Photo caption: Last December, Senate President Godswill Akpabio distributed cars, tricycles, mini vans, sewing machines, tractors, and other empowerment tools to his constituents—a tradition among Nigerian legislators aimed at poverty alleviation and grassroots support.
By: Olabode Opeseitan
In a country where the informal sector hums with quiet industry and the horizon of every state is punctuated by construction sites, it is a cruel irony that 133 million Nigerians are said to be multi-dimensionally poor. The figure, cited by the National Bureau of Statistics (NBS) in 2022, is not just staggering—it is sobering. But is it the whole truth? Or is it a truth distorted by the inadequacy of our measurement tools, the blindness of our data systems, and the inertia of our institutions?
To grasp the magnitude of 133 million people, consider this:
The combined populations of the United Kingdom (69.5M), Netherlands (18.3M), Belgium (11.7M), Sweden (10.6M), Austria (9.1M), Denmark (6M), Ireland (5.3M), Finland (5.6M) and Norway (5.6M) total approximately 136.4 million people. Are we truly saying that a size of the entire populations of these nine European nations—combined—are living in poverty within Nigeria?
That claim demands interrogation. It is not just improbable. It is statistically implausible.
Let us begin with the obvious: Nigeria is not a country of idle hands. From the bricklayer in Bauchi to the tiler in Uyo, from the roadside mechanic in Ibadan to the caterer in Calabar, the informal economy is a living, breathing organism. It is where dignity is earned daily, where families are fed, and where the economy is kept alive—not by policy, but by grit.
Yet this sector, which accounts for over 90% of new jobs, is still largely excluded—despite the recent rebasing of the GDP by the NBS. Despite its technical rigor, the rebasing failed to reflect the full productivity of Nigeria’s real economy—especially in manufacturing, agriculture, and housing. It remains incomplete, unable to capture the pulse of the informal sector. The NBS cannot quantify the sweat equity of millions who build homes, wire cities, cultivate land, and feed communities. It cannot measure the value of trust, barter, and community credit systems that underpin rural commerce. And so, it defaults to a narrative of bottom pit—obscuring the reality of those grinding to stay afloat.
The $2.61 Trillion Housing Sector: Nigeria’s Real Wealth
The Minister of Housing recently estimated Nigeria’s housing sector to be worth over $2.61 trillion. That figure is not a mirage—it is real, visible, and tangible. Across the country, housing projects are mushrooming—some state-led, many private, most informal. These projects employ millions: carpenters, plumbers, welders, painters. They are the backbone of Nigeria’s real economy.
Visit different Nigerian cities and you will be stunned by the quality and quantity of homes. From Banana Island to Maitama, Lekki to Asokoro, and even in emerging peri-urban zones, Nigeria’s housing stock largely rivals global standards. Many of these homes, if transposed to cities like Los Angeles or London, would be valued in the tens of millions of dollars.
Yet even the oft-cited housing deficit of 22 million is another statistical incompetence. It is high time we put an end to shallow projections conjured from the comfort of air-conditioned offices. To speak intrinsically and authoritatively about Nigeria’s housing realities, the three tiers of government must collaborate on an integrated census:
– How many houses exist in Nigeria?
– How many Nigerians have a roof over their heads?
– How many are homeless?
– How many own country homes but lack urban shelter?
– How many prime real estate assets lie unoccupied?
This is not just data—it is dignity. A national housing strategy must emerge from this census, one that puts idle assets to use while respecting individual privacy. Until then, we are navigating blindfolded through a maze of assumptions.
The Naira’s Double Life and the Regional Exploitation
Nowhere is this distortion more evident than in the value of the naira. Within Nigeria, ₦10,000 can still buy a week’s worth of groceries—particularly in the rural areas where nearly half of Nigerians live. Yet that same ₦10,000, worth barely $6.50 USD, wouldn’t buy a premium sandwich lunch at Starbucks or a coffee and croissant in London. The disparity is not just economic—it is epistemic. It reflects a failure to distinguish between domestic purchasing power and international exchange value. The naira lives a double life: relatively fair at home, weak abroad. Yet our economic models treat it as singular, leading to flawed comparisons and fatal misjudgments.
Neighbouring countries have seized on this disparity with ruthless efficiency. Armed with stronger currencies, they swoop into Nigeria to buy organic agricultural products at giveaway prices—leaving our farmers and artisans shortchanged. Who protects them? Who speaks for the yam farmer in Benue or the shea butter producer in Kwara (whose raw exportation the government has now gracefully banned)? The NBS must wake up to the realities of Nigeria’s peculiarities and stop applying esoteric measuring solutions to distinct local challenges. We need a data revolution that defends our producers, values our labor, and restores economic justice.
Toward a New Measurement Ethic
To move forward, we must abandon the legacy economic measurement methods. We must build new tools—digital, decentralized, and inclusive. We must digitize the informal sector, not to tax it prematurely, but to understand it deeply. Mobile money agents, POS terminals, and community cooperatives can become nodes of data collection. Blockchain can secure transactions. AI can analyze patterns. But the ethic must be clear: measure to empower, not to idolize poverty.
We must also rethink poverty. Multidimensional poverty is real—but it is not static. It is not a life sentence. It is a condition that can be reversed with opportunity, visibility, and dignity. The poor are not passive victims; they are active agents. They build our homes, teach our children, and feed our cities. To label them as merely poor is to erase their contributions. To count them without context is to betray their humanity.
And let us not forget the communal safety nets that still thrive in Nigeria’s villages. In rural communities, food is shared, shelter is offered, and care is communal. These informal welfare systems are invisible to statisticians but vital to survival. They are part of Nigeria’s resilience—and they must be counted.
No one organically tracks in real time how many people have moved out of or sunk into poverty. Yet this is achievable—with data sense, political will, and collaboration between the NBS and the Ministry of Communication and Digital Economy.
And who tracks the impact of the multi-billion naira legislative interventions on poverty alleviation and infrastructure renewal by Senators, members of the House of Representatives, and state legislators? Who monitors the outcomes of poverty alleviation programs by the Federal and State governments, the Office of the First Lady, and the private sector? Are we to believe these efforts have had zero effect on reducing multidimensional poverty? In the past year alone, security has improved in several regions. Farmers have returned to their fields. Are these families still being counted among the 133 million trapped in poverty? If so, then the mechanics of measurement must be urgently recalibrated.
Conclusion: The Audacity of Truth
Nigeria is not languishingly poor. Nigeria is poorly measured. Yes, there are poor Nigerians everywhere—but the number is grossly exaggerated. With all the ongoing reforms and projects across Nigeria—in road construction, housing, agriculture, digital technology, hospitality—who has been doing the jobs? Ghosts?
Who will plant the 100 million palm oil trees the government has directed and maintain them?
We must confront the farce of our data, the propaganda of our GDP, and the illusion of our currency. We must build a new narrative—one that sees, counts, and honors every Nigerian.
Let us begin not with pity, but with precision. Not with handouts, but with handshakes. Not with statistics, but with resonating stories. Because in the end, it is not numbers that build nations—it is people.
