Lagos, the city of dreams—or, increasingly, the city of despair—stands at a crossroads.
Its skyline gleams with skyscrapers, shopping malls, and luxury high-rises, yet beneath the glittering towers, a humanitarian disaster quietly unfolds.
Makoko, the so-called “Venice of Africa,” has become the epicenter of this crisis: a waterfront community of stilt houses, bustling markets, and generations of human ingenuity, now reduced to splintered wood, floating debris, and broken lives.
Families who have lived in Makoko, Owode Onirin, and Oworonshoki for decades are being uprooted in the name of “urban renewal,” forced to trade their homes for the uncertainty of bridges, canoes, and open streets.
And if you think Makoko is a tragedy in isolation, think again. Lagos is on the verge of a mass displacement crisis, and the next few months are likely to push thousands more residents into homelessness.
The state’s demolition and clearance strategy, aggressive and often sudden, shows no signs of slowing.
Residents, activists, and urban scholars alike warn that the human toll is about to escalate, and the streets of Lagos may soon become overflowing with displaced families.
The Bulldozer as a Symbol of Exclusion
The irony of Lagos’ so-called urban renewal cannot be overstated.
A city that markets itself as Africa’s economic powerhouse now appears to be systematically expelling its most vulnerable residents under the guise of progress.
Government officials present demolition as a necessary step toward modernisation, yet those displaced see nothing but devastation: destroyed homes, lost livelihoods, and shattered communities.
Makoko, for instance, is not just a slum—it is a vibrant, self-sustaining community.
Its residents are fishermen, artisans, traders, and small business owners who have adapted ingeniously to life on water.
The community has survived decades of neglect and marginalisation, developing a culture and economy unique to its waterways.
Yet, all this resilience is no match for the state bulldozer.
When the walls collapse and homes are washed away, the question arises: where are these people expected to go?
This is not mere speculation. Activists report that families displaced by the last wave of demolitions have been forced into makeshift shelters under bridges, in abandoned buildings, or even on the streets, often without food, water, or basic sanitation.
Children sleep in canoes; the elderly sit in the sun, vulnerable and exposed.
Meanwhile, government officials trumpet “urban renewal projects” that seem to prioritise aesthetics and real estate profit over human dignity.
A Pattern That Cannot Be Ignored
Makoko is just the beginning. The Lagos State Government has identified multiple low-income and informal settlements for redevelopment, many without legal tenure, formal addresses, or strong political representation.
Sources within the government indicate that the coming months will see heightened demolition activity across waterfronts and low-income neighborhoods.
If history is any guide, these operations will continue to be abrupt, poorly communicated, and minimally compensated.
In other words: more Makokos are coming. More Oworonshokis.
More communities whose residents will be forced to choose between survival and dignity.
And Lagos, a city that prides itself on being a hub for business and culture, may soon become a city of displaced souls, wandering its streets in search of shelter.
The Human Cost: Stories from the Ground
The human toll of these demolitions cannot be captured in statistics alone.
Take Mrs. Afolabi, a mother of four from Makoko, who watched her wooden home collapse into the water one rainy night.
Her husband is a fisherman, her children sell wares along the waterfront, and together they have survived storms, floods, and years of neglect.
Yet, one morning, they were rendered homeless—forced into a tiny canoe with the few belongings they could salvage. “Where will we go?” she asks, her voice trembling. “This is our home. We have nowhere else.”
Or consider Elder Obafemi, whose family has lived in Oworonshoki for three generations.
“They don’t see us as people,” he says. “We are just obstacles in their city plans. They take our homes, and we vanish. No warning. No compensation. Nothing.”
These stories are not outliers; they are the reality for hundreds of families across Lagos.
The government’s urban policy, while framed as modernisation, has left entire communities at the mercy of uncertainty.
Urban Renewal or Urban Removal?
The debate over “urban renewal” versus “urban removal” is at the heart of the controversy.
On one side, the government argues that slums and informal settlements pose risks to public health, security, and urban planning.
On the other, activists, residents, and urban scholars argue that demolitions without resettlement are inhumane, counterproductive, and often illegal.
Makoko and similar communities have existed for decades, some for more than a century.
They are not temporary settlements to be wiped away at the whims of development planners; they are living, breathing communities.
Critics say that true urban renewal should involve consultation, compensation, and inclusion, not displacement and erasure.
Yet, in Lagos, the bulldozer seems to be the only tool in the toolbox.
What Comes Next
The coming months will reveal the full scale of Lagos’ displacement crisis.
With the government pushing forward with aggressive redevelopment plans, residents of low-income communities should prepare for a surge in forced evictions.
The streets, under-bridges, and canals of Lagos are likely to host an increasing number of displaced families.
And as more voices are silenced and communities uprooted, social tensions may rise.
For those who believe that Lagos’ glitzy skyline represents progress, the reality on the ground tells a different story.
Behind every luxury tower is a displaced family, behind every newly paved road is a demolished home.
The city’s growth, if not managed with humanity, risks becoming a story of exclusion, injustice, and social fragmentation.
Makoko is not an isolated tragedy. It is a warning. The next chapters in Lagos’ urban story will be written not just in concrete and steel, but in the lives of those displaced.
The question is whether the city will rise as a model of inclusive growth—or descend into a sprawling monument to urban cruelty.
Conclusion
Expect more Makokos. Expect more Oworonshokis. Expect more bridges and streets filled with families who have nowhere else to go.
And if we, as citizens, journalists, and observers, remain silent, these stories will repeat, and Lagos will slowly lose its soul.
Urban renewal without humanity is not progress—it is displacement dressed in development rhetoric.
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The future of Lagos may glitter in glass towers, but in the shadows of those towers, the human cost of “progress” will continue to unfold—and it will be impossible to ignore.