₦airaland Forum

Following the recent demolition of stilt houses by the Lagos State Government, families have been left with nowhere to turn. Many have taken to the lagoon, tying canoes together and laying planks across them to form precarious sleeping spaces. Elliot Ovadje reports on the plight of the displaced, highlighting the most vulnerable, children and the elderly, whose futures now hang in limbo

The boy’s arms tremble as he drags a wooden canoe through chest-deep water. Around him, the lagoon is littered with broken planks, splintered beams, and twisted sheets of corrugated iron, debris that only days earlier formed the walls and roofs of homes.

This is not refuse washed ashore by a storm; it is the aftermath of a government demolition.

Nearby, other children sit silently on a larger canoe, their bare feet dangling inches above the murky water. They watch without laughter, without playfulness. In Makoko, childhood has been replaced by survival.

Following the recent demolition of stilt houses in Makoko by the Lagos State Government, residents of this waterfront community have been displaced, with nowhere else to go.

Makoko has long been a flashpoint for forced evictions and government-led demolitions, a pattern that stretches back decades. These repeated displacements highlight the ongoing tension between Lagos’s ambitious urban development plans and the livelihoods of its most vulnerable residents.

Many families have lived on stilts over the lagoon for generations, relying on fishing and small-scale trading to survive. Demolitions disrupt these fragile economies, stripping people of homes, livelihoods, and a sense of security.

With no emergency shelters provided, many families have retreated onto the lagoon itself, turning fishing canoes into makeshift homes. Wooden boats, once tools of livelihood, are now places to sleep, eat, and wait.

“This is where we live now,” said Elizabeth Ottom, a 29-year-old mother of three, pointing to a narrow canoe tied beside several others. Clothes, plastic sheets, and pieces of wood lay scattered across it. “We sleep here. This is our house now. We don’t even have food.”

Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed exhaustion and disbelief. She said her home was pulled down without warning, no notice, no consultation, no plan for what would come after.

“They just came and destroyed everything,” she said, tears brimming. “They didn’t ask us where we would go.”

Makoko, often romanticised as the “Venice of Africa,” is home to thousands of low-income families who depend on fishing, petty trading, and manual labour.

Life there has never been easy, but before the demolition, families at least had fragile wooden homes perched on stilts above the lagoon. That fragile stability is now gone.

In its place are clusters of canoes tied together with ropes, planks laid across them to form sleeping spaces.

At night, families sit or lie curled tightly, afraid that a wrong movement could send them into the water.

“There is no safety,” said Jack, a fisherman in his 40s. “If you turn in your sleep, you can fall into the lagoon.”

Children bear the heaviest burden

Children are the most vulnerable victims of this displacement. Many now spend their days paddling between canoes, helping adults retrieve belongings or steadying boats against the current.

There are no life jackets, and supervision has become a luxury. The murky water, littered with debris of various kinds, is also polluted.

“I am always afraid,” Elizabeth said. “My children cannot swim well. If they fall into the water at night, who will save them?”

Parents report skin rashes, coughs, and persistent itching among children who spend hours in the lagoon. Schooling has also been disrupted.

“How can they go to school like this?” asked Mariam, a mother of three. “Their uniforms are gone. Their books are gone. We don’t even know where to bathe.”


Nights of fear, days of hunger

When night falls, fear thickens. The lagoon grows dark. Mosquitoes swarm. Children cry from hunger and cold. Parents stay awake, clutching their children, alert to every movement that could tip the canoe.

Rain worsens the ordeal. Water pours into the boats, and residents scoop it out with bowls and empty containers.

Some still attempt to cook on coal stoves balanced on planks, a dangerous gamble in a settlement of tightly packed wooden boats.

“If heavy rain comes, we don’t know what will happen,” said Joseph Effah, a fisherman whose boat has turned into an emergency home for his aged parents. “We can die here by drowning.”

Food is scarce. Fishing nets, essential tools for survival, as proceeds from fish sales were used to buy food and other necessities, were destroyed in the demolition.

Trading goods were also lost, leaving some families to survive on donations from neighbours or religious groups.

“My children ate only garri yesterday,” Elizabeth said, looking crestfallen. “Today, I don’t know what they will eat, and they have not eaten yet.”

At the moment, healthcare is largely inaccessible, as the sick must be transported by canoe to distant clinics, a cost many cannot afford.

In one of the canoes, an elderly man lay weak, wrapped in a faded cloth, his breathing shallow.

“We are just praying he survives,” a relative said.


‘Demolished without notice’

Residents insist the demolition was sudden. Officials, they said, arrived with security personnel and began pulling down structures immediately. People scrambled to salvage mattresses, clothes, and cooking utensils, but many lost everything.

“They did not give us time,” Joseph said quietly. “They did not say tomorrow or next week. They just came.”

Our correspondent gathered that there has been no relocation plan, no temporary shelter, no food aid, and no medical support since the demolition took place.

Human rights groups have long criticised forced evictions in waterfront communities, especially when carried out without notice, compensation, or resettlement.

In Makoko, residents say the silence following the demolition hurts as much as the destruction itself.

“We are Nigerians too,” Elizabeth said. “We are human beings.”

Sunday PUNCH findings showed that the Lagos State Government had revealed plans to demolish shanties located less than 100 metres from power lines in the Makoko waterfront community.

Traditional leaders had pleaded for a 30-metre setback, but the Permanent Secretary of the Office of Urban Development, Gbolahan Oki, insisted the law allowed a maximum of 100 metres, citing public safety.

Governor Babajide Sanwo-Olu, he said, had approved the reduced distance to avoid displacement, but enforcement would proceed.

Oki stressed that Lagos is developing into a megacity and that compliance with urban planning laws is non-negotiable.

Residents, however, insist they are not opposed to development, but should not be erased in the process.

“If they want to remove us, they should tell us where to go,” Joseph said. “Not throw us into the water.”


A familiar pattern

This is not Makoko’s first encounter with demolition. In April 2005, thousands of residents were forcibly evicted without notice or compensation.

Homes, clinics, and churches were destroyed, and some women gave birth amid the rubble.

The most devastating eviction occurred in July 2012, when armed police dismantled parts of the stilt community after a 72-hour notice.

A local chief was allegedly killed, and thousands were displaced, sparking national and international outrage.

Authorities justified these actions, citing environmental hazards, security concerns, and plans to create a “21st-century mega-city,” with waterfront areas eyed for high-end developments like Eko Atlantic.

Critics argue these projects prioritise wealthy developers over the welfare of long-standing communities.

Urban planners and housing experts argue that informal settlements like Makoko need upgrading, not destruction, through improved housing, sanitation, and services. For now, they noted, the theory offers little comfort.

As days turn into weeks, Makoko’s displaced residents wait for intervention, answers, and help.

For now, the lagoon remains crowded with floating canoes, their residents gripped by fear and uncertainty, burdened by unanswered questions about how long they are expected to live like this, trapped between survival and what human rights organisations, including Amnesty International, have repeatedly condemned as systemic exclusion.

When Sunday PUNCH reached out to the state Commissioner for Information, Gbenga Omotoso, for comments, he promised to respond but had yet to do so as of the time of filing this report.

SpaceX:
Why is jide leaving his people hanging in the cold, are they not humans?

Henix:
Why can't government provide alternative accommodation for them before the demolition?

tunde1200:
At least they are not igbos

kerry57:
Sanwo olu looks calm and accommodating but his tenure has given birth to the highest demolition in Lagos without compensation in most cases.

Lagos state is currently demolishing jakande estate as we speak without regards to court order on the demolition.

Initially, some were happy that mostly igbo properties was targeted,. I already knew it will get to everyone.
All these injustice has to end.

SpaceX:
Why is jide leaving his people hanging in the cold, are they not humans?

omoredia:
Life will always be unfair to the poor cos the poor has made it a habit to hate himself

kerry57:
Sanwo olu looks calm and accommodating but his tenure has given birth to the highest demolition in Lagos without compensation in most cases.

Lagos state is currently demolishing jakande estate as we speak without regards to court order on the demolition.

Initially, some were happy that mostly igbo properties was targeted,. I already knew it will get to everyone.
All these injustice has to end.