To call it a rigorous exercise might sound like an exaggeration—but those who have been caught in the endless loop of job-seeking in Nigeria know it’s no exaggeration. Rigorous, by definition, means extremely thorough, exhaustive, or accurate—yet also severe and demanding. Exercise implies effort and strain, but in this case, the pain is mental, emotional, and often spiritual. For many Nigerians, particularly those fresh out of university, finding a job is not a phase but a prolonged battle—an exercise in patience, in humility, in constantly rebranding oneself just to be seen. The word “rigorous” becomes fitting not just for the tasks involved but for the bruises left behind.

There’s a unique kind of ache that comes from waking up every morning, reworking the same CV for the hundredth time, tweaking your LinkedIn profile again, rehearsing responses to interview questions that may never come, and scouring job boards only to find the same recycled vacancies demanding five years of experience for an entry-level role. The job search process in Nigeria is an endurance sport that few people are prepared for. Schools may teach you theories, but they don’t prepare you for rejection letters—if you’re lucky enough to get any—or for the deafening silence that follows applications sent into the void. Each day becomes a balancing act between hope and despair, trying to convince yourself that you’re not wasting time, that something will happen.

And then there's the irony of credentials. First-class graduates wander the streets, while second-class connections land jobs. You begin to realize that merit is simply one component of the Nigerian job mix. The rest is determined by who you know, how you present yourself, where you're from, and, in some cases, how much you're willing to offer. For some people, the job search becomes a series of humiliations—being told to dress a specific way, to "smile more," or to "tone down" your ambition. Others experience a slide into doubt. You begin to wonder if your degree is important, if your talents matter, in a society that values survival over skill.

One of the most vivid examples of how far young Nigerians are willing to go occurred years ago, when a recruitment exercise by the Nigerian Immigration Service turned into a national tragedy. People came from all around the country to participate. It was meant to be a test, a gateway. But it demonstrated the degree of despair. Tens of thousands of applicants—graduates, postgraduates, even older men and women who had shaved years off their ages to meet the eligibility requirement—along with much younger applicants who had inflated theirs just to appear "mature" enough—gathered in one place: the Samuel Ogbemudia Stadium in Benin City, dressed in white-on-white. What was meant to be a recruitment exercise turned into a human avalanche? The crowd swelled beyond control, spilling over the stands and onto the parking lots, choking the stadium far past capacity. In the mayhem that ensued, a stampede broke out. People fell. People were trampled. Among them were three pregnant women, each carrying hope in their hearts and a child in their womb. None of them made it out alive. Neither did several others. They came searching for jobs but left only as names on condolence lists.

The costs, both tangible and intangible, inexorably rise. Transportation to interviews you may never hear back from. Data subscriptions just to keep applying. Paying for professional courses that promise "employability," even when you question if it's just another scam preying on your desperation. Some people, out of sheer frustration, start settling—accepting internships without pay, taking positions much below their qualifications, or agreeing to exploitative employment just so they don't sit at home. The system makes it difficult to hold your head up. It practically trains you to shrink yourself, to be grateful for crumbs, and pretend that things aren't as difficult as they seem.

Still, there is no shame in desiring more. And yet, that desire is often what makes the job hunt feel even more terrible. You have dreams, not delusions. You want to work, contribute, and build a life. But Nigeria has a way of making even the most basic desires seem like excessive ambition. People begin to look at you with pity or suspicion—"Are you still looking for work?" becomes a judgemental inquiry. You begin to withdraw from grout chats and family gatherings, not because you don't care, but because you're sick of not having nothing new to report. The silence surrounding you becomes heavier than rejection.

It's in this silence, many young Nigerians begin to improvise. Selling clothes online, learning tech skills from free YouTube videos, starting side hustles out of necessity rather than passion. The entrepreneurial spirit that Nigeria prides itself on is often a coping mechanism, a survival strategy for a generation struggling to stay afloat in a system that keeps failing them. This is not to say that these ventures aren't valuable—they are—but they are also born from a kind of exhaustion that no one romanticizes enough. It's easier to clap for the "self-made" than to talk about why so many had to become self-made in the first place.

But beneath all this struggle, something stubborn persists. The will to keep trying. The refusal to give up completely. Even in a rigged system, even in a society that often values connections over competence, something inside the Nigerian youth refuses to be extinguished. That persistence—irrational as it may seem—is where the real exercise lies. It is not just about finding a job; it is about not losing yourself in the process. About remembering that your worth is not defined by employment status. About believing, against all odds, that you still have something to offer.

So, yes, calling it a  "rigorous exercise" may sound dramatic. However, for those who are on this path, this description barely scratches the surface. It is rigorous in every sense—mentally exhausting, emotionally taxing, financially crippling, and socially isolating. Yet somehow, everyday, thousands of Nigerians wake up and try again. Not because they love the exercise, but because they believe that, eventually something will give. And maybe, just maybe, that belief is the only job for which we are all still qualified for.