Nigeria’s economy is held in a familiar, tense stalemate. The Petroleum and Natural Gas Senior Staff Association of Nigeria (PENGASSAN) has embarked on a nationwide strike, shutting down key oil and gas installations in a dramatic confrontation with the Dangote Petroleum Refinery, Africa’s largest single-train refinery. This dispute, alleging the unlawful dismissal of over 800 workers for unionising, is more than a simple labour grievance; it is a microcosm of the profound struggle defining Nigerian trade unionism in the 21st century. It encapsulates the movement’s enduring power, its escalating economic consequences, and its looming crisis of relevance in a rapidly changing economy.
This battle forces a national reckoning with a fundamental question: can a movement born in the crucible of colonial exploitation evolve to meet the challenges of a modern, diversified Nigeria, or will it remain a powerful but polarising force, defending the interests of a privileged few at a growing cost to the many?
The Power of Disruption: A Weapon Forged in History
The current standoff is a testament to the formidable power Nigerian unions have wielded for over a century. From the first recorded strike in 1897 to the formation of the monolithic Nigeria Labour Congress (NLC) in 1978, the labour movement has been a central actor in the nation’s socio-economic drama. Its primary weapon, the industrial strike, is a tool honed through battles against colonial rule and successive military and civilian governments.
In the Dangote dispute, PENGASSAN’s tactics are classic and potent. By withdrawing services and halting crude and gas supplies to the refinery, the union targets the jugular of the Nigerian economy. The National Executive Council (NEC) of PENGASSAN justified its action, declaring, “The unilateral action to sack over 800 members of our Association for joining PENGASSAN is an affront to all workers in Nigeria and a deliberate violation of Nigeria’s labour laws, the Constitution, and ILO conventions.” Adopting the rallying cry, “An injury to one is an injury to all,” the union positions itself as the last line of defence for workers’ rights against corporate overreach, warning that the refinery’s alleged preference for foreign labour shows a “show of disloyalty to the country.”
This power to paralyse, however, comes with a staggering price tag—a reality starkly illustrated by historical data. An analysis of strike impacts from 2000 to 2024 reveals a clear correlation between major industrial action and economic stagnation. Years with significant strikes, such as 2003, 2012, and the projected 15-day action in 2024, consistently coincide with suppressed GDP growth. The current action, occurring against a backdrop of an already anemic economy struggling to achieve 3% growth, risks inflicting a “debilitating wound” on the nation’s economic stability.
The Double-Edged Sword: Economic Justice vs. Economic Sabotage
The PENGASSAN strike perfectly embodies the “double-edged sword” of Nigerian unionism. For its supporters, it is a necessary fight for economic justice. For its detractors, it is an act of economic sabotage.
From the perspective of workers like Jumoke Ogunjana, an Admin Officer in the oil sector, this pressure is essential. “Unions affected my life positively in my early career because the pressure they provided shaped the oil industry into what it is now – in terms of job security and remunerations,” she notes. This view is echoed by Charles Oni, a Process Engineer, who states that unions are crucial for “wage negotiations and severance discussions and in securing more long term benefits.”
However, the opposing narrative, championed by the Dangote Group and its allies, frames the strike as a dangerous overreach. The refinery management has condemned PENGASSAN’s actions as a “brazen, shocking display of lawlessness and criminality,” accusing the union of deploying “terror tactics.” They pose a poignant question to the public: “Would that justify holding over 230 million Nigerians to ransom by cutting off their essential supplies of petroleum products—kerosene, cooking gas, petrol, diesel, aviation fuel, amongst others?”
This sentiment is reinforced by economic analysts like Ken Ife, who warns, “My advice to labour is: don’t join a fight you cannot win. Don’t try to destroy a refinery that is systemic, strategic, and that protects national interests.” Civil society organisations have echoed this, labelling the refinery a “strategic national asset” and arguing that to hold it hostage for union politics is “unacceptable.”
This conflict highlights a painful cycle: economic pressure sparks union action, which disrupts the economy, further fuelling the pressures that sparked the action in the first place. The data reveals this through the lens of inflation. Successful wage agreements often contribute to “wage-push inflation,” where increased labour costs are passed on to consumers. The surge in inflation to a projected 33.7% in 2024, following periods of intense labour agitation, suggests that union victories can inadvertently erode the purchasing power they seek to secure, creating a vicious cycle that hurts the very workers they represent and the millions more outside their fold.
The Representation Gap: A Looming Crisis of Relevance
The most profound challenge for Nigerian unions, however, is not the immediate conflict with employers, but a deep structural weakness revealed by demographic data. The story told by the labour force statistics is one of a vast, silent majority left behind. The informal sector constitutes a staggering 85% of the Nigerian workforce—street vendors, artisans, and subsistence farmers who operate entirely without union protection or formal safety nets.
This means that the powerful actions of PENGASSAN and the NLC are undertaken on behalf of a tiny, albeit strategic, minority. Only 7% of the entire Nigerian labour force are unionised workers. This creates a stark paradox: how can a group representing just 7% of workers be one of the most powerful political and economic forces in the nation? The answer lies in their concentration in critical sectors like oil and gas, but it also highlights a profound “representation gap.”
This gap is keenly felt by a new generation of Nigerian professionals. Chidinma Okeke, a Software Developer, captures this sentiment: “As someone in tech, I’ve never been part of a union… Tech thrives on stability, but Nigeria is seen as volatile because every sector seems capable of shutting down suddenly. That doesn’t encourage foreign firms to outsource here.” She issues a prescient warning: “As Nigeria transitions into a digital and gig-driven economy, unions will need to evolve. Otherwise, new worker movements may rise outside traditional structures to represent us.”
The voices from other sectors reinforce this. Dr. Aisha Sule, a University Lecturer, acknowledges the protective role of unions like ASUU but laments their limited scope. “On informal workers, I don’t see unions doing much. Artisans, contract lecturers, and adjunct staff are rarely represented.” Samuel Oladipo, a Nurse, adds, “Caregivers who work in informal clinics or home-based nurses are not part of the conversation.”
The Path Forward: Evolution or Irrelevance?
The PENGASSAN-Dangote confrontation is therefore a critical inflection point. It demonstrates that the old model of Nigerian unionism—reliant on the disruptive power of a strategic minority—remains potent. Yet, it also exposes its limitations and growing costs.
The future relevance of the labour movement hinges on its ability to navigate this duality. It must continue its essential role as a watchdog and defender of workers’ rights, but it must also evolve beyond the confrontational strike-as-a-primary-tool model. As the data and personal testimonies show, the path forward must involve expanding its focus.
Unions must develop strategies to encompass the vast informal sector and adapt to represent workers in the growing tech and gig economies. They must broaden their advocacy beyond wage disputes to include policies that improve overall economic stability, such as investment in infrastructure and social safety nets that benefit all Nigerians, not just their formal sector members.
The double-edged sword must be wielded with greater precision. The fight for justice for 800 workers at the Dangote Refinery is a legitimate one, but it cannot be pursued in a vacuum, blind to the plight of the 85% in the informal economy and the need for broader national stability. For Nigerian unionism to survive and thrive, it must transform from a guardian of a privileged enclave into a true champion for all of Nigeria’s workers. If it cannot bridge this representative divide, it risks winning historic battles while losing the war for the future of the Nigerian workforce.
