What Happened to the Nigerian Middle Class?

 

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By Teslim Oyetunji

The middle class, it is believed, is the backbone of any modern capitalist economy. It is the engine because it comprises a class of men and women who provide the grit, labour, and industry needed to catalyze development. Its disappearance from any society often marks the end of a prosperous era—the beginning of decline and, in many cases, total collapse.

It is against this backdrop that one must ask: what happened to the Nigerian middle class? Nigeria’s story in 2025 is an especially sad commentary on how a promising country, with a strongly emerging middle-class economy in the 1960s, could lose it all.

In 1960, the country had just gained independence. Young, nascent, vibrant, and lusty, Nigeria was brimming with hope and expectations. There was a wave of economic and public investment that saw the rise of an emerging middle class. With a strong export-oriented economy, the country was chafing to produce. Universities were springing up. Many Nigerians took advantage of the ebullient spirit of the nation to start businesses and export cash crops and farm produce. The country was raking in substantial foreign exchange. Life was good.

Ballrooms, gala nights, sports clubs, Rotary meetings—these were the pastimes of a thriving urban middle class. It was a green moment in the lives of citizens of a young, promising country. Nigerians abroad were eager to return and set up businesses. The future glowed.

Then came the 1970s and the oil boom.

Money wasn’t the problem. The problem was how to spend it—and on what. Entitlement mentality crept in. Complacency set in. Corruption, once creeping, became a roaring flood. Politicians turned from public servants to private profiteers. The wealth from oil, rather than being invested in human capital or infrastructure, was squandered in a frenzy of rent-seeking and reckless imports.

The military accelerated the decay at dizzying speed. The Buhari and Babangida administrations were particularly culpable. Babangida’s introduction of the Structural Adjustment Program (SAP) and the devaluation of the naira—meant to pave the way for IMF loans—turned out to be a poisoned chalice. Money was borrowed and quickly embezzled.

Then came mass retrenchments across the civil service. For many, that was the beginning of economic ruin—one that still affects their children and grandchildren today. Government contractors were owed for years; many had their properties foreclosed and auctioned by banks. Public infrastructure crumbled. Those who lived through the 1980s became a bridging generation—trapped between a once-hopeful past and a rapidly darkening future.

The return to democracy in 1999 brought renewed hope. It was a chance to rebuild what had been lost. Nigeria’s mood was once again upbeat, reminiscent of the 1960s.

From 1999 to 2015, there was the appearance of reform. Pseudo-reforms, perhaps, but reforms nonetheless. The Obasanjo administration pushed for privatization and banking sector restructuring. Telecommunications exploded—mobile phones became ubiquitous. Pension reform came. EFCC was created. Infrastructure projects were started. Agriculture received new attention under programs like ATA. There was hope again.

But the reforms were largely cosmetic. They did not address the deep-rooted rot of corruption and prebendal politics. The political class, emboldened by oil wealth, continued to loot with impunity. Budgets were padded, contracts inflated, and public funds laundered abroad while poverty deepened at home.

By 2015, the signs were unmistakable: Nigeria was in deep economic waters. Having squandered the opportunities of the Gulf War oil windfall, the return to democracy, and the potential for systemic reforms, the country had finally hit its nadir. Foreign reserves had been depleted. Foreign debts had surged. The political class remained entrenched and unrepentant.

The twin hydra of subsidy and foreign exchange mismanagement had done irreparable damage. The fuel subsidy, originally meant as a temporary relief measure during the 1970s oil crisis, had become a permanent cash cow—hijacked by greedy politicians and rapacious businessmen.

By 2012, it was already obvious: Nigeria was spending money it neither saved nor earned to subsidize fuel for a class of citizens whose purchasing power had been eroded by a sterile economy. Fuel subsidies, meant for the poor, only benefited the rich.

Then came the 2014 oil price crash and the 2016 economic recession. The fire was already raging; now it had gasoline. Nigeria’s economy plunged into deficit. The private sector all but collapsed. Hundreds of companies—local and foreign—folded due to the high cost of doing business. Unemployment among the youth shot through the roof.

Between 2015 and 2025, the naira depreciated precipitously from ₦199/$1 to over ₦1,500/$1. The standard of living plummeted—even for the rich and privileged. Business owners, once seen as secure, now struggled to pay workers or import goods. The middle class, already fragile, was being eviscerated before our eyes.

Today, the Nigerian middle class is a ghost—barely surviving, mostly vanished.

Those who haven’t “japa’d” are simply coping. Many are living off loans. Civil servants are broke. Private school fees have become nightmares. Once-prosperous professionals—doctors, lawyers, engineers—now count pennies at fuel stations.

The tragedy is not just economic. It is existential. A country that kills off its middle class kills off its future.

The Nigerian middle class didn’t just vanish. It was strangled—choked slowly and methodically by decades of failed leadership, brazen corruption, and unforgivable waste.

We have become a nation of survivors, not citizens. A land of hustle, not structure. The dreamers have either fled or given up.

And those who remain?

They are not living. They are enduring.

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