By: Chioma Madonna Ndukwu
They begin before dawn and don’t stop until night. Their bodies push through exhaustion. Their minds push past pain. Health is not their priority. In Ladipo Market, like in many parts of Nigeria, rest is weakness. Fruit is luxury. Hospitals are for emergencies. This is not just neglect—it is a way of life.
I came to Ladipo Market, not to buy car parts, but to observe. I arrived as a journalist. I left as someone who had seen too much.
At the gate, I was welcomed by warm Igbo greetings—“Nwanne mooo! Ifeoma, ba anyi!” There was laughter, joy, loud chatter. But beneath the surface was tension. Men were not just moving engines. They were dragging their bodies through silent battles—stress, hunger, pain.
I went into a place called Success Warehouse, where my brother works. Soon, trucks arrived. Men ran out—lifting tyres, lifting engines. No gloves. No helmets. No breaks. Just speed.
They ignored me. Time is money here. “We pay for space,” one said. “We must use the time.” In Ladipo, minutes are currency. Health is a debt no one wants to pay.
I saw no women among the workers. The only women sold water, biscuits, drinks—quick relief for men who had no time for real meals. Fruit sellers passed. No one stopped them. The men ate to keep going, not to stay well.
Some wore shirts with holes. Others had oil stains like badges. Still, they kept going.
The next day, I spoke to Mr. Chidaalu Okoye, a trader from Anambra. “You see me dirty now,” he said. “But on weekends, I dress sharp. This is just to pick money from thorns.” He laughed when I asked about his health. “I’m not sick. Why go to the hospital?” He had not eaten fruit in weeks. Beer and rice were easier.
I met another trader, Mr. Ogemdi Atuanya, a graduate. “It’s tough,” he said, “but I try to balance.” He spoke of rest, God, and peace of mind. But in this market, his kind is rare.
When I read about Otunba Kunle Akinyele’s sudden death, I knew Ladipo was not alone. Men across Nigeria are falling—without noise, without warning. Their strength hides their struggle. Their silence hides their sickness.
As one newspaper wrote, “Even rocks wear down.”
From engineers to broadcasters to footballers—Nigerian men give their all, but get little care in return. They are praised for endurance. They are punished for needing help.
This must change. Men must be told: You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to feel pain. You are allowed to get help.
Let health become part of the hustle. Let markets become places of healing, not just trading. The government and unions must act—mobile clinics, simple health talks, regular checks. If we can meet to work, we can meet to learn.
There is no pride in dying on your feet. Let the hustle not bury the hustler. Let our men live to enjoy the fruit of their sweat.
