“She Feeds The Family Now”: Inside Nigeria’s Quiet Revolution Of Female Breadwinners

By FATIMA HUSSAINI

IN a modest two-bedroom apartment in Kubwa, Abuja, 36-year-old Ngozi ties her apron and heads out to her food stall. Her husband, once a taxi driver, sits quietly in the living room, scrolling through his phone.

Before the pandemic, he paid the rent and handled household bills. Today, Ngozi does it all — rent, food, and school fees.

“Life turned upside down after COVID,” she says. “My husband’s income collapsed, and he hasn’t recovered since the fuel subsidy was removed. I started selling food to survive. But sometimes, he feels ashamed — he says people laugh that I’m the one feeding him.”

Ngozi’s story is no anomaly. Across Nigeria, the traditional idea of the male breadwinner is crumbling. The shocks of COVID-19, fuel subsidy removal, and soaring inflation have redrawn gender lines, thrusting millions of women into the role of primary providers — and reshaping family life in profound ways.

THE ECONOMIC EARTHQUAKE

When COVID-19 struck in 2020, Nigeria lost nearly 20 million jobs, according to the National Bureau of Statistics. Men, who dominate formal sectors such as transport, banking, and construction, were hit hardest.

Women, on the other hand, pivoted quickly into the informal economy — selling food, tailoring, running small shops, freelancing online.

“Women are more flexible and adaptive,” notes Dr. Francis Ogundipe, economist at the University of Ibadan. “When formal jobs vanish, they find alternatives faster. It’s survival by innovation.”

Then came 2023. The removal of fuel subsidies sent transport fares and food prices skyrocketing. Inflation surpassed 30% by 2025. Household incomes collapsed — and many men, unable to cope, fell out of work entirely.

At Wuse Market in Abuja, women now dominate. “I sell pepper and okro,” says Fatima Mohammed, a widow with four children. “But even married women are doing this now. Their husbands stay home — no job, no money. If we don’t sell, our children won’t eat.”

From Makurdi to Lagos, the stories echo the same refrain: women are carrying the family. “My husband lost his bank job during COVID,” says Grace Oche, a tailor. “Now my sewing feeds us. Sometimes I feel proud; sometimes I fear he resents me.”

MEN IN TRANSITION

For many men, the shift has been emotionally devastating. Nigerian culture ties masculinity tightly to provision — and losing that role feels like losing one’s worth.

“I feel useless,” admits Ibrahim, a former mechanic in Kano. “My wife sells food to feed us. People laugh — they say I’m the woman now.”

Psychologist Dr. Ifeoma Umeh warns that many men are spiraling into depression, anger, or substance abuse. “They were taught that dignity comes from providing,” she says. “When that collapses, so does their identity.”

Domestic tension is also rising. “My husband contributes nothing but still wants to control everything,” says Amaka, a civil servant in Enugu. “When I ask for help, he shouts, ‘I’m still the man of the house!’ But I’m the one paying the bills.”

Counsellors in Abuja report more cases of domestic violence, often linked to financial insecurity and wounded pride.

Yet, amid the turmoil, some couples are finding new balance. Kunle, a former bank clerk in Kuje, now helps manage his wife’s catering business. “At first I was ashamed,” he admits. “But now, we run it together — she cooks, I handle accounts and deliveries. We’re partners, not competitors.”

FAITH AND CULTURE UNDER PRESSURE

Even religious and cultural institutions are being forced to adapt. Sermons now regularly address shifting roles.

“In church, we tell men — if your wife is the one God is using now, thank Him,” says Pastor Tunde Alabi in Lagos. “Leadership is not just about money; it’s about love and support.”

In the north, Sheikh Musa Abdullahi echoes a similar tone: “Provision is important, but it’s not the only measure of manhood. Hard times test patience and unity.”

Still, government policy has been slow to catch up. Women dominate the informal economy but remain largely excluded from credit, social protection, and empowerment schemes.

“Subsidy removal hit women hardest,” says Dr. Hadiza Ibrahim, a gender policy researcher. “Yet most palliatives don’t reach them. We need childcare support, microcredit for traders, retraining for jobless men, and campaigns that normalize shared breadwinning.”

A SOCIAL TRANSFORMATION

Across Africa, women’s labour participation is rising, but Nigeria’s transformation is particularly rapid — and profound.

“This is more than economics; it’s a social revolution,” says Prof. Adeyemi Adigun of the University of Lagos. “Families are being redefined. If we don’t adapt — culturally, emotionally, and policy-wise — the fallout could be severe: depression, divorce, or social unrest.”

Back in Kubwa, Ngozi closes her food stall and packs up unsold rice and beans. Her husband helps load them into the car. When they arrive home, their children run to hug her first.

“Sometimes I wish things were like before,” she says quietly. “But I thank God for strength. For now, I’m the breadwinner — and that’s okay.”

Across Nigeria, women like Ngozi are rewriting the script of survival — one meal, one market stall, one paycheck at a time.

It’s not just a moment of resilience.

It’s a silent revolution — one reshaping families, gender, and the very meaning of strength in a nation still finding its balance.