Data on workplace safety in Nigeria is hard to come by. In fact, the most recent statistics available are buried in a 2017 lecture delivered by Kemi Nelson, the former executive director of the Nigeria Social Insurance Trust Fund (NSITF), at an International Labour Organisation conference. According to Nelson, between 2012 and 2017, Nigeria recorded over 4,900 industrial accidents, an average of nearly 1,000 cases each year.

In the last 15 years, at least one of these incidents catch enough attention to make headlines, every year. One such case was that of Gbadebo Richards, a student at the University of Ibadan, who tragically lost his life in a machine accident at Henkel Industries in Oyo State.

There was Emmanuel Onuche, a worker at the Nigerian Bottling Company plant in Ikeja, Lagos, who was left blind after sustaining caustic soda burns to his eyes in 2013. Femi Olatunde, in 2019, suffered fatal injuries when he got trapped in a machine at Multipak Nigeria Limited in Lagos.

In each of these cases, the response from the companies involved has followed a similar pattern: denying responsibility, minimising the events and playing the blame game.

For instance, when Onuche accused the Nigerian Bottling Company of failing to provide protective goggles, the company denied it. After Richards’ death, Henkel had first informed his family that he had “slumped” instead of admitting that his death was work-related.

There are also those who survive but bear permanent scars. Frank Nnamdi lost all five fingers on his right hand and Abayomi Oyedeji’s right hand was severely deformed after a workplace accident that led to permanent disability. In its defence, Leoplast, the company involved in their cases, claimed that safety measures were in place but offered no explanation for how such injuries could occur.

To better understand how safety standards are handled on the ground, FIJ visited factories in Lagos, where high labour demands push both machines and workers to their limits.

ONE MINUTE ORIENTATION, SIX HOURS OF WORK AT CASCADE WATERS

Finally, I was inside KRS International, a plastic molding company on Ilupeju Industrial Layout, Lagos. For days, I had been trying my luck at different factories along the Oshodi-Apapa-Cele expressway, hoping to land a job.

Deli Foods in Ilasa had turned me down after hours of waiting, telling me and other hopefuls they weren’t hiring. At Bento near the Cele overpass, and OK Food by Guardian Newspapers, Toyota Junction, it was the same story: no openings.

So, when I arrived at KRS on November 6, I did not hesitate to appeal to my employer, a factory agent named Leke. The sun had not risen, yet a line had already formed outside the factory gates.

In the crowd, people of varying ages shuffled forward, trying to get noticed by “our employers”. Some regulars, eyes half-closed and clutching lunch sacks, moved in with familiar steps, while hopefuls like me waited.

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I expressed my eagerness to work and convinced Leke to consider me. He introduced me to another agent who I will name Baba Red, a man in a wine-coloured shirt with a trimmed moustache. Together, they assigned me to a machine, a metal contraption labelled “CSA AX1-L 2.5L”.

Leke’s crash course lasted about a minute: “Feed the bottles here, take them out there, pack them in the sack,” he instructed.

The machine was loud, occassionally releasing bellows as if it was angry. When it does that, it damages the PET fed to it and moves on to the next one. Also, part of the machine glowed with intense heat.

“Don’t put your hands here or there,” Leke repeated, pointing to spots on the machine. “Pick the bottles only from the bottom, don’t place your hand too close to the metal.”

Despite the warnings, Leke handed me no safety gloves, no ear protection, no coveralls — nothing. I looked at him hesistant. But a cursory glance around the production room taught me not to expect much. Around me, workers wore faded clothes or even shorts, like the woman who was assigned to relieve me. I looked at her and at Leke, wondering if I would be given anything protective. No one seemed to notice.

Working with Molding Machine Upclose by Timileyin Akinmoyeje

Working without any proper personal protective equipment (PPE) came with real risks. The dangers of a blow-moulding machine are not minor and manufacturers like Log Machine and Bole warn about them. The “Molding Machine Handbook” published by Springer and authored by the Rosato Trio covers these risks. Standing there, unprotected, it all felt more immediate.

Each part of the machine could injure a person in different ways. The heat alone was hazardous. Designed to melt plastic, the machine’s metal could instantly burn my skin on contact. With no eye protection, I risked being struck by plastic shards during trimming; a single wrong and strong hit could cause blindness.

Electrical shocks were a constant threat, with high-voltage wires everywhere. And then there was the ever-present danger of getting my hand caught in the machine’s clamps, leading to a crushing I didn’t want to imagine.

Every moment beside that machine felt like I was gambling with injuries I only half understood. The risks were painfully real — none of them exaggerated. I flinched every time the machine bellowed or crushed a bottle, startled by the sudden noise or the damaged plastic that came out in fragments.

Power fluctuations or mechanical issues meant I often had to clear hot, malformed plastic from the machine. These malformed plastics burned very slightly and I did not want to have to work that part for long.

Industrial accidents with moulding machines in Nigeria are not an easy find in the news. After all, it has been well-documented that industrial accidents are underreported in the country. But I had learnt of a few stand-out accidents caused by the same machine I was assigned to use, in Canada and the United States.

In 1999 for instance, a 51-year-old man was crushed to death in Canada while attempting to carry out a maintenance exercise. According to the Canadian Institute for Occupational Health, he had crossed the machine’s light curtain safety system and caused it to cycle, closing the press plates on him.

Five years later, the United States documented the case of another victim. The man was amputated from an injury he got after ignoring safety recommendations specific to the moulding machine. These were both fairly experienced workers.

All of the dangers possible from my inexperience were in mind until I got my first break at 9 am. Tomi, the lady who took over from me, wore hairnets, a blue top and shorts. She had no protective gear either, though she had earmuffs on.

Working with a Molding Machine Upclose by Timileyin Akinmoyeje

During my break, I looked around the production floor. The room was dominated by women working with various machines, each more complex than the last. Some wore hairnets or latex gloves, but complete protective outfits were rare.

The only safety measure seemed to be a fire extinguisher by the entrance, and a first aid box I later saw on my way out. Ironically, safety signs covered the walls, reminding us to wear gloves and earmuffs. One sign — my favourite, for the sheer cheekiness of it — even read, “Don’t age before you are old. Always put on earmuffs; too much noise can make you deaf.”

While analysing the risks associated with this endeavour, I learnt that prolonged exposure to sound beyond 85 decibels can cause hearing loss and deafness. This defect could start with something as ignorable as tinnitus — the loud ringing sound in the ear after long exposure to loud noises.

I fed the sound input recorded from my time inside the factory to the sound meter developed by the United States National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health (NIOSH). The meter recorded sound levels that fluctuated between 92.7 and 94 decibels at the peak of the noise.

With this, I inferred two things. First, the readings would be significantly higher if I measured directly inside the factory. Secondly, everybody in the factory stands the risk of permanent hearing loss, all for less than a dollar.

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by Timileyin Akinmoyeje

I learnt a few things from brief exchanges with coworkers during the break. Many stayed in the factory only for short periods, unable to handle the relentless work. The daily pay for contract workers like me was about N1,500. Still, people stayed because they needed the money. “Old Man” Oyetunde, “Aunty Comfort” and others carried on with expressions like “We need money to get by”.

In contrast, the supervisors were cordial. The Nigerian ones, at least, seemed humane, understanding the toll of factory work. However, the disregard for safety extended to the foreign bosses, Indian or Lebanese, who came around to check the machines.

Twice, I saw one of them operate the moulding machine with bare hands, reaching into places I had been explicitly told to avoid. Whether out of confidence or experience, they made it look easy, though the risks seemed real enough to me.

I worked from 8 am to 3 pm with the moulder, then cleaned the plastic, after the one-minute crash course Leke gave me on operations and ‘safety’. I had a 30-minute break from 9 am to 9:30 am, then another from 12 noon to 1 pm.

By the time I stepped out of the factory, my ears were ringing and I was sweaty from the heat oozing out of the production machines and caused by the congestion on the production floor. On my way out, I noticed a first aid box at the entrance office, a restroom segment, and a couple of tired faces that probably reflected what I must have looked like exiting the factory.

OLAM FOODS SHOWS A SEMBLANCE OF THE STANDARDS

The journey to see how strictly companies stuck with safety standards led me to UAC Foods at Ojota on a quiet Saturday, followed by a stop at OK Food Factory One and Factory Two along the Oshodi-Apapa Expressway.

At each stop, I hit the same brick wall. At UAC, a security guard brushed me off, saying it was the weekend. He advised me to come back on a weekday. By Sunday, I was in Oshodi, only to be turned away once again. But on Monday, Lady Luck showed a little grace. Just enough, anyway, to get a glimpse into the safety protocols at Olam, the parent company of OK Foods and Sweet Products.

It was around 6:45 am and I found myself among a crowd gathered at OK Foods near Toyota Bus Stop along Oshodi Expressway. All of us, mostly teens, were packed in tight, hoping to be noticed by the factory agents.

These agents were recruiters representing three different contracting agencies: Ebi and Sammy, Janchine, and Vision. I squeezed my way forward, managing to catch the attention of a bulky man hiring for Ebi and Sammy.

After about an hour and a half of waiting, we were finally let in and asked to queue up. Already, I had started piecing together the factory’s safety practices. Entrance was strict; no boots, no entry.

As I watched workers file in and out, I noticed most wore blue overalls or branded T-shirts of their respective contracting agencies. Everyone had boots on, many had gloves, and inspections were no joke.

Unlike at Cascade, managed by KRS, where it seemed easy to get in, the process here was intense. They checked our nails and examined our hair.

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A fair-skinned man made rounds, inspecting nails, tossing out anyone whose hygiene didn’t meet company standards. One of the managers randomly picked workers based on what felt like his gut — a kind of silent, subjective evaluation of who looked fit for the job.

Two hours in, I was advised by one of the agents to “get a shave” before returning. I dashed out, got a quick shave, and returned, hoping it would do the trick.

But when I got back in line with my “benefactor” from Ebi and Sammy, I was told to return on Friday. They had “filled the quota for the day”. After a futile attempt to convince him to let me in, I gave up. By then, I had made a few new “job-hunting” friends — names unknown, just boys with the same goal — and we set off to try our luck elsewhere. We were all gunning for the day’s wage.

We walked back to the larger OK Foods factory, hoping for our lucky break. The gateman gave us a nod, and we got in. Almost immediately, they had us fill out trainee forms with our names and phone numbers, then led us to a safety training session that ran about 50 minutes. They covered the basics: mandatory PPE, potential accidents on site, and safety measures we’d need to follow.

I kept a low profile while at this OK Foods factory, noticeably larger than the first, observing the setup. First-aid boxes, fire exits, extinguishers, and, unsettlingly for me as an undercover reporter, CCTV cameras dotted the place.

I glanced around, spotting workers in boots, overalls, gloves, hairnets, and sometimes lab coats. Outside the training hall, I watched an elderly man heaving a load on a cart with gloves on, sweating under the morning sun.

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After the training session, the HR team selected a few of us for work that day. The rest were told to try again on Friday. From what I observed, both OK Foods factories seemed dedicated to safety and uniform dress codes.

But one thing stood out; none of the staff wore earmuffs, despite the roar inside both factories reaching levels as loud as a congested Lagos road. By safety standards, that’s somewhere around 85 decibels, enough to make the ears ring after hours of exposure.

The pay was higher here, but so were the demands. According to the safety trainer, contractors worked from 7 am to 7 pm, with about an hour’s break. He didn’t sugarcoat it, warning us to think hard about whether we could handle the load.

“Part of safety is knowing your own limits,” he said, nodding with a look that was half-advice, half-warning.

The daily pay, as I overheard, was around N3,400. This is much better than the rate at Cascade’s KRS. But here, the factory wanted your all. And on that Monday morning, as I took it all in, I wondered if my all would be enough after making the cut next time.

WHAT IS LEGISLATION LIKE IN NIGERIA

Like many other developing countries, Nigeria has laws focused on employee safety. And as far as occupational health is concerned, the Factory Act (2004) is the go-to legislation. This act lays out essential standards for ensuring safe, healthy conditions in factories and other industrial settings.

For one, the act mandates employers to provide proper ventilation, sufficient lighting, sanitation and safe machinery operations. It also mandates clean drinking water, rest areas and good sanitation facilities for workers. Furthermore, employers are required to install safety guards on machinery, maintain fire prevention systems and ensure there are emergency exits.

Regular inspections by designated safety officers are part of the act’s enforcement, and employers must also train workers on safe practices and emergency procedures. Section 23 specifically addresses employee training, stating, “No person shall be employed at any machine or in any process… unless he has been fully instructed as to the dangers likely to arise.”

In other words, workers need full training or close supervision before handling risky machinery.

Section 47 adds another layer, requiring employers to provide safety equipment for workers exposed to hazardous materials or extreme conditions.

“Where in any factory workers are employed in any process involving excessive exposure to wet or to injurious or offensive substance, suitable protective clothing and appliances, including, where necessary, suitable gloves, footwear, goggles and head coverings, shall be provided and maintained for the use of such workers,” the section reads in part.

But not everyone thinks the act does enough. Experts like Chukwuma Ajie and Jacob Osariemen Abusomwan have argued that the act is outdated and cannot fully cater to the industrial realities of today.

Both pointed out for instance, that the fine for violating these safety standards is a mere N1,000, hardly enough to deter violations. The act also skips over key protections, offering no insurance provisions for factory workers and no standards for managing exposure to heat or noise, issues that have become more relevant today.

The National Policy on Occupational Safety and Health does try to fill in some of these gaps. It stated that employers are duty-bound to keep workspaces safe and risk-free, organise materials to minimise hazards, provide protective gear at no cost to employees, and ensure proper training and supervision to maintain a healthy work environment.

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In tandem with this policy, the government announced plans to review and update the Factories Act in 2021, according to a Vanguard report.

Yerima Tarfa, the Permanent Secretary of the Ministry of Labour and Employment, acknowledged the urgent need for revisions, given the rapid advancement of technology.

“Work machines, materials, tools, processes, and standards have evolved significantly,” he said. But since that announcement, no notable improvements have been reported.

WHAT DO THE COMPANIES AND REGULATORS SAY?

Both Lagos State Government and Federal Government have made promises to improve workplace safety in their respective jurisdictions, on several occasions.

In January, Nkeiruka Onyejeocha, the Minister of State for Labour, said the ministry was committed to standardising workplaces in Nigeria to ensure safety.

In August, the Lagos State Safety Commission held a one-day training called “A Day Comprehensive Occupational Safety and Health, Machinery, and Practice Training” for manufacturing companies in Lagos.

Lanre Mojola, the commission’s head, appealed to manufacturers to follow safety regulations and assured them of the state agency’s dedication to creating safe work environments.

Yet, despite these long-standing promises, factories like Cascade still operate carelessly, either flying under the radar or taking advantage of regulators’ ignorance.

To find out which it is, FIJ reached out to the Lagos State Safety Commission and the Ministry of Labour on Wednesday for comments but has not received a response at press time.

FIJ also contacted Cascade Waters to get their take on these safety lapses and hear how they plan to address them. As of press time, the company has not responded either. KRS, Cascade’s parent company, failed to answer phone calls.

This story was produced with support from the Wole Soyinka Centre for Investigative Journalism (WSCIJ) under the Collaborative Media Engagement for Development Inclusivity and Accountability Project (CMEDIA) funded by the MacArthur Foundation.