The Work That Doesn’t Count

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

By Florence Shadrack

I woke up before the first light touched the windows.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

I just listened.

My child was breathing beside me—slow, uneven. The kind of breathing that keeps you half-awake, even when your body is tired enough to disappear.

I turned slightly and placed my hand on his chest.

Still warm.

Still here.

I reached under my pillow and pulled out the small bundle of money I had kept there.

₦9,200.

I counted it slowly.

It was not enough. It had not been enough for days.

My name is Jessica. I sell food stuff by the roadside.

There is no shop with my name on it. No signboard. No record anywhere that proves I exist. Just a space I arrive at early enough to claim: and hope no one takes before I get there.

I should have stayed.

Every part of me knew I should have stayed.

But staying would not bring medicine.

And medicine is what he needs.

So, I stood up quietly.

I stepped outside before he could wake up and ask me where I was going.

The road was already alive. People moving quickly, like the day had started without waiting for permission.

At the market, I bought tomatoes, and pepper.

The prices had changed again. No warning. No explanation. Just new numbers I had to accept. I adjusted quickly, because there is no space to pause when survival is involved.

A woman beside me mentioned something about government support for small workers.

I asked where to find it.

She hesitated.

“Maybe registration… maybe a bank account… I am not sure,” she said.

Then she faced her goods again. That was the end of the conversation.

By the time I reached my roadside spot, the sun was already heavy. I arranged my goods carefully, making them look like more than they were.

People passed. Some stopped. Some bargained. Most didn’t. Every time someone walked past, I thought of my child. Every minute I stayed, I wondered if I was already too late.

Around midday, I sat down for a moment. 

My body was tired. But it wasn’t the kind of tired rest that can fix. It was the kind that comes from choosing between two things you cannot afford to lose.

If I go home, I lose the day.

If I stay, I lose time with him.

I stayed…because time without money cannot buy medicine.

I have heard about health insurance on the radio. I have heard about loans for small businesses. I have heard that people like me are important to the economy.

But importance does not sit beside you when your child is sick. Importance does not pay for treatment. Importance does not wait for you.

In the afternoon, a light rain began to fall. I covered my goods quickly. Some tomatoes still got wet. I wiped them anyway.

A man passing by mentioned that roadside sellers are sometimes removed by authorities. I didn’t respond. I just held my goods tighter.

By evening, I had made just enough.

Just enough to try again tomorrow.

I packed quickly this time. Faster than usual.

The road felt longer on my way home.

When I opened the door, the room was quiet.

Too quiet.

For a moment, I couldn’t move.

Then I stepped inside.

I went to him.

I placed my hand on his chest again. And I waited.

Tomorrow, I will wake up before the first light touches the windows.

Not because I am ready.

Not because things are better.

But because this is the only work I have.

So I will return to the roadside, and continue doing the work that does not count—even when everything that truly matters is waiting at home.

***

Informal workers are individuals who earn a livelihood outside formal employment systems. This includes market traders, street vendors, cleaners, transport workers, domestic workers, and many others who operate without formal contracts, social protection, or legal employment recognition.

Although they represent a significant portion of the workforce in many developing economies, informal workers are often excluded from access to structured social protection systems such as health insurance, pensions, unemployment benefits, and financial safety nets. This exclusion leaves them highly vulnerable to poverty, especially during illness, economic shocks, or periods when they are unable to work.

Their exclusion from formal systems also limits their access to credit, government support programs, and long-term economic stability, reinforcing cycles of vulnerability and inequality.

At Shades of Us, we stand for the dignity, inclusion, and protection of informal workers across all sectors. We call for urgent policy reforms that expand social protection systems, ensure access to affordable healthcare, create inclusive financial services, and recognize informal workers as rightful beneficiaries of national development programs.

We further call on governments, civil society organizations, and development partners to strengthen legislation and implementation frameworks that integrate informal workers into economic planning and social welfare systems.

No effort to end poverty can succeed if a large portion of the workforce remains invisible within the systems designed to protect them. True progress requires inclusion, recognition, and action.