temporary palliatives and ₦35,000 wage award have barely made a dent. “The wage award has stopped,” said one Ministry of Labour source. “And even when it was paid, it didn’t last three days for most workers.”

The Nigerian civil service, once the pride of post-indepen­dence stability, now mirrors the larger national decline. What used to be an institution of mod­est prestige has become a reflec­tion of economic erosion.

A senior officer at the Minis­try of Finance lamented: “When I joined the service 20 years ago, a car and a decent house were achievable dreams. Today, even an assistant director borrows money to pay school fees. The system has reduced us to surviv­alists.”

The situation also raises ethi­cal concerns. Some fear that des­peration could breed corruption, absenteeism, or conflicts of inter­est. “When workers lose dignity, integrity becomes negotiable,” warned Dr. Adetunji.

A City of Side Hustles

Abuja, once defined by its or­derliness, now thrives on side hustles. Civil servants are in­volved in real estate, POS busi­nesses, catering, forex trading, and taxi driving – all in a bid to survive.

The once-clear boundary be­tween public and private enter­prise has blurred completely. The city’s roundabouts, secretariat corridors, and WhatsApp status updates all tell the same story: everyone is selling something.

“We have reached a point where having a job doesn’t mean you can live decently,” says sociol­ogist Dr. Helen Aina. “People now measure survival in hustles, not salaries.”

Some ministries have quietly warned staff against moonlight­ing, citing conflicts with public service rules. But enforcement is weak.

“If they sack us, who will re­place us?” one driver laughs bit­terly. “Everyone knows we’re all suffering—even the directors.”

Indeed, many senior officers tacitly tolerate the practice. In some ministries, staff car parks empty out at lunchtime as work­ers dash out to deliver short Bolt rides before returning to their desks.

As dusk falls again on the Abu­ja skyline, cars stream out of the city toward the satellite towns. Many bear civil servants behind the wheel – one hand on the steer­ing wheel, the other on the wheel of survival.

For them, the road is more than a route home; it’s a rolling metaphor for Nigeria’s econom­ic drift. Each passenger picked up, each ₦1000 collected, is one more day bought in the long war against poverty.

“I just pray I don’t lose myself in this hustle,” Musa says quietly as he drops off his last passen­ger at Zuba Junction. “I’m not lazyyyyyyy. I just want to live.”

In the city built to represent national order and progress, Abuja’s civil servants now drive through the night chasing both—in the faint hope that the next morning, something might change.