MONKEY DEY WORK, BABOON DEY CHOP: The Dark Story of Trapped Salaries, Payroll Failures and Nigeria’s Unpaid Workers -By Daniel Nduka Okonkwo

These findings raise questions that go beyond the recovery of ₦941.99 million. Who created the fictitious identities? Who approved them? Who validated them? Who authorised the payments? Who controlled the receiving bank accounts? How long did the payments continue? Which officers or institutions were responsible for verifying the underlying personnel records? And how many genuine workers were simultaneously excluded, suspended, delayed, or trapped in payroll processes? Perhaps the most fundamental question is this. How can a government payroll system identify a fictitious employee well enough to pay that person repeatedly, while a genuine employee can work and still be unable to access his salary? According to the ICPC, a verification exercise conducted in 2025 cleared 120 civil servants whose identities and employment status were confirmed, after which they were reinstated on IPPIS. The Commission also said that 467 bank accounts remained linked to unverified individuals whose account holders had yet to be identified, and the ₦941.9 million frozen in those accounts formed the subject of the forfeiture proceedings. These findings suggest that Nigeria’s payroll problem cannot simply be reduced to workers complaining that the government has failed to pay them. At least two vulnerabilities are operating simultaneously. The system can lose track of legitimate workers, while the same system can allegedly be exploited to create illegitimate beneficiaries. Both failures cost the Nigerian taxpayer, but only one category is entitled to the money.

There is something profoundly disturbing about a country in which a worker can report for duty every morning, wear the uniform of the state, teach its children, defend its territory, process its files, treat its patients, or maintain its institutions, and yet be unable to access the salary supposedly sitting in his or her account. It is even more disturbing when government records indicate that the money has been processed. And perhaps most disturbing of all is what happens when the same system that struggles to pay a genuine worker is also found vulnerable to fictitious identities and fraudulent payroll transactions. That contradiction lies at the heart of Nigeria’s persistent public sector payroll crisis.

The reported experience of Corporal Yusuf Aliyu, Force Number 524180, attached to Dambam Division of the Bauchi State Command of the Nigeria Police Force, has therefore arrived at an uncomfortable moment. It became public on September 2, 2026, that Aliyu had tendered his resignation from the Nigeria Police Force, citing two years of unresolved salary problems that he said had caused severe financial hardship. According to his resignation letter, dated August 30, 2026, and addressed to the Inspector General of Police through the Bauchi Commissioner of Police, he intended to leave the Force effective September 30. Aliyu said his salary had been processed and reflected but that he had been unable to access or withdraw it despite repeated efforts through the appropriate channels. A copy of the resignation letter has been circulating publicly on X, in which Aliyu said he had repeatedly reported the problem and followed the necessary procedures without a resolution. He said the situation had made it extremely difficult to meet his personal and family responsibilities, causing severe financial hardship and leading him to lose confidence in the system.

The reported resignation is extraordinary. But the underlying problem is not necessarily unique. Aliyu may be one man, but the institutional problem potentially extends far beyond him. There is, however, an important distinction that responsible journalism must make. The publicly circulating letter establishes that Aliyu submitted a resignation citing an unresolved salary problem. It does not, by itself, establish the precise technical or administrative cause of that problem. There is no publicly available Nigeria Police Force statement, on the evidence examined for this report, establishing whether the difficulty originated within the Police, IPPIS, a commercial bank, another payment platform, or an administrative process. It would therefore be irresponsible to declare that somebody stole Aliyu’s specific salary without further documentary evidence. But it would be equally irresponsible to dismiss his allegation as merely an isolated administrative inconvenience. Nigeria’s public record already contains repeated examples of payroll and salary problems affecting workers across different institutions, and the evidence becomes even more troubling when those failures are considered alongside documented cases of suspected payroll fraud.

The Integrated Personnel and Payroll Information System, IPPIS, was introduced to improve the management of personnel records and payroll administration across the federal public service. Its promise was straightforward. A centralised system should make it easier for the government to identify genuine employees, reduce payroll leakages, and ensure that workers receive their salaries accurately and promptly. The record, however, is considerably more complicated. In July 2026, the Independent Corrupt Practices and Other Related Offences Commission announced that the Federal High Court in Abuja had ordered the final forfeiture of ₦941,994,079.86 linked to suspected ghost worker fraud uncovered during investigations into IPPIS. The ICPC said its earlier system study had revealed suspected ghost workers embedded in the payrolls of federal Ministries, Departments, and Agencies. Following the study, the Federal Government approved a comprehensive audit of IPPIS, after which the Commission began a joint investigation with the Office of the Accountant General of the Federation. According to the ICPC’s own account of that investigation, the joint probe identified 908 suspected ghost workers on the platform.

The Commission said fictitious IPPIS identities had allegedly been created for non-existent personnel across multiple government institutions, with salaries paid over extended periods into accounts belonging to individuals and companies. It further said that in several cases, the names on receiving accounts did not correspond with the names of the purported employees, while some accounts received multiple salary payments simultaneously. The institutions identified by the ICPC included the Nigeria Police Force, the federal Ministries of Defence, Education, Agriculture and Rural Development, Works, Water Resources, and Interior, as well as several universities and the Office of the Accountant General of the Federation itself. This presents a contradiction that Nigeria can no longer afford to ignore. A system established partly to make public payroll more accurate and secure was allegedly exploited to generate payments to fictitious beneficiaries, while genuine employees continue to report difficulties accessing their salaries. That is not merely a technology problem. It is a governance problem. And where human beings can manipulate administrative systems for private gain, it can also become a corruption problem.

Against this background, the reported case of Corporal Yusuf Aliyu becomes more than an individual resignation. If his account of two years without access to his salary is substantiated by his bank records, payroll records, IPPIS records, and correspondence with the Police, it would represent an extraordinary institutional failure. The details contained in the letter make the allegation particularly significant. Aliyu did not say that his salary had simply never been calculated. He said it had been processed and reflected, but that he could not access or withdraw it despite repeated efforts through official channels. That distinction raises a critical question. Where was the money? Was the salary actually transferred? Was it sitting in a bank account, but blocked? Was the payment instruction generated but not completed? Was there a mismatch between payroll and banking records? Was the account restricted? Was the worker’s personnel record incorrectly flagged? Or was there another administrative explanation entirely? Those questions cannot be answered responsibly through speculation. They require documents.

Imagine working for two years without being able to access your earned income. Rent does not wait. Food does not wait. Transport does not wait. Children’s school fees do not wait. Medical emergencies do not wait. Banks do not suspend loan repayments because a government payroll system has malfunctioned. Landlords do not accept the explanation that a salary has been processed and reflected as payment. And a family cannot eat a payslip. For a junior police officer, prolonged inability to access salary can quickly become catastrophic. It creates debt, dependence, and humiliation. It can force workers to borrow from friends and relatives, sell possessions, or postpone essential expenses. It can also damage morale. That point requires particular caution. There is no evidence that Aliyu engaged in extortion or any other misconduct, and it would be wrong to suggest otherwise. But the institutional risk is real. A public officer who cannot access legitimate income is operating within a system in which financial desperation can undermine morale and create vulnerability to exploitation. That is why personnel welfare is not merely a humanitarian issue. For security agencies, it is also an institutional and potentially national security concern.

The government’s own recent actions make it difficult to argue that police welfare concerns are imaginary. In 2026, the Federal Ministry of Police Affairs announced efforts to review police salaries, allowances, pension-related benefits, and other welfare obligations. The wider welfare debate has included outstanding pension arrears, death benefits, insurance liabilities, and inadequate accommodation. The Nigeria Police Act 2020 also contains provisions concerning police remuneration and welfare. The point is not that every police welfare complaint is automatically valid. The point is that personnel welfare remains an important institutional issue. In 2025, Inspector General of Police Kayode Egbetokun publicly expressed concern about the condition of retired police officers under the Contributory Pension Scheme. Retired officers subsequently protested over pension and other outstanding entitlements. The government and police have disputed or challenged aspects of some claims surrounding pension administration, while the Nigeria Police Force has also announced payments of pension and death benefits. That disagreement illustrates a deeper problem. Workers and institutions can operate from completely different versions of the financial truth. The worker says he is owed. The institution says it has processed it. The payroll system says the record exists. The bank says it cannot release the funds. The administrator says the documentation is incomplete. And the worker is left somewhere in the middle, indebted, frustrated, and invisible.

The salary problem has crossed institutional boundaries and is not confined to the police. In 2025, teachers employed between 2018 and 2021 protested in Abuja over salaries they said had remained unpaid for years, with some saying they had gone as long as three years without receiving their wages. In Cross River State, primary school teachers in Yala Local Government Area also protested over unpaid salaries. The explanations varied. Workers blamed administrative failures and selective payments, while government officials pointed to verification requirements and payroll system problems. This is precisely why investigative journalism must resist simplistic narratives. Not every unpaid salary is corruption. Not every payroll error is theft. Not every worker’s allegation is automatically true. But neither should every salary crisis be dismissed as a mere system glitch. A system failure that repeatedly destroys people’s livelihoods is itself a governance failure, and a system vulnerable to manipulation becomes a potential corruption risk.

Nigeria’s federal universities provide another revealing case study. In 2025, academic and non-academic university unions complained about salary delays after federal tertiary institutions moved from IPPIS towards the Government Integrated Financial Management Information System, known as GIFMIS. The disruption contributed to industrial tensions. University workers complained of delayed salaries, while other payroll-related problems also emerged. Then came an important explanation from the Accountant General of the Federation. In June 2025, Accountant General Shamseldeen Ogunjimi attributed the salary crisis in federal tertiary institutions to what he described as a rushed and uncoordinated migration from IPPIS to GIFMIS. He said the transition had not followed established technical guidelines and had resulted in delayed salary payments, irregular third-party deductions, and unremitted pension contributions. The episode exposed a fundamental vulnerability. If a government payroll transition can be poorly managed and thousands of workers consequently experience delayed or inaccurate payments, payroll administration has ceased to be merely a technical matter. It has become a matter of public accountability.

Federal workers have also experienced salary discrepancies. In 2025, complaints emerged over salary reductions and discrepancies following changes and adjustments within the federal payroll system. The government subsequently explained some differences in terms of payroll adjustments, overpayments, and the expiration of arrears or temporary wage components. Again, the lesson is not that every discrepancy constitutes corruption. The lesson is that a centralised payroll architecture handling enormous public expenditure must be subject to extraordinary levels of transparency, reconciliation, and independent audit. When a government employee receives less than expected, there must be a clear explanation. When money is withheld, there must be a traceable reason. When an employee is removed from payroll, there must be a documented administrative decision. When money is processed but cannot be accessed, someone must be able to establish where the money is, what stage of the payment process it has reached, and why the worker cannot receive it.

The military presents an even more sensitive dimension because serving personnel cannot freely organise public protests or pursue grievances in the same manner as civilian workers. In January 2025, retired military personnel barricaded the Federal Ministry of Finance in Abuja over unpaid entitlements. The government subsequently announced steps towards addressing some of the outstanding obligations. The military has also publicly rejected allegations by dismissed personnel concerning poor welfare, remuneration, and equipment. This is precisely why an investigation must not automatically accept either side’s narrative. A soldier’s allegation requires evidence. The military’s rebuttal requires evidence. And the public deserves the evidence. This investigation examines pay records, allowance schedules, deployment records, bank statements, pension documents, administrative correspondence, and applicable regulations.

The Nigerian public is frequently told that salary problems are caused by biometric verification, BVN discrepancies, payroll validation, bank account problems, IPPIS errors, migration between platforms, promotion backlogs, missing personnel records, audit verification, or administrative approvals. Any of these can be genuine. But technology does not automatically eliminate corruption or administrative abuse. It can create new points at which manipulation, negligence, or abuse can occur. A database can be manipulated. A verification process can be manipulated. A personnel record can be altered. An approval can be deliberately delayed. A file can be declared missing. A legitimate employee can be repeatedly asked to provide the same documentation. And where one official or office has the power to release, suspend, or unblock another person’s livelihood, that power can become an instrument of abuse. This is where Nigeria’s payroll problem becomes more serious. The question is not simply why the worker has not been paid. The question should be who has the power to prevent the worker from being paid, and what controls exist to stop that power from being abused.

There is a Nigerian expression that captures a public suspicion deeply embedded in the national psyche, monkey dey work, baboon dey chop. It describes a system in which the person who performs the work is not necessarily the person who benefits. Payroll corruption takes the metaphor further. When a real worker is unpaid while fictitious workers allegedly receive public funds, the metaphor ceases to be merely political rhetoric. It becomes an investigative question. Who benefits when a legitimate employee is trapped outside the payment system? Where does unclaimed salary money sit? Who reconciles it? How long can it remain there? Does it return to government coffers? Can it be diverted? Can an official demand money before correcting an administrative error? Are complaints logged? Are they independently audited? Can a worker see the status of his or her complaint without going through a superior? Can an employee obtain an electronic audit trail showing who accessed or altered the record? These are questions Nigeria’s anti-corruption agencies, auditors, and legislators should be asking.

Nigeria’s financial regulations already provide mechanisms for dealing with unclaimed salaries and payroll irregularities. The principle is important. A salary problem should not simply disappear into bureaucratic darkness. There should be a record, reconciliation, investigation, accountability, and a conclusion. A worker should not have to spend two years asking where his salary went.

There is another dimension that rarely appears in official spreadsheets. Human beings do not experience salary delays as numbers. They experience them as humiliation. A worker who cannot pay rent becomes a debtor. A parent who cannot pay school fees becomes ashamed in front of his children. A civil servant who cannot afford transportation begins borrowing. A teacher who has not been paid begins to depend on relatives. A junior security officer who cannot feed his family may begin to question why he should continue risking his life for a state that cannot pay him. Debt accumulates. Relationships deteriorate. Children suffer. Medical treatment is postponed. People sell property. People borrow. Some become vulnerable to exploitation. And eventually, some simply leave. The resignation of a police corporal after allegedly being unable to access his salary for two years should therefore not be viewed merely as an employment decision. If substantiated, it is a warning signal about institutional morale.

Institutions may appear to save money when a payment is delayed. It does not. It is transferring the cost somewhere else. The teacher pays through debt. The police officer pays through hardship. The soldier’s family pays through uncertainty. The civil servant pays through humiliation. The pensioner pays through deprivation. The child pays through interrupted education. The citizen pays when public institutions stop functioning properly. Eventually, the country pays.

The Aliyu case should become the starting point for a much wider examination of Nigeria’s public payroll architecture. The Federal Government should publish, subject to legitimate privacy protections, a national salary error register showing how many public workers currently have salaries marked as processed but inaccessible, together with a payroll resolution timeline showing how long it takes to correct genuine payroll errors. There should be an independent audit of unclaimed salaries, including how much money is currently held or classified as unclaimed and how much has accumulated since 2020. The government should publish an IPPIS exception report identifying, in aggregate and without unnecessarily exposing personal information, how many legitimate employees are suspended, blocked, duplicated, unverified, or awaiting validation. The authorities should also provide a comprehensive accountability report arising from the ICPC’s ₦941.99 million case, including the institutional responsibilities of those found to have created, approved, or failed to detect fraudulent records, subject to due process and applicable law. An independent forensic audit of payroll administrators is also necessary, and it should not be limited to an internal administrative review. A junior police officer, teacher, or civil servant should be able to report payroll abuse without having to confront the very officials who control his or her records. Every alteration to a worker’s payroll record should generate a secure digital audit trail identifying who made the change, when it was made, and the stated reason. Whistleblowers who expose payroll manipulation should be protected from retaliation, and the National Assembly committees responsible for public accounts, police affairs, defence, education, and public service should demand comprehensive payroll performance reports from the relevant agencies.

The next stage should not be another press conference. It should be documentation. Requests under Nigeria’s Freedom of Information framework should seek records showing the number of salary complaints received by IPPIS each year, the number resolved, the number outstanding, average resolution times, the total value of unclaimed salaries, salary reversals, salary suspensions, employees removed following verification, employees subsequently reinstated, payroll accounts frozen, suspected ghost worker cases, disciplinary actions arising from payroll manipulation, relevant IPPIS audit reports, bank reconciliation records, and documents relating to the ₦941.99 million ICPC investigation. The records should also establish the roles and responsible offices of officials charged with payroll verification at affected Ministries, Departments, and Agencies. The public does not need another slogan. It needs the audit trail.

The Nigerian government has spent years telling citizens that technology will make public administration cleaner, faster, and more transparent. That promise is reasonable. But technology cannot become a black box behind which institutional responsibility disappears. When a salary is not paid, someone must be responsible. When a salary is wrongly deducted, someone must explain it. When a worker disappears from payroll, someone must authorise it. When a fictitious worker enters payroll, someone must validate the identity. When suspicious accounts receive public money, somebody must answer questions. And when a genuine police officer says he has worked for two years without being able to access his salary, the answer cannot simply be that it is a system problem, because systems do not resign. People do. And the people resigning, or contemplating resignation, are the people Nigeria needs to keep.

If Corporal Yusuf Aliyu’s account is eventually confirmed by the Nigeria Police Force, his bank, payroll records, and documentary correspondence, his resignation should trigger an independent investigation. If his allegation is found to be incorrect, the public deserves to know that too. That is what accountability journalism means. It does not mean deciding the verdict before examining the evidence. It means following the evidence wherever it leads. The public record provides a documented starting point, a serving police corporal who says he has been unable to access his salary for two years, despite saying that the salary had been processed and reflected, and that he had repeatedly pursued the matter through official channels. What remains to be established is why. That answer matters.

But whether Aliyu’s case ultimately proves to be a payroll error, banking failure, administrative negligence, or something more serious, the wider evidence is already difficult to ignore. Workers have protested unpaid salaries. University workers have endured payment disruptions. Civil servants have reported salary discrepancies. Military retirees have protested unpaid entitlements. Police retirees have demanded pension reform. And the ICPC has documented a payroll fraud investigation involving hundreds of suspected non-existent public servants and ₦941.99 million traced to accounts linked to the alleged scheme. These are not identical problems, and they should not be falsely presented as one conspiracy. But together they reveal a common vulnerability. Nigeria has not yet demonstrated that every naira paid to a public employee can be transparently traced from appropriation to worker, and that every naira withheld from a legitimate worker can be equally traced, explained, and recovered. Until that happens, the Nigerian worker remains exposed, and the taxpayer remains vulnerable.

The state may know how many workers it employs. It may know how much it has budgeted. It may even know how much it has processed. But if it cannot guarantee that the money reaches the human being who earned it, then the system has failed at its most basic responsibility. A government does not employ a database. It employs people. And people cannot survive on a payroll record. They survive on the money behind it. That is where Nigeria’s salary scandal begins. And that is where the investigation must now go.

Daniel Nduka Okonkwo is an investigative journalist, human rights advocate, and publisher, and the founder of Profiles International Human Rights Advocate, PIHRA. His work focuses on governance, accountability, and the protection of fundamental rights across Nigeria and Africa. His reporting has appeared in Vanguard, Daily Trust, Sahara Reporters, African Defence Forum, Opinion Nigeria, and Daily Intel, among others.

Read more of his work on the PIHRA blog, profilesinternationalhumanrightsadv.blogspot.com. For tips, feedback, or collaboration, reach him at dan.okonkwo.73@gmail.com.