By Gloria Boma Harry — Sunday, 25 January 2026
The gates of the FCTA Secretariat in Area 11 usually hum with the frantic energy of a nation’s capital. By 8:00 a.m. on a typical Monday, the air is thick with the scent of roasted corn from street vendors, the persistent honking of green-painted taxis, and the hurried footsteps of thousands of civil servants.
But tomorrow morning, the only sound likely to greet the Garki skyline is the heavy clanking of iron padlocks and the low murmur of police officers stationed at the entrance.
For nearly a week, the Federal Capital Territory (FCT) has been an administration in “suspended animation.” What began as a local dispute between the Joint Unions Action Committee (JUAC) and the FCT Minister, Nyesom Wike, has spiralled into a high-stakes industrial war. With the Nigeria Labour Congress (NLC) now throwing its full weight behind the strike, Abuja is no longer just a city under a “cold war” it is a city at a standstill.
The “New Normal” in the Capital
For the average Abuja resident, the strike is more than just a headline; it is a hurdle. From the processing of land titles to the registration of small businesses and even the cleaning of city streets, the gears of the city have seized.
“I came from Keffi to follow up on my C-of-O,” says Monday Egbe, a businessman standing outside the locked Secretariat gates. “They told me ‘no entry.’ The gates are locked, and the people who have the files are at home. Abuja is the seat of power, but right now, that power feels very far away.”
A Battle of Two Strong Wills
At the heart of the crisis are two formidable figures. On one side is Nyesom Wike, the FCT Minister known for his “no-nonsense” approach to urban renewal. On the other is Joe Ajaero’s NLC and the JUAC leadership, who claim they are fighting for the very survival of the Nigerian worker.
The grievances are deeply personal for many. Workers allege that while the city’s skyline evolves, their bank accounts have stagnated. They point to five months of unpaid wage awards and promotion arrears totalling over ₦286 million. Most critically, they allege that pension and NHF deductions have vanished into a black hole since May 2025.
“You cannot ask a man to sweep the streets of a beautiful city when his own children are being sent home from school for lack of fees,” one striking worker, who wished to remain anonymous, told our correspondent. “We are not fighting the Minister; we are fighting for our dignity.”
Monday’s Judicial Showdown
Tomorrow, January 26, the theatre of conflict moves from the Secretariat gates to the National Industrial Court. Minister Wike has filed an order (NICN/ABJ/17/2026) seeking to restrain the unions. His administration argues that 10 out of 14 demands have already been addressed and that the strike is “ill-motivated.”
But the NLC has issued a counter-directive: a mass mobilisation of all affiliate unions to the court premises. The message is clear, labour intends to fill the court with the “dignified presence of the working class.”
The Final Kicker: What Happens When the Smoke Clears?
As the legal battle commences, the question remains: what kind of Abuja will emerge from this? Even if the court orders a return to work, the “trust deficit” between the administration and its workforce remains at an all-time high.
In a city built on the promise of order and central authority, the current paralysis is a stark reminder that even the most powerful administrations cannot function without the quiet, often invisible hands of the civil service.
As the sun sets over the Zuma Rock this Sunday evening, Abuja waits. Whether Monday brings a resolution or a further escalation, the “Silence of Garki” has already left a loud message: in the nation’s capital, the engine only runs when the workers are at the wheel.
