Nigerian women

By Prosper Mene 

In a corner of Lagos’ bustling streets, Aisha, a 24-year-old single mother, adjusts her makeup under the flicker of a streetlamp. Once a petty trader selling vegetables in Oshodi market, she now stands among a growing number of Nigerian women compelled to trade their bodies for survival. “I didn’t choose this,” she says, her voice heavy with resignation. “But when inflation eats your profits and your child is hungry, what choice do you have?”

Nigeria, Africa’s largest economy, is reeling from its worst cost-of-living crisis in decades. With inflation soaring to 34.6% in November 2024 and food prices climbing beyond 40%, according to government data, millions of households are buckling under economic strain. For women like Aisha, the fallout is not just financial—it’s personal, pushing them into desperate measures as traditional livelihoods collapse under the weight of a devalued naira and dwindling opportunities.

A Crisis Driving Choices

The economic turmoil began intensifying in 2023 when President Bola Tinubu removed fuel subsidies and liberalized foreign exchange rates reforms aimed at revitalizing the economy but leaving ordinary Nigerians in their wake. The naira has since plummeted, losing over 70% of its value against the dollar, while the cost of basics like rice, beans, and cooking gas has tripled. For women, who often bear the burden of feeding families and managing households, the impact is profound.

“Before, I could make 5,000 naira a day selling vegetables,” Aisha recalls. “Now, I’m lucky to break even after transport and market fees. My son needs school fees, food, medicine, I couldn’t keep up.” Last month, she joined the ranks of women engaging in what’s locally dubbed “hookup”—a discreet form of prostitution facilitated by social media and apps, offering quick cash in a crumbling economy.

The United Nations World Food Programme projects that 33.1 million Nigerians will face acute food insecurity in 2025, a 7 million increase from last year. Women, particularly in urban centers like Lagos and Kano, are among the hardest hit. A 2023 report by the Council on Foreign Relations noted that Nigeria’s GDP could rise by 23% if women were equally engaged in the economy, yet cultural norms and economic exclusion continue to marginalize them, leaving prostitution as a last resort.

From Markets to Streets

Across Nigeria, stories like Aisha’s echo a trend. In Benin City, Edo State—long a hub for trafficking, Blessing, 19, abandoned her tailoring apprenticeship when customers stopped coming. “Thread and fabric prices doubled, and people couldn’t afford my work,” she says. A friend introduced her to a “madam” who promised fast money through clients in Lagos. “I send half home to my mother. She doesn’t ask where it comes from.”

The rise of “hookup” culture, distinct from traditional brothel-based prostitution, has exploded in cities, fueled by anonymity and smartphones. Young women, including university students and unemployed graduates, connect with clients online, charging anywhere from 10,000 to 50,000 naira per encounter—sums that dwarf the 33,000 naira monthly minimum wage for public servants like NYSC members. “It’s not pride,” says Tolu, a 21-year-old student in Ibadan. “It’s survival. Books don’t pay rent.”

A Legacy of Exploitation

Nigeria’s prostitution crisis isn’t new, but the economic downturn has amplified it. Since the 1980s, trafficking networks have funneled women from Edo State to Europe, particularly Italy, where an estimated 21,000 Nigerian women and girls have been trafficked since 2015, according to the UN. Today, the same desperation driving international trafficking is turning inward, with local sex work surging. The National Agency for the Prohibition of Trafficking in Persons (NAPTIP) reported rescuing 1,266 women from trafficking in 2021 alone, yet the agency struggles to keep pace with the domestic shift.

In northern Kano, where Sharia law bans prostitution, economic pressures are quietly eroding taboos. Fatima, 28, a widow with three children, began meeting clients in secret after her roadside tea stall folded. “Bandits took our farms, and prices took my business,” she says. “I’d rather sin than watch my kids starve.”

Society’s Blind Eye

The stigma surrounding prostitution remains fierce, yet economic necessity is softening judgment in some quarters. “People whisper, but they know why we do it,” Tolu says. Families, too, often turn a blind eye when remittances arrive. In Benin City, activists note a troubling normalization: parents once pressured daughters to migrate for sex work abroad; now, they tacitly accept it at home.

Government response has been patchy. Tinubu’s administration has rolled out cash transfers and grain handouts, but critics say they’re inadequate. “We’re treating symptoms, not the disease,” argues Muda Yusuf, CEO of the Centre for the Promotion of Private Enterprise. “Without jobs and security, women will keep falling through the cracks.”

Grassroots groups like Girls’ Power Initiative (GPI) in Edo State offer vocational training and counseling, but resources are stretched thin. “We’re seeing younger girls every day,” says Grace Osakue of GPI. “Poverty doesn’t wait for empowerment programs.”

A Future in Question

For Aisha, Blessing, and countless others, prostitution isn’t a career—it’s a stopgap. “I pray every night for a way out,” Aisha says, glancing at her son’s photo on her phone. Yet, with 33 million Nigerians projected to face food insecurity and inflation showing no signs of slowing, that way out feels distant.

As morning comes in Lagos, Aisha heads home with 15,000 naira in her pocket—enough for a week’s worth of food. “This isn’t who I am,” she insists. “But until Nigeria gives us something better, it’s what I have to do.” For now, the economic crisis holds her—and millions of Nigerian women—in its grip, a stark reminder of the human cost of a nation’s struggle.