In its drive to expand revenue and reduce dependence on oil, the Nigerian federal government has signaled an intention to tax all providers of services, including sex workers. The announcement has stirred intense debate, not just for its fiscal implications but for what it means socially, morally, and politically. Taxation is never just about money — it is also a statement of what the state chooses to recognize, regulate, and legitimize.
The heart of the controversy lies in contradiction. Sex work in Nigeria is largely criminalized, yet the government now appears ready to treat it as a taxable service. This raises a fundamental governance question: can the state demand revenue from an activity it does not legally recognize? Doing so risks blurring the line between law enforcement and fiscal policy, sending mixed signals to citizens about the seriousness of Nigeria’s laws.
Viewed through an economic lens, the government’s motivation is pragmatic. Nigeria’s tax-to-GDP ratio remains among the lowest in Africa, and widening the tax net is essential for fiscal sustainability. Including sex workers, alongside influencers and other informal service providers, acknowledges the vast shadow economy that has long escaped regulation.
Yet pragmatism must be tempered by reality. Sex work is informal, hidden, and difficult to track. Unlike a registered company with bank accounts and invoices, sex workers earn sporadically and operate without formal records. Attempting to tax this group may not only prove impractical but may also open the door to harassment, extortion, and corruption under the guise of tax enforcement.
Any conversation about taxing sex work must also confront the human rights dimension. Taxation, in theory, could be read as recognition — a step toward normalizing and potentially protecting sex workers. But without parallel reforms to safeguard dignity, health, and safety, taxation risks becoming another layer of state exploitation.
Moreover, in a deeply conservative society like Nigeria, such a move will ignite moral outrage. Religious and cultural groups are likely to interpret taxation as tacit endorsement of immorality. The state must therefore balance fiscal ambitions with the cultural sensibilities and values that bind Nigerian communities together.
Perhaps the biggest hurdle is enforcement. Nigeria’s governance already suffers from a trust deficit — many citizens are skeptical that their taxes are put to good use. Introducing a scheme to tax sex workers, while failing to address glaring service delivery gaps, could further erode confidence. More worryingly, enforcement risks reinforcing systemic abuses, where vulnerable women and men are coerced or exploited under the banner of tax compliance.
The idea of taxing sex workers in Nigeria is not simply a fiscal question. It is a test of the country’s governance maturity, its ability to reconcile law with pragmatism, and its willingness to prioritize human dignity over mere revenue. If Nigeria proceeds without addressing legality, protection, and enforcement safeguards, the policy could do more harm than good.
Taxation should never be divorced from justice. Nigeria must decide: will it continue to impose taxes without protecting its most vulnerable, or will it build a tax system that reflects fairness, legality, and respect for human rights?
The call to action is clear: lawmakers, civil society, and citizens must demand coherence between policy and principle. If the government seeks to tax sex workers, it must first confront the legal contradictions, ensure protection from abuse, and invest tax revenues transparently. Otherwise, this move risks becoming a revenue grab that sacrifices dignity for naira.
