I was told that if you do this long enough, you either find yourself or you lose yourself there. Eleven years in, I know which one I am, but I am still trying to figure out a way back.
Every day, along with other cleaners like myself, I always come through the government secretariat gate with my broom. I will slip through the gates and start work: sweeping the hallways, washing the bathrooms, dusting the chairs – long before the respected officials arrive. It is quiet and dark, and it is thankless work, but someone has to do it.
My auntie told me that I should be happy here. In 2015, my auntie brought me to this office. I told them I am a cleaner. They gave me a broom, grouped me with the ones already there and set me to work. Ever since then, I sweep the floors, wash the toilets, and clean the chairs before the bosses arrive—I mean, the permanent staff. I went to school and got a diploma in Business Management. I finished in 2018. I studied while working here—sweeping floors, writing notes in the spaces between work. I wanted a different life. An office job with a steady salary. But when my diploma arrived, the jobs did not. There were no jobs in my field, so I stayed.
I won’t blame them. The promise that things will get better is what kept me here. My family knew the man who ran for governor, so they told me to be patient. They said he will help us when he wins. He won and became governor of Adamawa. They called him a good man who kept his promises. I believed them.
When I first started here, they paid me ₦10,000 a month. In 2023, they raised it to ₦15,000, and last year they finally raised it to ₦20,000. Eleven years of work – and my pay was still only ₦20,000 a month. It’s not much at all, but that is what my work demands. My family back in the village thinks I’m making good money in the city, but they don’t know ₦20,000 is a small thing. I struggle with it.
With the little payment, I rent a small apartment of my own here in town. Each month I have to pay, sometimes I have to borrow the rest, just to keep the roof over my head. The good thing is my landlady is very understanding. She knows I’m a cleaner, so she doesn’t pressure me. Back home, I have brothers and sisters waiting for me. I send them whatever small part of my salary remains, because they have hope in me – they think their daughter or sister is doing well in the city. I even buy them food with this money. Sometimes I am left with just a few thousand naira for myself, and I wonder how to live on it.
Sometimes they don’t even pay us on time. They will say there’s no money in the imprest, and still expect me to come the next day as if nothing is wrong. They don’t care if I am sick. There was a time I once fell ill and missed a day; when I returned, they looked at me like I’d quit. “Where were you?” they asked. I told them I was sick. But I had to come. There is no sick pay, no understanding. You either come or you lose your place.
They keep telling us, “Three months, six months, one year – then permanent.” Every time I heard those words, my heart lit up. But time kept passing. Three months, six months, a year and yet nothing has changed. I don’t like this situation at all.
Still, I stayed. In his first term, the Governor called us casual workers for screening. My friends and I dressed our finest and walked into the exam hall. It’s been a long time coming. We believed he would fulfil the promise and give us permanent employment. After the exam, we waited eagerly. Weeks passed, months passed, and nothing happened. We heard no news, no congratulations, no letters. Just the same silence over the years.
By the time his second term began, they were hiring new people. Again, I applied – paid money for forms, wrote exams, answered questions. But this time, our names were not even on the list of those who took the exam. They told us we were not part of the official system. It felt like I had been erased. How could I write the exam and then be told I was never there? I wanted to cry.
We are already inside this place. I have sweated for these halls with my hands. We have been here longer than those new recruits. To be fair, we would have been permanent before they hired any new people. But we were left behind.
Sometimes I feel like I’ve wasted my whole life here. Day after day, I come here doing the same thing over and over again. I sweep and mop. But this place knows me only as a cleaner. Still, I cannot walk away. I have grown used to them, to this place. My only hope is that my parents said that the governor cares for us.
As narrated by: Abraham Christopher (Jimeta, Nigeria).
This snippet is published as part of the series, The Casual Workers of Adamawa.
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