•…where hailing, begging are official business
Some call it respect. Others call it hustling. For a large number of them, it has become a way of life. SEGUN ADEBAYO delves into the world of Nigeria’s “Tuale industry” where men ‘hail’ other people for a living.
IT was an ordinary mid-morning on a popular Lagos radio programme when a woman called in. Her voice heavy with frustration, she spoke of the rising cost of living, of how feeding her four children had become a daily struggle.
She had no business to sustain her and her husband, whom she said was “irresponsible.” The presenter, seeking clarity, asked the obvious question: “You said your husband was irresponsible; what does he do for a living?”
Her answer was as surprising as it was revealing. “Ise Tuale ni won nse” loosely translated as he is into Tuale business.
In Nigeria’s urban slang, “tuale” means a salute to give respect, often performed with a little bow, raised hands, or verbal hailing. But in the gritty realities of street life, “tuale business” is something different. It is an informal hustle where able-bodied men station themselves at bus stops, junctions, or major roadsides, waiting for any sign of prosperity to roll by in the form of a neat car.
While some of the boys lay the blame for their situation squarely on the poor state of the economy, others believe it is simply a matter of fate that life has not dealt them the same cards as those who found an easier path. For many, it was a chain of circumstances beyond their control that forced them into this kind of hustle.
Life, for them, has been a mix of grit and heartbreak. Fairness is a privilege they can’t claim to have enjoyed, but surrendering to hopelessness is a luxury they refuse to embrace. Every day, they step into the open heat, armed with only 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 glamour or riches. They want just enough to live decently, to keep themselves fed, and to send something home to ageing parents or siblings in school. But they seem unhappy that the society that should understand their struggle often frowns on it, branding them with stereotypes that strip their hustle of any nobility.
Their stage is not the polished streets of affluence, but the asphalt and sometimes potholed roads that crisscross the many states. 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, the Osun State capital, they work the lanes with the same energy and hope.
Take Sanni, for instance, a 28-year-old with a voice that can cut through the roar of danfo engines. He once worked at a big bakery in Sanyo, Ibadan, until the day the place went up in flames. The owner accused the workers of negligence, locked them up for hours until the police intervened, and shut down the bakery for good. Since then, Sanni has been at Ojoo roundabout, making a living one blessing at a time.
Also speaking with Sunday Tribune, another young man who gave his name as Kunle, said he came to Akure with dreams of joining a friend’s car wash business at Alagbaka area of the town. By the time he arrived, the business had folded, and rent was already swallowing his savings. He took to the road, finding in the “Tuale” hustle a way to keep himself afloat. “It’s not the life I imagined,” he says, “but at least I’m not stealing.”
They weave between idling cars, clear a path through the chaos of traffic, and sometimes knock gently on tinted windows to get the sympathy of affluent road users. Their words are quick and rhythmic in heaping praises, blessings and exaggerated salutations on any perceived rich motorists.
For the “Tuale boys,” 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 exchange, a driver’s hand will 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.
It is a hustle 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.
It’s not the life I wanted, Ola’s shares his story
It was a humid Tuesday morning at the bustling Mile 2–Orile corridor, a man in his mid 30s, who gave his name as Ola leaned on a battered traffic pole, his shirt clinging to his back with sweat. He wore a once-white polo shirt now faded to cream, with a tear along the collar, and a pair of jeans rolled up at the ankles to keep it from dragging in the muddy roadside water. A stick of chewing gum moved slowly between his teeth as his eyes scanned every approaching vehicle.
As Sunday Tribune approached him for a brief conversation, it was immediately clear he wasn’t in the mood to talk. He was locked in a heated exchange with another man, their voices raised and hands gesturing sharply. Snippets of their conversation revealed the source of the tension; it was simply about money collected from road users earlier.
Each accused the other of mishandling the funds, insisting they had kept proper records. The argument drew curious glances from passersby, and from their tense expressions, it was obvious neither of them was willing to back down.
It took several minutes of persuasion before Ola agreed to speak with Sunday Tribune. When he finally did, it felt less like an interview and more like an unburdening as though he had been looking for someone to truly listen to him.
Surprisingly, before talking as first feared, he didn’t ask for any ‘raba’ or ‘tips’ as they say in local parlance; he simply wanted to set the record straight and get back to his spot on the roadside. Even as he spoke, his gaze kept darting toward oncoming traffic, watching for motorists to hail, wary of missing the next chance to collect a tip.
“This tuale work… it’s not the life I wanted,” he said finally, his voice low. “I’ve done security job before. I’ve carried block on sites. But the jobs keep ending. Rent dey wait for nobody. Children need to eat.”
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.”
The mental toll, he admits, is harder than the physical strain. “When you hail people and they ignore you like you’re not there, you start to think maybe you’re useless.” He was quick to note that giving up on the street is an injustice to him and those who look up to him.
“Things are tough out here. I don’t think anybody likes to get involved in this kind of hustle but you can’t rest. There is a particular phrase I like to use, never rest, and never settle.”
Life happened to me — Semiu Abass
Not far away from Excellence Hotel to Area G in Ogba Area of Lagos, Semiu Abass, stood barefoot, shoveling sand into a pothole while a small crowd of commuters shuffled past. Sweat streamed down his temples, soaking the neckline of his green and yellow striped football jersey.
Abass is not an uneducated man. According to him, he once sat in lecture halls at Lagos State Polytechnic, where he earned an Ordinary National Diploma (OND) in Business Administration. “I thought I would work in an office,” he said with a weary smile. “But after school, nothing came. I tried selling recharge cards, running errands. Then life happened. I couldn’t just sit at home.”
Now married with two children, 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.”
The Ibadan hustlers…
This scene is not unique to Lagos alone. In Ibadan, it plays out with its own distinct flavour, 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.
Along BCGA-Ojurin, spilling into the Apata and Gbekuba axis, a different breed of “tuale boys” holds sway. They are quick with their greetings, half in jest, half in expectation as they would usually blend charm with persistence.
Their eyes scan the crowd, not just for potential givers but for a hint of recognition. Each location with its own set of characters of young men with nicknames as funny as their banter, moving with the street’s pulse, creating a living and merely surviving on the goodwill of passersby.
By day, they race after cars much like their Lagos counterparts, calling out greetings, clearing paths through the crowded road, and praising drivers in booming voices.
But here, there’s an additional layer, they want to establish relationships. Sunday Tribune discovered that if you’re a motorist who has been generous before, they remember you. In fact, they make it their business to.
At night or during the day, if they spot you without your car, they ensure you’re safe. They will wave down a trusted okada rider, negotiate a fair price, and see you off like a personal escort.
Speaking with Sunday Tribune about their modus operandi along this axis, a man who many people refer to as Tobi Mighty, simply put it this way “It’s our way of paying back. If you don give us before, we must show say we remember.”
We are not wild but useful, resourceful
Interacting with them also revealed how they are often dismissed by many people as street idlers, end up becoming informal guardians of the spaces they occupy. Their presence alone can deter petty thieves. And while this is far from the structured work they once hoped for, it is still a way to stay useful, visible, and part of a community.
Beneath the sprawling shadow of Beere’s busy roundabout, Lanko braces himself lazily against a scarred concrete post, a silent observer of danfos, okadas, and hurried footsteps threading the midday traffic. The brim of his sun-faded cap hides most of his expression. His shirt, marked with the ghostly remains of a long-forgotten political slogan, drapes over the ragged hems of his cargo short.
Around him, the air is thick with the overlapping sounds of street traders calling out their wares, bus conductors barking destinations, and the impatient blare of horns. The scent of roasted corn drifts in from a nearby roadside grill, mixing with the tang of exhaust fumes.
Getting him to talk took some persuasion. “Wo we no too like talk to press people,” he mutters at first, almost dismissively. But after a long pause and a few moments of quiet observation, he begins to speak, his tone steady but tinged with a weary honesty.
“This job. It’s not what most of us wanted. Some of us have learned mechanic work, some were okada riders before, some even finish school. But when nothing dey, you have to do something.”
He spoke 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.”
Lanko’s philosophy is simple but striking. “Life isn’t balance,” he said with a shrug. “But the society has to be balanced. Everybody can’t do 9-5 job. Some will have to be here, making the ecosystem go round. We may not wear tie, but this place no go run smooth without us.”
At Mokola, one of Ibadan’s busiest commercial centres, the traffic never seems to slow with buses edging forward in tight lines, taxi drivers calling out destinations, and traders weaving through gaps with goods balanced on their heads and they hands. In the middle of it all was Lukman Adigun who moves with steady purpose, greeting familiar faces and helping passengers with their bags, and guiding vehicles into cramped spaces.
During a friendly conversation with Sunday Tribune, Lukman recalled he once worked in a small printing shop near Ogunpa, and ran deliveries for customers but the job ended abruptly when the landlord sold the building and the owner closed the business. He noted that he tried other printing houses, but the pay barely covered transport, and the hours left him drained.
One afternoon, he said he visited a friend who sells belts by the roadside, and was told to try helping people load goods and find their buses. The first day, he said, he made enough for a meal and transport back home. By the end of the week, he realised it could keep him afloat.
“It is not a hustle per se; it is just a way of life for me. I know how hard life has been but I am getting by day by day. This is why I have refused to settle down and start a family because it will be suicidal for me and the innocent wife and child. Right now, I am surviving and getting to sort myself out gradually.”
The road teaches you life —A Mokola okada rider’s view
In Ibadan’s Mokola area, motorcycles buzz like angry bees between cars and yellow buses. Among them is Abdulwahab, a wiry okada rider with a face browned by sun and wind.
“I see those boys every day,” he says, pausing to adjust the strap of his helmet. “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.”
My faith tells me to work —Sola Fagbemi’s story
At a junction in St Stephen area of Ibadan, Sola Fagbemi, a soft-spoken man in a neatly pressed shirt explained why he has resisted joining the tuale trade despite months of unemployment. A devout Jehovah’s Witness, he says his faith guides his choices.
“My belief teaches that a man should work with his own hands, doing honest things,” Sola said. “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.”
Still, he admitted that desperation can blur principles. “If my children are hungry and there is no other way… only God knows what I might do.”
‘What it feels like to be married to ‘tuale men’
At a busy roadside near Abule Egba, the sweet smell of roasting corn pulls customers toward Mummy Fareed’s stand. She works the embers with a worn piece of cardboard, the smoke curling gently around her face as she flips the cobs. Her husband has been a “tuale” man for six years.
“We are all trying to survive,” she said with a shrug, eyes fixed on the roasting corn. “He stands on the road, I stand here. It’s the same thing calling to strangers, hoping they will give you money for your service. His own is hailing, my own is selling.”
When asked if she wishes he had a different job, she lets out a soft laugh. “If there was work, he would do it. But until then, we do what we can. Hunger no dey know whether na tuale or na office work bring the food.”
Inside the bustling Challenge Bus Terminus in Ibadan, the air hums with shouts, engine roars, and the clatter of hurried footsteps. Mariam sat on a low wooden bench outside her POS kiosk, peeling oranges with practiced ease.
Just a few steps away, her husband, Shola, is at his post, one of the “tuale men” whose job is to hail passengers, calling out routes in a mix of slang and streetwise persuasion. He has been at it for over a decade, a familiar voice in the chaos of Challenge.
“Some people laugh at him,” Mariam said, pausing as a conductor’s voice rises above the din. “But they don’t know the truth: the money he brings home is what feeds our children.”
Shola told Sunday Tribune that the work is more than just shouting destinations. “You have to read people,” he explained with a grin. “One glance and you know if they’re rushing, if they’re confused, or if they’ll just walk past. The right slang can pull them in.”
Before he joined the “tuale” hustle, Shola said he worked as a security guard at a private school. The pay was small, but steady until the pandemic forced the school to close. “We waited for another job, but nothing came,” Mariam recalled. “It was a friend who told him to try the junction. those first three weeks, he came back with more than his monthly salary from the school.”
Mariam is no stranger to the grind. Her kiosk doubles as a fruit stand, and she has regular customers who stop by for a quick transaction or a bag of fresh oranges.
Still, it is far from an easy life. The hours are long, the income unpredictable, and the treatment from some drivers and passengers can be harsh. Mariam said she has learnt to swallow the insults and focus on the bigger picture. “Every hustle gets insult,” she says.
Tuale men are not lazy but…
Across country, especially in low-income communities, 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.
Speaking with Sunday Tribune, a public commentator and founder of Laplace Institue, Yinka Adegoke, said the “tuale” economy, like other informal survivalist hustles, may provide short-term relief, but it offers no path to stability. He noted that for many men and women in this category, the discussions on family planning remain muted and clouded by cultural taboos, religious restrictions, and lack of access to affordable contraception.
“To dismiss these men as lazy is to miss part of the picture. For many, ‘tuale’ is not a choice born of idleness but of desperation. Formal jobs are scarce, vocational training is often unaffordable, and the cost of starting a legitimate micro-business can be prohibitive. With few options, they fall back on what they know, the art of public praise, the gamble of street generosity.
“Until we address the root causes, including unemployment, lack of skills, and unplanned parenthood ‘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,” he added.
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