In a small corner of Lagos, Peter, a 29-year-old ride-hailing driver, checks his app for new fares. The ping comes through. Another trip. But after commissions, fuel costs, and maintenance, how much does he really take home? Some weeks, it barely covers his rent. And yet, on paper, he is the face of Africa’s rising gig economy—the entrepreneur, the hustler, the self-made worker.

Across Africa’s urban centers—Lagos, Johannesburg, Nairobi—the streets hum with motorbikes, ride-hailing cars, and app-based delivery workers, all chasing what has been marketed as a new wave of economic empowerment. Proponents of the gig economy tell a seductive story: By lowering barriers to entry, technology has liberated workers, offering them flexible schedules and a pathway to financial independence. But scratch beneath the surface, and another reality emerges—one in which gig workers are caught in a system as exploitative as the colonial-era labor structures that once defined the continent.

Consider the much-lauded ride-hailing sector. Championing flexible hours and easy onboarding, these platforms initially appear to liberate workers from the joblessness that afflicts so many young people across Africa. Yet listen to the drivers themselves, and you’ll hear a consistent refrain: fluctuating commissions, price surges that benefit the platform but not the worker, and no safety nets if they fall ill or their cars break down.

For many, this isn’t the independence they were promised—it’s a digital twist on indentured labor. In much the same way that colonial mining companies trapped workers in debt cycles through company-owned housing and provisions, today’s ride-hailing giants encourage drivers to take out car or motorbike loans, only for many to realize they will never break even. Platforms set the terms, dictating rates and slashing driver earnings at will. If a driver dares to protest? The algorithm can deactivate them overnight—no severance, no recourse, no explanation.

It is telling that in the last few years, Uber and Bolt drivers in Kenya, Nigeria, and South Africa have staged repeated strikes, demanding better pay and formal recognition as employees. Their struggle mirrors a growing global reckoning with gig work; but with fewer protections in place, African gig workers face an even steeper uphill battle.

The extractive nature of Africa’s gig economy is not new—it is simply a digital mutation of a long-standing economic pattern. During the colonial era, European industries built wealth by outsourcing the most grueling, dangerous labor to African workers—whether in gold mines, rubber plantations, or railway construction. Today, platform capitalism functions much the same way, except the “mine” is now the internet, and the resource being extracted is data and digital labor.

Take remote gig platforms like Upwork or Remotasks, which connect African workers to data-tagging and transcription jobs. On the surface, these platforms promise global opportunity. In reality, they encourage a brutal race to the bottom, where workers must outbid one another for pennies. AI datasets are built on the backs of thousands of Africans performing repetitive digital piecework, their efforts uncredited, their earnings barely enough to scrape by.

When Kenyan content moderators for Facebook (now Meta) attempted to unionize—led by Daniel Motaung, a whistleblower who exposed the trauma of filtering violent content—they faced legal threats, job losses, and corporate indifference. A historical echo: When mineworkers in South Africa sought fair pay decades ago, they were met with similar retaliation. The medium has changed, but the fundamental exploitation remains the same.

Compounding the problem is the glorification of the “hustle,” the idea that gig work is a stepping stone to prosperity. Governments, eager to avoid addressing systemic unemployment, actively promote gig platforms as a solution, masking the reality that these are not sustainable career paths.

Ride-hailing drivers are not “entrepreneurs” in any meaningful sense—they are gig workers operating within a system they do not control. Yet the mythology persists, celebrated by tech firms and investors keen to frame their platforms as engines of progress. Meanwhile, local influencers and media narratives reinforce the idea that gig work is a noble pursuit, a way to “rise above” through sheer effort.

But who truly benefits when thousands of African workers are forced into a life of algorithmic servitude, where an app determines their next meal?

Despite the bleak picture, one thing is clear—gig workers are not passive victims. Across Africa, informal collectives, WhatsApp groups, and grassroots movements are pushing back against digital exploitation. But the experience of gig work is not the same for all workers. Women, for instance, face unique challenges that are rarely discussed in the celebratory rhetoric around platform-based work.

The gig economy is often hailed as an equalizer—offering women a flexible alternative to traditional employment. But in reality, it replicates the same gender inequalities found in the formal economy. While men dominate ride-hailing and delivery services, women are overrepresented in lower-paying digital piecework, such as data annotation, content moderation, and home-based micro-jobs. These jobs, though marketed as remote and flexible, often require relentless availability and offer no safety nets for maternity leave, health care, or caregiving responsibilities.

And then there is the question of safety. Unlike male gig workers, women who attempt to enter physically demanding gig sectors—such as ride-hailing—are met with additional risks. Sexual harassment from passengers, unfair deactivation from platforms, and safety concerns at night often push women out of these jobs altogether. Even within remote gig work, online harassment remains a threat, with female freelancers reporting being offered lower pay than their male counterparts or having their work dismissed by clients.

Despite these injustices, African gig workers—both men and women—continue to resist. In Nigeria, digital freelancers have begun sharing blacklists of exploitative employers, a self-made safety net in an industry that offers no formal protections. In Kenya, Uber and Bolt drivers have mobilized against commission cuts, staging walkouts and protests that have forced companies to temporarily revise fares. These protests have led to significant actions, including Uber reducing its commission from 25 percent to 18 percent in response to driver demands. In South Africa, foreign-born delivery drivers have formed informal unions, using collective power to demand better wages and resist police harassment. These unions not only advocate for better conditions but also serve as essential support networks, allowing workers to share vital information and fundraise for medical expenses—critical safeguards in an industry that provides none.

Africa’s gig economy is at a crossroads. It can either become a digital sweatshop—extracting labor and offering little in return—or a model for ethical, worker-driven innovation. But this requires urgent action: First, governments must step in—implementing enforceable minimum wages, health protections, and clear legal pathways for worker grievances. Second, platforms must be held accountable—big tech cannot continue profiting off African labor while offloading all risks onto workers. And third, gig workers must be recognized as workers—not “partners,” not “micro-entrepreneurs,” but employees with rights. Until these changes happen, the narrative of the gig economy as a tool of empowerment is nothing more than an illusion.

Africa’s story of labor exploitation did not begin with the gig economy, and it won’t end with it either. We are witnessing a digital rearticulation of the same forces that have historically shaped the continent’s economic structures—where foreign investment is prioritized over fair wages, and technology serves as a cover for worker exploitation.

But in this reconfiguration, there is also space for resistance. A driver in Lagos can rally colleagues on WhatsApp. A Kenyan freelancer can warn others about exploitative contracts. A South African delivery worker can push back against illegal deportations. These small acts of defiance are part of a larger fight—one that will determine whether Africa’s digital economy is built on empowerment or exploitation.

The next time you order a ride, a meal, or a remote task from an African worker, ask yourself: Who really profits? Because if we continue down this road unchecked, the answer will be the same as it was centuries ago—not the workers.