Inside the World of Tuale Operators

The Unseen Hustle of Nigeria’s “Tuale” Industry

In the bustling streets of Nigeria, where the air is thick with the sounds of honking horns and the scent of street food, a unique form of survival has emerged. Known as the “Tuale industry,” this informal hustle involves men who hail passing vehicles in exchange for small amounts of money. While some view it as a way to earn a living, others see it as a symbol of desperation and societal neglect.

The story begins with a woman on a Lagos radio program, frustrated by her inability to provide for her four children. When asked about her husband's occupation, she revealed that he was involved in the “Tuale business.” In Nigerian slang, “tuale” refers to a respectful greeting, often involving a bow or raised hands. However, in the context of street life, it has taken on a different meaning. These men stand at bus stops, junctions, or major roadsides, hoping to catch the attention of affluent motorists who might offer them a few coins.

For many, this hustle is not a choice but a necessity. Some blame the poor state of the economy, while others believe their circumstances are a result of fate. Life for these individuals is a mix of grit and heartbreak, with no guarantee of fairness. Yet, they refuse to succumb to hopelessness. Each day, they step into the heat, relying on their voices, wit, and the hope that someone will acknowledge them.

Sunday Tribune’s findings revealed that most of these young men are not chasing wealth or glamour. They simply want enough to live decently, feed themselves, and send something home to aging parents or siblings in school. However, society often frowns upon their struggle, labeling them with stereotypes that strip their hustle of any nobility.

Their work spans from the busy roundabouts of Ibadan to the traffic-choked junctions of Akure, from the roadside stretches of Abeokuta to the buzzing motor parks of Osogbo. Each location has its own set of characters, with young men using charm and persistence to attract potential givers.

Sanni, a 28-year-old man, once worked at a bakery in Sanyo, Ibadan, until it burned down. Since then, he has been at Ojoo roundabout, making a living one blessing at a time. Kunle, another young man, came to Akure with dreams of joining a car wash business, only to find it had folded. He turned to the “Tuale” hustle as a way to keep himself afloat.

These men weave between idling cars, clear paths through traffic, and sometimes knock gently on tinted windows to gain the sympathy of affluent road users. Their words are quick and rhythmic, filled with praises, blessings, and exaggerated salutations on any perceived rich motorists. The aim is simple: spark a moment of generosity before the light changes or the driver finds a way to inch forward.

On a good day, a driver’s hand may slide a window down just far enough for a folded note to pass through. Usually, it’s N100 or N200, sometimes more if luck smiles. A good day can feed them and still leave something for home. On bad days, they count their losses and miss meals.

This hustle is born of necessity, sustained by resilience, and misunderstood by many who will never know the weight of having the world see you, but never truly look at you. Yet, for Sanni, Kunle, and countless others, the road remains both their workplace and their last resort, a place where survival is earned one blessing at a time.

Ola, a man in his mid-30s, shared his story at the bustling Mile 2–Orile corridor. He leaned on a battered traffic pole, his shirt clinging to his back with sweat. His eyes scanned every approaching vehicle, watching for motorists to hail. For Ola, what stings more than the inconsistency of income is the perception. “Sometimes police go just stop us, say they dey look for suspect. If anything happen for this area, na us them go first carry.”

Semiu Abass, a former student at Lagos State Polytechnic, now stands barefoot, shoveling sand into a pothole. He calls his tuale hustle “a means of survival, not a career.” But the stigma is heavy. “Some people think we’re louts. Some even cross the road when they see us. But they don’t know that sometimes this is the only way we eat.”

In Ibadan, the scene plays out with its own distinct flavor, stretching across familiar routes and bustling junctions. From the chaotic swirl of Iwo Road to the restless hum of Gate, and from the historic heart of Beere down through Challenge, up to the ever-busy Molete, the rhythm is the same but the faces and voices are different.

Lanko, a man at Beere’s busy roundabout, speaks about the dangers. “Many of my colleagues have been framed for crimes they didn’t do. Some have even been killed in police raids. People think we are wild and tout or thieves, but we know who we are and not what some people call us.”

At Mokola, one of Ibadan’s busiest commercial centres, Lukman Adigun moves with steady purpose, greeting familiar faces and helping passengers with their bags. He recalls working in a small printing shop near Ogunpa, but the job ended abruptly when the landlord sold the building and the owner closed the business. He found a new path, realizing it could keep him afloat.

Abdulwahab, an okada rider, sees those boys every day. “Some of them are lazy, yes. But many are just unlucky. Me too, I don’t have big education. If okada work no dey, I fit join them.” He insists that the hustle is about survival, not pride. “The road teaches you life. You see people who ignore you, you see those who help. That’s how you learn who is who.”

Sola Fagbemi, a devout Jehovah’s Witness, resists joining the tuale trade despite months of unemployment. “My belief teaches that a man should work with his own hands, doing honest things. I am not saying tuale is bad, but for me, it is not the path. I would rather do labour work, wash cars or anything where I am giving service in return for pay.”

Mariam, whose husband is a “tuale man,” shares her perspective. “The money he brings home is what feeds our children.” She acknowledges the challenges, but also the necessity. “Every hustle gets insult,” she says.

Across the country, a quiet crisis is unfolding. Men without steady incomes are starting families they cannot support, while women, often with little bargaining power, find themselves in cycles of childbirth and poverty. The result is a pattern: large families living in cramped conditions, struggling to afford even the basics, while the breadwinner’s “hustle” consists of unpredictable street-based interactions.

Public commentator Yinka Adegoke highlights the need to address root causes, including unemployment, lack of skills, and unplanned parenthood. “Until we address the root causes, ‘tuale business’ will remain more than a street corner curiosity. It will be a quiet, enduring symbol of a nation still struggling to match the dignity of its people with the opportunities they deserve.”