Work is supposed to dignify a person. It should feed not only the body but also the soul. Yet for many, it becomes another table where others feast while they serve. I have walked through corridors of companies, homes, and organizations where success is displayed like trophies—but behind every shining plaque stands a tired face, unseen and unacknowledged. Those are the poor at work.
I have been one of them. I have been the pair of hands that polished the image of another. I have ironed uniforms I would never wear, set tables where I would never sit, typed reports whose signatures would never bear my name. In every workplace, there are two kinds of people: those who eat from their labor and those who feed others through theirs. And the tragedy is that most of the world runs on the second kind—the silent ones who cook but never eat.
At one of my jobs, I remember how mornings began with cheerful greetings that meant nothing. Smiles polished for professionalism, not warmth. We were a team in name but a hierarchy in truth. The upper offices smelled of coffee and perfume, while the backrooms smelled of bleach and sweat. The gap between those floors was more than physical—it was spiritual. Up there, decisions were made. Down here, we made them happen.
We were expected to smile, to say “Yes, sir,” and “Right away.” Gratitude was not for the work we did but for the privilege of being allowed to do it. I watched people age inside those walls—not from time but from suppression. Their voices faded. Their dreams dimmed. They stopped saying “when I grow” because growth was not allowed for them. The poor at work learn early that ambition can be mistaken for rebellion.
One afternoon, a colleague whispered to me, “Don’t work too hard; they’ll never promote you. They like you exactly where you are.” Her words hurt because they were true. Many systems thrive on keeping people in survival mode. If you’re too hungry, you can’t question. If you’re too grateful, you won’t demand fairness. And if you’re too tired, you won’t dream.
It’s strange how workplaces often mirror families and churches. The same structure repeats itself: a few on the top eating meat, many below eating bread. The “meat-eaters” attend conferences, wear suits, and speak of vision. The “bread-eaters” clean the conference halls, carry boxes, type reports, and fix the broken printers. They are the spine of the operation but never its face. When success comes, the credit climbs upward; when failure comes, blame falls downward.
I once worked under a supervisor who liked to call the staff his “family.” He would say, “We are one big team here!” But in this family, some siblings always ate steak while others chewed crusts. He praised loyalty but rewarded flattery. He quoted Bible verses about diligence but paid late. When anyone raised concern, he said, “Be patient; God sees your hard work.” He used God’s name like a shield against accountability.
And yet, we stayed. Because the poor at work often have nowhere else to go. The fear of hunger is stronger than the discomfort of injustice. So we swallow insults like medicine, hoping it will keep the job alive. We keep working even when our hearts have resigned.
There were moments I would stand by the window of that workplace, watching cars leave the compound. I used to think, Those people are free. But then I realized, even some of them were prisoners too—trapped in greed, in ego, in the need to stay above others. The poor at work may lack money, but the rich at work often lack peace. Both are hungry—one for bread, the other for meaning.
I have met security guards who are philosophers, cleaners who are poets, drivers who are thinkers. They speak wisdom the boardroom never hears because hierarchy has made truth a private language. The poor at work carry intelligence that never gets a microphone. They have ideas that could transform systems, but no one asks them. Their silence is not ignorance; it is learned caution.
I remember a janitor I once knew named James. He used to whistle while mopping the floor. One day I asked him, “Why are you always so happy?” He smiled and said, “Because the floor will shine even if they never notice me.” His words struck me deeply. They reminded me that dignity cannot be given—it must be preserved inside. Even when the world treats you as invisible, you must never agree to disappear.
Still, it shouldn’t be that way. People deserve more than internal dignity; they deserve external fairness. Work should reward effort, not exploitation. It should build people, not break them. Yet the modern world has perfected the art of squeezing labor from the poor while feeding them slogans. “We are a family.” “We value our people.” “We offer opportunities for growth.” Words like flowers planted in dry soil—beautiful, but without water.
Even in offices of faith-based organizations, I saw the same pattern. The prayers were loud, the ethics banners bold, but the treatment of workers often contradicted the message. I saw workers fasting not for revival but because lunch was unaffordable. I saw leaders pray for humility while demanding honor. It seems every workplace, sacred or secular, eventually reveals the same disease—the unequal distribution of dignity.
One evening, after a long day, I sat alone in the break room, eating bread and tea. The aroma of meat from the director’s office floated down the corridor. I smiled bitterly. So this is life, I thought, some cook, some eat. But then I realized something deeper: without those who cook, those who eat would starve. The power was never where they said it was. It was always in the hands that served.
That thought became my quiet rebellion. I began to see myself not as lesser, but as essential. Every task I did—no matter how small—was part of a bigger picture. I began to treat my work as sacred, not because the job was holy, but because my effort was. I decided that though I could not yet eat the meat, I would cook it with purpose. That is how the poor at work survive—with meaning, not money.
But meaning alone cannot feed children or pay rent. Systems must change. Respect must rise. Workplaces must remember that people are not tools; they are souls. The true test of leadership is not how much profit one makes, but how many people can prosper under your watch. A company’s greatness is not in its revenue but in how it treats its least-paid worker.
I have often imagined a world where every employer eats beside their employees. Where the manager shares the same table, not just the same building. Where the tea served in boardrooms is the same poured in break rooms. Where fairness is not policy—it is culture. In such a world, loyalty would not have to be bought; it would be born naturally. Because people work best when they are seen as people, not parts.
Now, whenever I meet someone struggling at their job—underpaid, overlooked, or exhausted—I tell them: You are not small. You are the reason the machine moves. Your worth is not measured by your salary slip, but by the life you hold together through your labor. You are the cook, and one day, the world will realize it cannot eat without you.
The poor at work are not victims of laziness; they are victims of blindness—other people’s blindness. The day the world learns to see them, to name them, to pay them fairly, that will be the day humanity itself gets promoted. Because justice at work is not a favor—it is the true fruit of labor.
Until then, I write for them. For the ones whose uniforms never make it to photographs. For the hands that sign nothing but keep everything running. For the hearts that serve quietly while others dine loudly. The poor at work are not waiting for charity—they are waiting for recognition. And when that day comes, when every worker sits at the table they built, the smell of meat will no longer sting. It will finally taste like what it should have always been—honor.
I have been one of them. I have been the pair of hands that polished the image of another. I have ironed uniforms I would never wear, set tables where I would never sit, typed reports whose signatures would never bear my name. In every workplace, there are two kinds of people: those who eat from their labor and those who feed others through theirs. And the tragedy is that most of the world runs on the second kind—the silent ones who cook but never eat.
At one of my jobs, I remember how mornings began with cheerful greetings that meant nothing. Smiles polished for professionalism, not warmth. We were a team in name but a hierarchy in truth. The upper offices smelled of coffee and perfume, while the backrooms smelled of bleach and sweat. The gap between those floors was more than physical—it was spiritual. Up there, decisions were made. Down here, we made them happen.
We were expected to smile, to say “Yes, sir,” and “Right away.” Gratitude was not for the work we did but for the privilege of being allowed to do it. I watched people age inside those walls—not from time but from suppression. Their voices faded. Their dreams dimmed. They stopped saying “when I grow” because growth was not allowed for them. The poor at work learn early that ambition can be mistaken for rebellion.
One afternoon, a colleague whispered to me, “Don’t work too hard; they’ll never promote you. They like you exactly where you are.” Her words hurt because they were true. Many systems thrive on keeping people in survival mode. If you’re too hungry, you can’t question. If you’re too grateful, you won’t demand fairness. And if you’re too tired, you won’t dream.
It’s strange how workplaces often mirror families and churches. The same structure repeats itself: a few on the top eating meat, many below eating bread. The “meat-eaters” attend conferences, wear suits, and speak of vision. The “bread-eaters” clean the conference halls, carry boxes, type reports, and fix the broken printers. They are the spine of the operation but never its face. When success comes, the credit climbs upward; when failure comes, blame falls downward.
I once worked under a supervisor who liked to call the staff his “family.” He would say, “We are one big team here!” But in this family, some siblings always ate steak while others chewed crusts. He praised loyalty but rewarded flattery. He quoted Bible verses about diligence but paid late. When anyone raised concern, he said, “Be patient; God sees your hard work.” He used God’s name like a shield against accountability.
And yet, we stayed. Because the poor at work often have nowhere else to go. The fear of hunger is stronger than the discomfort of injustice. So we swallow insults like medicine, hoping it will keep the job alive. We keep working even when our hearts have resigned.
There were moments I would stand by the window of that workplace, watching cars leave the compound. I used to think, Those people are free. But then I realized, even some of them were prisoners too—trapped in greed, in ego, in the need to stay above others. The poor at work may lack money, but the rich at work often lack peace. Both are hungry—one for bread, the other for meaning.
I have met security guards who are philosophers, cleaners who are poets, drivers who are thinkers. They speak wisdom the boardroom never hears because hierarchy has made truth a private language. The poor at work carry intelligence that never gets a microphone. They have ideas that could transform systems, but no one asks them. Their silence is not ignorance; it is learned caution.
I remember a janitor I once knew named James. He used to whistle while mopping the floor. One day I asked him, “Why are you always so happy?” He smiled and said, “Because the floor will shine even if they never notice me.” His words struck me deeply. They reminded me that dignity cannot be given—it must be preserved inside. Even when the world treats you as invisible, you must never agree to disappear.
Still, it shouldn’t be that way. People deserve more than internal dignity; they deserve external fairness. Work should reward effort, not exploitation. It should build people, not break them. Yet the modern world has perfected the art of squeezing labor from the poor while feeding them slogans. “We are a family.” “We value our people.” “We offer opportunities for growth.” Words like flowers planted in dry soil—beautiful, but without water.
Even in offices of faith-based organizations, I saw the same pattern. The prayers were loud, the ethics banners bold, but the treatment of workers often contradicted the message. I saw workers fasting not for revival but because lunch was unaffordable. I saw leaders pray for humility while demanding honor. It seems every workplace, sacred or secular, eventually reveals the same disease—the unequal distribution of dignity.
One evening, after a long day, I sat alone in the break room, eating bread and tea. The aroma of meat from the director’s office floated down the corridor. I smiled bitterly. So this is life, I thought, some cook, some eat. But then I realized something deeper: without those who cook, those who eat would starve. The power was never where they said it was. It was always in the hands that served.
That thought became my quiet rebellion. I began to see myself not as lesser, but as essential. Every task I did—no matter how small—was part of a bigger picture. I began to treat my work as sacred, not because the job was holy, but because my effort was. I decided that though I could not yet eat the meat, I would cook it with purpose. That is how the poor at work survive—with meaning, not money.
But meaning alone cannot feed children or pay rent. Systems must change. Respect must rise. Workplaces must remember that people are not tools; they are souls. The true test of leadership is not how much profit one makes, but how many people can prosper under your watch. A company’s greatness is not in its revenue but in how it treats its least-paid worker.
I have often imagined a world where every employer eats beside their employees. Where the manager shares the same table, not just the same building. Where the tea served in boardrooms is the same poured in break rooms. Where fairness is not policy—it is culture. In such a world, loyalty would not have to be bought; it would be born naturally. Because people work best when they are seen as people, not parts.
Now, whenever I meet someone struggling at their job—underpaid, overlooked, or exhausted—I tell them: You are not small. You are the reason the machine moves. Your worth is not measured by your salary slip, but by the life you hold together through your labor. You are the cook, and one day, the world will realize it cannot eat without you.
The poor at work are not victims of laziness; they are victims of blindness—other people’s blindness. The day the world learns to see them, to name them, to pay them fairly, that will be the day humanity itself gets promoted. Because justice at work is not a favor—it is the true fruit of labor.
Until then, I write for them. For the ones whose uniforms never make it to photographs. For the hands that sign nothing but keep everything running. For the hearts that serve quietly while others dine loudly. The poor at work are not waiting for charity—they are waiting for recognition. And when that day comes, when every worker sits at the table they built, the smell of meat will no longer sting. It will finally taste like what it should have always been—honor.
