Perhaps, in the end, being middle class in Nigeria is not about how much one earns, but about how well one learns to survive.

“What does it really mean to be middle class?” “Do middle class still exist in Nigeria?”

The definition has always been slippery, shifting depending on who’s telling the story. A government economist might define it by income brackets, a sociologist by lifestyle, and an average Nigerian by the ability to afford three square meals and still have some change left over. In Lagos, it might be the tech worker earning a decent salary, driving a used Toyota Corolla, and struggling to save for a mortgage. In Kano, it might be the textile trader who owns a small warehouse, sends his children to private school, but still worries about medical bills. In Port Harcourt, it might be the oil service contractor who earns well during projects but faces financial instability between contracts.

Not long ago, being middle class in Nigeria meant something. It meant a steady job, a decent home, children in good schools, a car that worked well enough to get you from point A to B, and a sense of quiet dignity in everyday life. It wasn’t wealth, but it was comfort. It was the ability to plan for the future without the crushing weight of uncertainty. You weren’t rich, but you weren’t poor either. There was a certain balance, and with it, a sense of security.

But that balance seems like a distant memory now. Prices rise like the tide, sweeping away the familiar comforts that once defined middle-class life. The cost of food alone has doubled, even tripled, forcing people who once shopped without much thought to now mentally calculate every expense. The man who once filled his tank without complaint now watches the fuel meter with weary eyes, each refill a reluctant surrender to a country that offers no relief. School fees, hospital bills, rent, everything has become a battle, a quiet but persistent war against an economy that offers no favor to those stuck in between.

And so, people say the middle class no longer exists. That Nigeria is now split into two: the rich, who glide through life with generators humming and dollars stacked, and the poor, who wake up each day wondering how to make it to the next. But that’s not entirely true. The middle class still exists; it just doesn’t exist the way it used to.

The idea of class has always been a subjective thing, especially in a country as economically volatile as Nigeria. Someone who considers themselves middle class today might wake up tomorrow to find they’ve slipped into another category maybe not poor, but certainly not comfortable. One bad election cycle, one policy shift, one moment of economic instability, and the delicate balance is upset.

The Nigerian middle class of today isn’t defined by stability, it’s defined by survival. These lives are not shaped by the comfort of a steady existence but by the daily struggle to stay afloat. Every day is another test, another decision between surviving or sinking. And yet, they keep moving, keep hustling, because there’s no other choice.

This middle class hustles. It adapts. It bends without breaking. It’s the banker who closes from work at 6 p.m, only to spend the next few hours running a thrift business on WhatsApp. It’s the civil servant whose salary alone isn’t enough, so they drive Bolt on weekends or sell bags of rice and cartons of Indomie to colleagues on payday. It’s the young professor in Lagos earning a decent salary but still forced to split rent in a tiny shared apartment because the cost of a one-bedroom flat in a decent area is nearly his entire paycheck. It’s the schoolteacher who, after marking scripts, stays up late making wigs to sell on Instagram. It’s the corporate worker who, despite wearing suits to the office, spends her evenings packaging and dispatching orders for the mini-importation business that keeps her afloat.

It feels less like a society and more like an experiment in endurance, where the lucky few are pulled out of the loop, and the rest are left to keep running. Living in a world where survival is an everyday experiment, where people must navigate the unpredictability of their own existence just to hold on to something resembling stability, is exhausting. It’s as though they’re part of an ongoing social experiment. There’s a constant balancing act: the hustle, the improvisation, the reinvention. It’s as if everyone is trapped in a loop, navigating the gap between those in power and those struggling to maintain dignity.

The rules of the game keep changing mid-play, and the middle class is forced to adapt faster than they can breathe. The pressure builds in layers: a new policy, a hike in petrol prices, a lack of basic services. It’s a cycle all too familiar, like a recurring dream where things almost get better, but never quite do. It’s a never-ending dance with uncertainty, and it’s capitalism at its core. This is the reality of Nigeria’s capitalist society.

But if the Nigerian middle class is defined by survival, then what about the lower class? What happens to those beneath the struggle for stability, the ones whose lives are a daily negotiation for survival itself?

The lower class is defined by securing the next meal, finding shelter, ensuring tomorrow doesn’t feel worse than today. It’s a class marked by absence, the absence of opportunity, the absence of choice. The middle class, however fragile, still has something to lose. The lower class, in contrast, lives knowing that loss is an everyday reality, not an impending threat.

While the definition of class may shift, its impact is felt by those who experience it daily. In a world driven by capitalism, these divides are unlikely to disappear; they are embedded in the very structure of our society. Social class, in every sense, is heavily subjective, shaped by the invisible hand of society’s expectations and the shared beliefs we all hold.

So, the question is not whether Nigeria’s middle class exists, it does, in some form, reshaped by hardship, held together by determination. The real question is whether it can continue to exist in a country that does not seem to care for those who are neither privileged nor desperate. Whether it can thrive in a place that offers it no sanctuary.

Perhaps, in the end, being middle class in Nigeria is not about how much one earns, but about how well one learns to survive.