In light of the ban imposed by the Lagos state government on styrofoam and single-use plastic packaging, I revisited an article I wrote some time ago.
I grew up surrounded by little streams with mirrors for water. In my town with no mirrors, you could stand above the streams and dress your reflection to look like royalty. The streams were a converging point for everyone, both young and old.
In the evenings, my gang of little-town rebels and I would gather at the edge of the stream to feed the tiny fish that weren’t afraid to come close – or sometimes to stir up a bit of mischief. I remember the cool evening breeze carrying the fresh scent of the water, mixed with the earthy aroma of trampled grass beneath our small feet. The breeze brushed against our faces as we laughed, digging our hands into the sand to build castles around our toes.
But everything changed one morning when the tractors arrived. They dredged our little stream, turning it into a canal and linking it to the city’s drains.
Now, the canals are a mosaic of plastic nylons and bottles and the putrid stench of death that no one could stand, forcing us to abandon town.
How did the mosaic come to be?
How did this happen?
The Reality of Sachetisation in Nigeria
From the late 1980s to the early 1990s, Nigeria experienced the end of the oil boom, leading to a sharp decline in government earnings. Unfortunately, the proceeds from the boom had not been wisely invested, leaving no financial cushion for the economy or the people. The effects of this economic downturn were immediate – exchange rates plummeted, infrastructure deteriorated, and poverty soared. As a result, real per capita private consumption declined.
Consumers quickly adapted to their shrinking disposable incomes by shifting from premium to value brands. Bulk purchases became unsustainable, and people began opting for smaller pack sizes to manage costs. Businesses, in turn, responded by introducing smaller packaging to meet market demand.
This shift laid the foundation for the widespread adoption of sachetisation. A key moment in this trend was the entry of Wonder Foods Nigeria Limited, which saw traders repackaging its large imported milk tins into small transparent polythene bags for resale. What began as an informal solution soon became an industry-wide practice, as companies embraced sachet packaging to compete in a market where affordability dictated consumer choices.
However, sachetisation has evolved beyond its original intent. Today, companies prioritise consumerism – pushing products to boost their bottom line – often at the expense of environmental sustainability. But can we really question why sachetisation still dominates the Nigerian market? And why it may never disappear?
According to the 2019 Poverty and Inequality in Nigeria report by the National Bureau of Statistics (NBS), 40% of the population – approximately 83 million people – live below the poverty line of ₦137,430 ($381.75) per year. This, coupled with economic recessions, the impact of the COVID-19 pandemic, and an inflation rate recently reported at 16.42%, explains why sachetisation remains deeply rooted in Nigeria’s economy.
At its core, sachetisation highlights the stark income disparity in the country. It exposes the realities of poverty, financial insecurity, and the struggle of low-income consumers to afford basic necessities. Ironically, companies promote sachet packaging as a strategy to make products more accessible and affordable to the poor. But is that truly the case when low-income consumers end up paying more per unit than wealthier consumers who buy larger packs or in bulk?
The truth is, sachetisation is less about affordability and more about market penetration, increased sales, and maximising profit margins. It is no surprise that Nigeria’s packaging sector has been growing at a 12% compound annual growth rate (CAGR) since 2012, with plastic packaging accounting for over 40% of that growth.
Given the financial strain on households, sachetisation may seem like a logical solution. However, its long-term environmental damage and the imbalance in who benefits from this strategy far outweigh any short-term gains, making it an unethical practice.
One might argue that sachetisation is justifiable for essential food items that support the health and well-being of low-income consumers, as it helps increase food accessibility. However, it becomes indefensible when luxury products such as alcohol are sold in sachets. The result is overconsumption and abuse. For instance, the widespread alcohol abuse among Nigerian road transport workers is largely fuelled by the availability of sachet alcohol.
Beyond the social impact, the environmental consequences of sachetisation are severe, disproportionately affecting the poor, who bear the brunt of plastic pollution and waste mismanagement. Despite its minor benefits, the environmental and socio-economic toll of sachetisation is undeniable.
If the true intent of sachetisation is to serve low-income consumers, businesses must rethink their approach, balancing affordability with sustainability and ethical responsibility. Until then, sachetisation remains a double-edged sword, benefiting corporations while worsening the economic and environmental conditions of the very people it claims to help.
