Twelve years of shattered promises. Twelve years of bureaucratic sabotage. Twelve years of watching comrades perish in poverty.
For 50,000 former employees of the defunct Power Holding Company of Nigeria (PHCN), the struggle to reclaim their severance benefits has been a harrowing odyssey of systemic neglect, corporate conspiracies, and institutionalized betrayal.
Their story is not just about unpaid dues, it is a damning indictment of a nation’s broken covenant with its citizens.
The Genesis of Despair
In 2013, the PHCN was privatized, and its workforce was abruptly disbanded with assurances of a “fair and timely” severance package. These promises, however, dissolved into a labyrinth of deceit. The Federal Government, through the Bureau of Public Enterprises (BPE), pledged to settle entitlements including gratuity, pensions, insurance, and post-retirement training allowances. Instead, workers were left stranded, their livelihoods auctioned off in a privatization marred by greed and opacity.
“They swore our sacrifices would be honored,” said Mr. Stanley Ilumah, President of the Association of Former Staff of PHCN. “Instead, we were discarded like obsolete machinery.”
Conspiracies Unveiled: The Theft of Dignity
The first blow came with underpayments. Despite the Sunmonu Panel, a government-appointed committee tasked with resolving labor disputes, recommending a payment template, the BPE unilaterally jettisoned the agreement. This deliberate sabotage resulted in workers receiving fractions of their dues, plunging thousands into destitution.
A more insidious scheme emerged: a **2% deduction** from the severance packages of all 50,000 workers, siphoned to two in-house unions under the guise of “post-privatization struggle funds.” This amounted to **₦7.5 billion**, a staggering theft sanctioned by those entrusted to protect workers’ interests. “It was a calculated plunder,” said union leader Tunde Owolabi. “They starved us into silence while lining their pockets.”
The Human Toll: Graves Dug by Poverty
The financial toll, over ₦2.3 billion owed, pales against the human devastation. Families have been shattered; dreams of education, healthcare, and dignity reduced to ash. “Many of our members die daily,” lamented Mr. Yinka Adeyemo, spokesperson for the ex-PHCN workers. “We bury them in borrowed clothes, their graves marked by unpaid bills.”
Grace Okon, a widow whose husband succumbed to illness while awaiting justice, wept: “He worked 30 years for light that never came. Now, his children study under kerosene lamps.” Mental health crises fester in silence, with reports of depression and suicide among those once hailed as nation-builders.
Legal Charades and Empty Promises
Despite fleeting victories, justice remains elusive. A 2019 court order mandating payment was suspended under dubious appeals. “The law is clear, but justice is buried in loopholes,” argued human rights lawyer Femi Adekoya. Protests at the National Assembly yielded hollow reassurances. “They called us ‘greedy,’” spat retiree Yusuf Ibrahim. “But who is greedier, the starving worker or the thief in a suit?”
Even the Sunmonu Panel’s recommendations, meant to be a lifeline, were weaponized against the workers. The BPE’s refusal to honour the agreed templates exemplifies a bureaucracy rigged to suffocate hope.
A Nation’s Conscience on Trial
Today, the ex-PHCN workers stand as living ghosts, haunted by a nation that sold their futures for privatization dividends. Their plight mirrors systemic rot: unions colluding with power brokers, agencies subverting accountability, and a government deaf to cries for mercy.
“They hoped we’d fade away,” said Adeola Martins, a former technician. “But our tears have turned to iron. We will outlast their corruption.”
A Call to Redemption
To President Bola Tinubu and the National Assembly: How many more graves must be dug before you act? How many more families must beg for scraps? These workers are not statistics—they are fathers, mothers, and patriots who powered Nigeria’s progress.
As Martin Luther King Jr. declared,
“The time is always ripe to do right.”
Twelve years is too late, but not too late for redemption. Restore their dues. Honor their sacrifice.
“We built this nation’s light,” Ilumah declared, his voice trembling with resolve. “Now, we demand our share of dawn.”
By Damilola Omosebi
This article is a mirror to Nigeria’s soul. Share it. Amplify it. Demand justice. The clock ticks for us all.
