By Jide Olaniyan
Dirty Work in Nigeria:
Why We Must Rethink Dignity, Stigma, and Satisfaction at WorkIntroduction: The Work We Pretend Not to SeeEvery morning in Lagos, before the traffic clogs Third Mainland Bridge, before the city’s generators roar to life, an army of men and women are already at work. They sweep the streets, clear gutters, carry away refuse, and disinfect public spaces. Most of us pass them by without a second thought. In fact, many recoil from their presence, covering noses, or muttering,“Na dem dirty people wey dey do dirty job.”Yet without them, Lagos, other major cities, and the nation would drown in its own waste.
Sodiq O. Babatunde and his colleagues, in a groundbreaking 2025 study published in the Journal of Management & Organization, shed new light on what it means to do this kind of “dirty work.””Their research shows that jobs society labels as physically, socially, or morally tainted can drain workers emotionally, leading to dissatisfaction with their jobs, careers, and lives.
However, their work also highlights an important twist: not everyone experiences this stigma the same way. Workers who are less self-conscious, in essence, those employees who are less preoccupied with how society views them, are better able to “shake it off” and preserve their well-being. This study has deep relevance for Nigeria. In a society where work is not just labour but a marker of dignity, class, and family pride, how do we treat those whose work keeps our cities clean and safe, our prisons running, our dead buried, or our animals slaughtered? What emotional price do they pay for society’s scorn? And what can government, employers, and citizens do to restore dignity to dirty work?
The term “dirty work” was first coined by sociologist Everett Hughes in 1958, describing occupations society regards as undesirable or degrading. Babatunde and colleagues classify dirty work into three categories:
1. Physically tainted work — jobs that expose people to filth, blood, waste, or dangerous substances. Think of Nigeria’s waste collectors in Abuja, abattoir workers in Ibadan, or mortuary attendants in Enugu.
2. Socially tainted work — jobs that require interaction with stigmatized groups. Nigerian prison warders, psychiatric nurses, or police officers working with “area boys” fall here.
3. Morally tainted work — jobs society sees as sinful or corrupt. Sex workers in Lagos, debt collectors in Onitsha, or even certain political “fixers” fit this bill.These categories exist in every society. But in Nigeria, where “face” — how others see you — is everything, the stigma attached to dirty work is especially heavy. Neighbors may mock a man who sweeps streets in Kano. A woman who works in a mortuary in Port Harcourt may be whispered about in church. A prison officer in Kaduna may struggle to explain to family members why he “mingles with criminals.”
Babatunde’s study confirms what many workers (even in Nigeria) already know: the stigma of dirty work wears people down, leaving them emotionally exhausted. And when emotional resources are drained, job satisfaction, career fulfillment, and life happiness all suffer.Nigeria’s Dirty Workers: The Invisible Backbone. Let us pause and consider the Nigerian context. Who are our dirty workers?
Sanitation workers: The men pushing refuse carts through Oshodi at dawn. The women sweeping the Abuja expressway under the blazing sun. Scrap collectors or scavengers, also known as Baba nbola or “Bola boys.” Health and care workers: Mortuary staff in teaching hospitals, nurses in psychiatric wards, orderlies cleaning infectious disease units.
Security enforcers: Policemen on night patrol, prison warders guarding dangerous criminals, immigration officers battling traffickers at the Seme border.Moral outcasts: Sex workers along Allen Avenue, the National Union of Road Transport Workers (NURTW), also called “Agbero,” who collect motor parks levies, which Nigerians dismiss as “hooligans,” and those who do jobs linked with taboo industries.
Despite their centrality, society treats these workers as expendable. They are poorly paid, often lack protective gear, and endure constant ridicule. How many times have we seen Lagos drivers splash muddy water on street sweepers without even a glance? How many of us greet refuse collectors with “thank you”?
In Nigeria, dirty work is not just dirty; it is dishonored. Emotional Exhaustion: The Hidden Burden The heart of Babatunde’s study is the concept of emotional exhaustion. Dirty work drains emotional resources because workers not only face the physical challenges of their jobs but also the weight of social scorn. Consider Musa, a refuse collector in Kano.
He spends 12 hours/day lifting bags of waste under the hot sun. The physical strain is enormous. But what truly exhausts him is not just the smell or the sweat; it is the laughter of children who call him “bola man,” the neighbours who won’t let their daughters marry him because “he handles dirt,” and the friends who avoid sitting beside him.
This societal rejection seeps into job satisfaction (“I hate this job”), career satisfaction (“I regret this path”), and life satisfaction (“My life has no meaning”). Babatunde’s research shows this is not mere perception — it is a measurable psychological effect. In Nigeria, where many dirty workers lack alternative job opportunities, this emotional exhaustion is a ticking time bomb. It fuels absenteeism, alcoholism, depression, and in some cases, outright resignation
The Nigerian Factor: Self-Consciousness in a Collectivist Culture One of the most fascinating insights from Babatunde’s study is the role of self-consciousness. Workers who are highly self-conscious, those deeply aware of how others view them, suffer greater emotional exhaustion. By contrast, those who are less self-conscious are more resilient.This is crucial in the Nigerian context.
Nigeria is a collectivist society. Family name, community reputation, and societal judgment weigh heavily. From the Igbo trader in Onitsha whose family name is tied to his business, to the Hausa farmer in Sokoto whose honour rests on community perception, Nigerians live under the constant question: “What will people say?”
For dirty workers, this cultural lens magnifies the stigma. A mortuary attendant in Enugu is not just doing a job; she is seen as “the woman who works with the dead.” A prison officer in Kaduna is not just keeping inmates safe; he is “the man who dines with criminals.” Their self-consciousness, sharpened by culture, makes emotional exhaustion worse. This explains why dirty work may be even more damaging in Nigeria than in the U.S. or U.K. contexts where Babatunde collected his data.
The Economic IronyHere is the irony: Nigeria desperately needs its dirty workers. Without street sweepers, Lagos would drown in refuse. Without abattoir workers, Ibadan and neighboring cities and towns would face food shortages. Without prison warders, our already fragile justice system would collapse. Yet those who keep society functioning are among the most disrespected and underpaid.
It is a paradox: the more indispensable the work, the more invisible the worker.This invisibility is also reflected in policy. Sanitation workers are often contract staff, hired through private contractors who delay salaries. Mortuary attendants work without mental health support, even though they handle trauma daily. Healthcare workers strike periodically because of unpaid allowances. And sex workers? They face criminalization, exploitation, and harassment, while society simultaneously consumes their services in secret.
Policy and Leadership: What Needs to Change Babatunde’s study offers not just diagnosis but also direction. It calls for resources, reframing, and recognition. Let us consider each in Nigeria’s context.
1. Resources: The government must provide adequate protective equipment, fair wages, and health insurance. A refuse collector should not face cholera because he lacks gloves. A mortuary attendant should not buy disinfectant with her own money.
2. Reframing: Employers, unions, and the media must reframe dirty work as dignified work. In Ghana, sanitation workers are celebrated annually with state awards. Why can’t Nigeria do the same? Imagine a national campaign: “No job is dirty — every job is dignity.
3. Recognition: Employers should publicly honor dirty workers. Churches and mosques can preach the dignity of labor, not just for bankers and engineers, but for cleaners, prison officers, and street sweepers. Recognition reduces self-consciousness by reshaping social narratives.
The Role of Religion and Culture In Nigeria, religion is powerful. Churches, mosques, and traditional leaders shape attitudes more than government policies. Religious leaders must preach that dignity is not reserved for white-collar jobs. The Bible says, “By the sweat of thy brow, you shall eat bread” (Genesis 3:19). Also, “Man shall have nothing but what he strives for” (Quran 53:39). Yet, in practice, congregations honor bankers and politicians while mocking refuse collectors.
Culture, too, must evolve. Proverbs like “Ise logun ise” (Work is the antidote to poverty) should be revived to remind us that no work is shameful. Parents must stop telling children, “Read your book o, or you will end up like that street sweeper.” Such statements deepen stigma and devalue necessary labor. A Call to Nigerian Employers. Employers from state governments to private contractors have a duty. They must provide psychological support for workers in stigmatized roles. This can be as simple as counseling services, training on resilience, or peer-support groups.
A cleaner in Lagos University Teaching Hospital should have access to the same mental health resources as a doctor. Employers must also adjust policies to reduce emotional exhaustion. Flexible schedules, fair pay, and visible appreciation programs can make workers feel valued. After all, as Babatunde’s study shows, satisfaction at work is not just about money; it is about dignity. Toward a National Rethink Nigeria is at a crossroads. We can not continue to build mega-cities while treating those who clean them as sub-human.
We can not demand discipline in prisons while starving prison warders of recognition. Wecan not preach the dignity of labor while mocking those who perform the labor that sustains us. Babatunde’s study is a wake-up call. Emotional exhaustion is not abstract psychology. It is a lived Nigerian reality, visible in the weary faces of sanitation workers, the bitterness of prison officers, and the silent struggles of mortuary attendants. If we fail to act, we risk not only the well-being of these workers but also the sustainability of the services they provide.
Conclusion: No Job is Dirty Babatunde’s research reminds us that while these workers may face stigma, we as a society hold the power to change the narrative. We can resource them, reframe their work, and recognize their contributions. The next time you see a sanitation worker in Lagos, a mortuary attendant in Abuja, or a prison warder in Port Harcourt, remember this: your comfort rests on their exhaustion. Will you add to their burden with scorn or lighten it with dignity? Nigeria’s development depends not just on oil, politics, or technology. It depends on whether we honor the labor of all — especially those whose work society dares to call “dirty.”
Jide Olaniyan is a Communication Specialist
