The Child Labor Dilemma
📷: Fortune I have always been against children working; and by working, I don’t mean house chores. I believe that children shouldn’t have to hustle or work for the upkeep of their families. I want a world where children are allowed to have their childhood, to go through the motions of finding themselves, to have puppy love and then formulate principles for their adulthood. This is because ‘adulting’ is hard and a lifetime work. I want children to enjoy their childhood before adulthood comes a-knocking. But in the last few weeks, I have been having some dilemma about this view. I met two young brothers aged 14 and 12. I will call them John and Doe. Their parents are what you will tag as below-average Nigerians. They are not exactly pit-poor but life is hard for them. Their mother is a food vendor while their father works for a cross-country transportation agency as a driver. John and Doe attend a State-owned secondary school and from their speech, I know the school isn’t doing much good for them. Their school has the Day and Afternoon style popular among state-owned schools. What this means is that John goes to school in the morning from 8am to about 1pm while Doe goes to school from 1pm to about 5pm. This schedule changes every two weeks, allowing the boys to switch sessions. I was told that they went to an ageing man who lives alone and offered their services to him; sweeping the compound and fetching water. They did this on their own, without being forced by their parents or even asked to do so. The old man accepted their offer and from what I gathered, is paying them a reasonable sum of money. All they have to do is sweep his compound daily and fetch water once every week. When John has to be in school in the morning, Doe does the work and when Doe goes to school in the morning, John does the work. I asked John about his family and he explained all these to me. I asked if they shared the money they made when the other is off to school and John told me that they gave whatever they made to their mother who in turn bought things for them. Here is my dilemma. Nigeria has adopted the International Labor Standards on Child Labor which allows the minimum age for employment or work to be at 15 (or 13 for light work). Doe is 12 so already he doesn’t fit into the law and though John is covered by the law, I am still worried. Yes, the work they are doing is light work and it isn’t much different from what any kid their age does at home. And yes, they went to seek out employment by themselves and are not in any way forced to do the job and their work in no way affects their schooling but….I am worried. If I have my way, no kid will work until they are 15 and even at that, it would be very light work. This is the reason why I wrote the article, CHILDREN SHOULD NOT HUSTLE. In fact, I abhor child labor so much that I don’t buy anything from child hawkers. This may seem mean but I believe if we all did the same, parents would have no other option than to keep their children at home and away from the dangers of hawking. I know the situation can best be described as ‘lose-lose’ but I really don’t like children hustling. Whichever path I choose, I always end up feeling guilty. But these kids have chosen to work to help augment what their parents are bringing in and with the current state of the Nigerian economy, every extra Naira goes a long way in helping their family. So my question is, what do you think I should do? Should I say something to the man, which may be the right thing to do but knowing that it may mean these boys suffer in this harsh economy or should I remain quiet, knowing that they are being treated fairly by their employer and their family definitely needs the extra cash? So over to you…if you were me, what would you do?
Children Should Not Hustle!
Young girl hawking sachet water.Image: The Guardian The little girl ran up to me, somehow balancing the crate of boiled eggs on her head and trying to keep her falling wrapper in place. Her feet were clad with slippers that were well worn and designed with holes. She couldn’t have been more than eight years old and as she reached me, the smell of her unwashed body repulsed me more than she could have imagined. As she raised her head to ask if I wanted the eggs, I had a full view of her face. She was made up, with a haphazard line taking center stage on her brows. Her eye pencil was dripping, making her lower lid look heavy. Her powder was in patches, with more shades of grey on her dark skin than there was on a wiped chalkboard. Her pouty lips were made more so with the red lipstick she wore and the very black liner she used to line her lips. She was wearing a torn Hijab made of a print material. The Hijab was bunched at her shoulders as she held the tray that held the crate. Her skirt was a different print from her top though they were similar in one way; they were both threadbare, dirty and reflected just how poor she was. I took all these in as she advertised her eggs. The makeup, dirty clothes, torn slippers and the over coat of unwashed funk all reflected one thing: poverty. In one glance, I could tell that this young girl was forced into child labor. It didn’t take Einstein to figure out that this little girl was doing this to make money for her family. She was probably going to walk up and down the town in her quest to sell the eggs. The more eggs she sold, the more likely her chances of eating something that night. If she returned the eggs home, she was most likely going to sleep hungry. As I continued to look at her, imaginations of how hungry she might be kept flicking through my mind. Though her smell repulsed me, I was drawn to her in a way that was against my personal principle. I was torn. A common sight in many African communities if the presence of child hawkers who are working to sustain their families.Image: Signal You see, when I was in primary school, I had a teacher called Mrs. Williams. She died. But before she did, she had imparted so much in me that I owe some of my life’s principles to her. She urged us always to be the best and always had little quips that stayed with us; with me. On one of such occasions, after a field trip to the airport, she said something that stayed with me till this very moment. As the school bus slowed at a traffic jam, some children ran up to it to display their wares. From candy popularly called ‘alewa’ to groundnuts and what not, these kids had enough to attract our attention. Many kids started pulling out their lunch money to get things and only refrained when Mrs. Williams bellowed. Thankfully, the traffic jam lessened and we got going. That was not before we saw the disappointed looks on the faces of the children as they saw us go. We had been their hope for some money but Mrs. Williams crushed that hope. I was, for the first time in my young life, furious at her. When we got to school, I was still furious. As we settled into our seats in class, Mrs. Williams demanded our attention. When she got it, she started teaching us about child labor and abuse. She told us it was wrong to send kids to the streets to hawk. She asked how we felt knowing our mates were hawking on the streets and highways when we were in class, learning and getting an education. In truth, we didn’t understand what she was saying – we were just in primary three – but the passion with which she spoke hit me. The message I got that day was that children shouldn’t work when they should be in school. As little as I was, I felt bad that I could afford to be in school while others were out there fending for themselves and their families. I really cannot remember if that was when I made the choice to never buy something from a kid but I know that as I grew up, my resolve strengthened. My ideology was that, as long as we buy things from kids, we were also promoting child labor. I felt that if children went home every night without selling anything, then their parents would be wise about sending them to the streets. At that time, all of these made great sense to me. As I grew older, I realized that the ideology I had was hard to keep, especially as child labor came closer to home. A close friend of mine, whom I will call Williams, had to work to make ends meet. Williams came from a comfortable family. He had two brothers and one sister. They had most of what they wanted. They ate right, dressed well and even went to good private schools. The fairy bubble burst when his father lost his job after the Kaduna textiles closed down. They were tiding over until they just couldn’t keep up the pretext anymore. They had to move to a much smaller house and even sell most of their stuff. After a while, his father travelled to find work and was not heard from for months. They had absolutely no idea where he was or even if he was alive. His mum had to pick up the mantle of leadership to keep the family going. She got a job working as a cleaner in a school where the pay was barely enough to cover utility bills. Gradually, they had to be pulled
