An investigation into why Uber drivers, phone repairers, and delivery riders—the visible face of Ghana’s vibrant informal economy—are planning their exits, exposing the harsh truth behind survival in a digital hustle economy.
By Alex Ababio
ACCRA, Ghana— At 7:30 a.m., Kwame’s motorcycle is already speeding through the streets of Accra, the first food delivery of the day strapped behind him. By noon, David has fixed three smartphones in his tiny wooden kiosk at Tip Toe Lane, his hands moving quickly across circuit boards. By midnight, Ama is still on the road, navigating through Accra’s chaotic traffic after twelve long hours behind the wheel of her Uber.
On the surface, they represent the determination and energy of Ghana’s informal economy—a sector that makes up 92.3% of all businesses and employs nearly 80% of the country’s workforce, according to the Ghana Statistical Service. But behind this image of hard work and digital innovation lies a deep frustration.
Each one of them is planning to leave Ghana.
“I work fourteen hours every day,” says Kwame, 24, wiping sweat from his face after another delivery. “After fuel, maintenance, and the app’s cut, I make about 80 cedis ($6) a day. How can I save? How can I have a future? This gig keeps you breathing but kills your dreams.”
This investigation—based on three months of interviews with gig workers, economists, and migration experts—reveals a painful reality: the same digital platforms praised for reducing unemployment are pushing workers closer to migration. With 44% of Ghanaians saying they want to emigrate, according to international surveys, the gig economy is not stopping the desire to leave—it’s showing why it makes sense.
The Mathematics of Survival
In a small office above a noisy market, Dr. Kofi Asante, an economist at the University of Ghana, flips through pages of charts and graphs. “We celebrate job creation but ignore job quality,” he says. “The average informal worker earns between 500 and 800 cedis a month ($37–$59), while the living wage for a single person in Accra is over 1,200 cedis ($89). That means most workers live below the minimum level needed to survive.”
The numbers paint a troubling picture of survival on borrowed time:
Uber and taxi drivers take home 70 to 100 cedis a day ($5–$7) after expenses.
Food delivery riders earn about 60 to 90 cedis daily ($4–$7).
Phone repair technicians make between 600 and 900 cedis a month ($44–$67).
“These people live in permanent uncertainty,” says Dr. Ama Mensah of the Institute of Statistical, Social and Economic Research (ISSER). “They don’t have health insurance, pensions, or paid leave. One illness, one accident, or one bad week, and everything collapses.”
For David Osei, 29, this is not just theory. His phone repair stall in Tip Toe Lane is among the better-known spots in Accra. He has skill and steady customers, yet after paying for rent, electricity, and spare parts, he takes home barely 700 cedis ($52) a month.
“I trained as an electrical engineer,” he says, testing a circuit board. “I’m using my skills, but I’m stuck. There’s no career growth here. In five years, I’ll still be doing the same thing—just older.”
The Digital Illusion: How Apps Create Modern Poverty
Digital platforms such as Uber, Bolt, Glovo, and Jumia are often presented as a new path to youth employment. But experts warn that these platforms have created what they call an “illusion of formality”—work that looks modern and high-tech but remains deeply insecure and informal.
Ama, 32, who drives full-time for a ride-hailing platform, scrolls through her app to show her weekly income: 1,400 cedis ($104). Then she lists her expenses: a 25% platform commission, 400 cedis for fuel, 150 cedis for car maintenance, and 50 cedis for mobile data.
“My real income is about 600 cedis ($44) for more than sixty hours of work,” she explains. “I’m not an employee, but I’m not free either. It’s like renting a job. If I complain, I can be blocked from the app without warning.”
According to Dr. Mensah, this is a growing pattern: “Gig work gives the appearance of independence, but the worker carries all the risk—fuel costs, maintenance, accidents—while the company takes no responsibility. It’s digital exploitation disguised as opportunity.”
These apps use technology to control pricing, routes, and ratings, while keeping workers outside labor laws. The result is platform poverty—a modern form of informal work where workers remain trapped in survival mode, unable to save or move forward.
The Broken Bridge: When Skills Don’t Lead to Security
Even among skilled workers, the story is similar. Ghana is facing what the World Bank calls a “foundational learning crisis,” where 80% of primary school children cannot read or do basic math by the time they finish school. This weak foundation limits future opportunities, leaving many to depend on self-taught or informal skills that have little recognition in the formal job market.
David, the phone repair technician, represents this problem. “I can fix any smartphone made in the last five years,” he says proudly. “I’ve learned everything online. But because I don’t have formal certificates, no tech company will hire me. My knowledge is real, but it has no paper to prove it.”
This “skills without certification” trap creates what migration experts describe as the “perfect emigrant profile.” These are people skilled enough to believe they can succeed abroad, but too frustrated with Ghana’s limited opportunities to stay.
“Most informal workers who migrate are not the poorest,” says Dr. Ebo Botchway, a migration researcher. “They are the stranded skilled—people who have talent but no channel to grow. Migration becomes their only promotion.”
The Final Calculation: Turning Hustle into Exit Strategy
At a quiet café in East Legon, Kwame scrolls through his phone—not to check orders, but to show pictures of architectural drawings. “I studied drafting,” he says softly. “Delivery work is just to survive while I save for my visa. Canada, Australia, Germany—anywhere I can turn these drawings into real buildings.”
Across interviews, this pattern repeated itself:
68% of gig workers said they were actively researching migration.
42% had already started applying for visas or contacting agents.
91% said “lack of progress” was the main reason for wanting to leave.
“The choice to migrate is rarely about hunger,” explains Dr. Botchway. “It’s about relative deprivation—the gap between what people see others achieving and what they can achieve here. When people realize their lifetime earnings abroad will far exceed what they can make here, leaving becomes a rational decision.”
Kwame’s experience is not unique. Across Ghana, Bolt riders are taking English language tests for visas, and delivery workers are saving for travel documents. The gig economy, once seen as a lifeline, has quietly become a launchpad for departure.
A System Under Pressure
The Ministry of Employment and Labour Relations, in response to questions from this investigation, pointed to several efforts to support small businesses and reduce informality, including the National Entrepreneurship and Innovation Plan (NEIP).
“We’re working to build an economy where talent meets opportunity,” says Edward Ampratwum, the ministry’s Director of Communications. “But changing a system where over 80% of workers are informal requires deep reform—in education, finance, and labor laws. It can’t happen overnight.”
Still, for many young workers, time is running out. As dusk falls over Accra, Ama starts another night shift, hoping to save for her visa. David locks up his kiosk and scrolls through Canadian job portals. Kwame rides off with another food delivery, his bag marked with a foreign brand logo, his mind on an architectural dream that seems too big for his homeland
Ghana’s Waiting Room
Ghana’s gig economy—once celebrated as proof of youthful resilience—has become a national waiting room. Behind every Uber ride, every delivered meal, and every repaired phone lies a quiet plan to leave.
For many, hustling has become the ticket to elsewhere.
As Kwame says, tightening his helmet and revving his motorcycle:
“Every trip I make here is another mile toward my ticket out.”