‘Oga, Dem Won Take Hungry Kill Us?’

BY ISAAC ASABOR*
As the scorching sun beat down on the bustling Alamutu market in Idioro, Mushin, Lagos, the familiar rhythm of life felt strangely different. As I made my way through the narrow paths between stalls selling everything from tomatoes to pepper, I came across the familiar shop of an elderly woman who had been selling plantain at the market for as long as I could remember. For years, I had been a loyal customer, drawn not only by the quality of her plantain but also by her warm and friendly demeanour, a constant bright spot in the chaotic marketplace.
Normally, she would greet me with a wide smile, her eyes bright with recognition, and a cheerful, “Oga, welcome!” Today, however, was different. The vibrant energy that defined her presence had faded. As I approached her stall, I noticed she sat quietly on her worn-out stool, staring ahead as if lost in thought, her normally lively face now etched with exhaustion and sadness.
“Good afternoon, Mama,” I said, expecting the usual spark from her response. She looked up slowly, her eyes heavy from the weight of her responsibilities. “Oga,” she muttered under her breath, her voice tinged with frustration and helplessness. “Dem will not let hungry people kill us?”
Her words hit home. Her tone was straightforward, with no exaggeration. Her question was more than just about rising commodity prices; it was a reflection of the daily struggles she and millions of other Nigerians have faced since May 29, 2023, when the current President Bola Ahmed Tinubu-led administration was inaugurated. Her question spoke of hunger, not just in the stomach but also in the heart, a hunger for a better life that seemed to fade away with every passing day.
I paused for a moment, unsure how to react. What could I say to someone who had worked hard her entire life only to find herself in a more difficult situation than before? Her question, while simple, bore the weight of Nigeria’s current economic hardship, which could be felt in every corner of the market and throughout the country.
Other market women around her stall, who had overheard our conversation, began to speak up, eager to express their frustrations.
“Oga, na true she talk o!” exclaimed a woman selling pepper nearby. “Since the fuel matter began, nothing has cost. E no be a small thing. Even we, wey dey sell for the market, no fit buy enough for our house. Na how we go survive?”
Another woman who sold tomatoes spoke up, her voice filled with concern, “Before, I fit buy rice and beans and still manage small change for the house. But now? I nor fit buy anything again. E be like say every day price dey change for the market. Even customers nor dey come like before. Oga, everybody just dey struggle.”
The elderly plantain seller sighed deeply and added, “We dey work, we dey sweat, but every time, e be like say the money we make nor dey reach anywhere. Things don change. Before, I go sell, go home, and buy food for my children. But now, I no fit buy half of wetin I dey buy before.”
Her words were echoed by a woman selling yams across the path. “Every day for this market, we dey suffer,” she said, shaking her head. “You go see customers, they go come look, ask for price, then waka pass. Everybody dey complain say things too cost.”
The lament in their voices was not only about rising food prices but also about a shared sense of hopelessness. These were women who had been the breadwinners for their families, working tirelessly to make ends meet. However, the economic situation had brought them to the brink. No matter how hard they worked, it appeared that they were stuck in a never-ending cycle of poverty.
A woman selling fruit nearby added, “Oga, we nor even dey sure of tomorrow. Government talk say dem go help, but where the help dey? Na hunger we dey see for here. Na so we go dey continue?”
Their concerns were not t just limited to food prices. They discussed rising rent, school fees, and necessities that had become nearly impossible to afford. Since the removal of fuel subsidies, the cost of transport has risen dramatically, complicating their daily struggles. “To even enter the bus now na big wahala,” said one of the women. “Before, I fit enter bus go market with small money. Now, I go use all my profit to take transport go house. Ask me, wetin remain for us?”
The sense of collective despair hung heavy in the air. These women, the market’s lifeblood, had grown tired. They would been through hardship before, but this time felt different. It felt as if the future was slipping through their fingers, leaving them in a state of constant uncertainty.
One of the older women, who had remained silent throughout, suddenly spoke up. “Na so life don turn for this our country. We don tire. Government nor dey feel the hunger wey we dey face. E easy for dem to talk say ‘e go better,’ but we no fit chop that kind talk. Wetin we go do now?”
Her words sparked murmurs of agreement from the others. It was clear that these market women were at a breaking point, their fortitude being tested by an economic crisis that made survival increasingly difficult. Their faces, once animated by the spirit of the daily hustle, now bore the weariness of people who had been pushed too hard.
As I left the market that day, I could not get over my plantain seller’s mood, who had always been my customer, and the haunting question she had asked: “Oga, dem will not take hungry kill us?”
Her words stayed with me long after I left. They were more than just a market woman’s lament; they were the cry of a nation, a people struggling to stay afloat in a failed economy. How long can we expect them to hold on? How long can we ignore their suffering?
It is time for more than just promises of a better tomorrow. These women, and millions more, require real solutions right now. The question is not whether Nigeria can overcome this crisis, but whether the voices of those pleading for assistance will be heard before it is too late.
For these women, the market is more than just a place to do business; it is their lifeline. However, as prices rise and incomes decline, that lifeline becomes increasingly thin. And unless something changes, the market’s weary voices will only grow louder, echoing the same heartbreaking question: “Oga, dem will not let hungry people kill us?”