Armed police, bulldozers, and arrests mark government’s heavy-handed demolitions displacing thousands across Nigeria’s commercial capital
Victor Ahansu barely had time to wake his wife and infant twins before the grinding roar of bulldozers shattered the pre-dawn silence. It was all the warning his family received on January 11 before fleeing their home in Makoko, one of Africa’s oldest and most iconic waterfront communities.
Within minutes, the stilt house where his family had lived for years was reduced to splinters floating on the Lagos Lagoon. Today, Ahansu, his wife, and their five-month-old twins live in a wooden canoe, sheltered only by a woven plastic sack when the rains come.
“I have not even been able to go to work to make money, because I don’t want to leave my wife and children, and the government comes again,” the fisherman says, his voice hollow with exhaustion and fear.
The Ahansu family is among tens of thousands caught in what civil society groups are calling the worst wave of forced evictions in Lagos since the military dictatorship era. Since late December 2025, demolition crews backed by armed police have swept through waterfront communities across Nigeria’s commercial capital, leaving a trail of homelessness, trauma, and death that has shocked even veteran human rights advocates.
A Pattern of Violence
The demolitions began two days before Christmas in Makoko, a century-old fishing settlement often called the “Venice of Lagos” for its wooden homes built on stilts above the lagoon. Authorities initially claimed the operation targeted only structures within 30 meters of high-tension power lines—a safety measure, they insisted, to protect residents.
But that justification quickly unraveled.
“On January 9th, the government came to demolish my house. We were not informed,” says Kpetosi Basirat, a local trader. “Since then, we have had nowhere to go. When it rained, it fell on us and our belongings.”
By early January, the 30-meter buffer had mysteriously expanded to 100 meters, then pushed even further—in some areas reaching 500 meters from the power lines, according to measurements by the Nigerian Slum/Informal Settlement Federation. The demolitions swept past schools, clinics, and places of worship, seemingly unbound by the safety rationale authorities had provided.
More than 3,000 homes have been destroyed in Makoko alone. Over 10,000 residents have been displaced. Five schools, two health clinics, and several churches now lie in ruins. And critically, at least three people—some sources say as many as twelve—have died in connection with the demolitions.
The victims include 70-year-old Albertine Ojadikluno, who reportedly succumbed to the effects of teargas fired by police. Five-day-old Epiphany Kpenassou Adingban also died during the chaos, alongside other infants whose brief lives ended amid smoke, panic, and collapsing structures.
Midnight Raids and Military Tactics
What distinguishes this wave of demolitions from previous urban renewal exercises isn’t just the scale—it’s the methods.
In Oworonshoki, a community on the opposite side of the lagoon, bulldozers arrived at midnight on October 26, 2025. Residents awoke to find over 50 armed police officers firing teargas through the night as excavators crushed homes into rubble.
“We didn’t sleep at all. They came back in the night after we stopped them in the morning. Even now, Sunday morning, they are still demolishing,” Olanrewaju Segun, a resident, recounted. “More than fifty police officers were shooting teargas at protesters as they destroyed buildings.”
The midnight raids, the overwhelming show of force, the deliberate targeting of community leaders—these tactics recall Nigeria’s military dictatorship years, when dissent was crushed and due process was a luxury reserved for the powerful.
“Armed thugs, security personnel and demolition teams with bulldozers have descended repeatedly on Makoko,” said a joint statement from the Centre for Children’s Health Education (CEE-HOPE), Health of Mother Earth Foundation (HOMEF), and Corporate Accountability and Public Participation Africa (CAPPA). “Teargas was deployed against women, children and elderly persons, leaving many injured and hospitalised.”
In one particularly chilling incident, structures were set ablaze while residents scrambled to retrieve their belongings. “The fire—they burn everything,” one woman known only as Blessing told journalists, standing amid the smoldering ruins of her home.
Arrests and Intimidation
On January 12, Oluwatobi Aide—a Makoko youth leader known locally as “Woli”—approached demolition officials with a simple request: give residents a few hours to retrieve their belongings before the bulldozers moved in. For this act of advocacy, he was arrested.
Aide, who had been hospitalized days earlier after being teargassed during the demolitions, was taken first to the Rapid Response Squad office in Alausa, then transferred to Area F Police Station in Ikeja. Civil society groups report his health deteriorated further while in custody.
The arrest sent a clear message to other potential organizers: resistance will not be tolerated.
“This is less about power lines and much more about urban development,” says Cameron, a witness who spoke on condition his full name not be used for fear of retaliation. “There’s been, I believe, five confirmed deaths—three children and two adults.”
The Ghost of Military Rule
For many older Lagosians, the current demolitions evoke painful memories of Nigeria’s military era, when citizens had few rights and state power was exercised with impunity.
“The ongoing forced eviction is part of the worst series of mass forced evictions witnessed since the military era,” declares a coalition statement from Justice & Empowerment Initiatives (JEI), the Nigerian Slum/Informal Settlement Federation, and CEE-HOPE. The coalition notes that since July 2023, hundreds of thousands have been displaced across Lagos communities—Oworonshoki, Orisunmibare, Otto, Oko Baba, Aiyetoro, Ilaje Otumara, and Baba Ijora among them.
Many of these demolitions proceeded despite subsisting court orders. Promises of consultation, compensation, and resettlement repeatedly proved hollow.
“We view these latest attacks on vulnerable populations and the urban poor as the most violent manifestations of Lagos State government’s contempt for those it views as human scrap to be cleared for elite profit,” the rights groups stated bluntly.
Who Benefits?
While families sleep in canoes and under bridges, sand-filling activities for luxury real estate development continue near the demolished zones. Residents point to FBT Coral Estate Limited, a private firm conducting operations close to where Makoko once stood along the Third Mainland Bridge, as evidence of what many see as the real motive behind the demolitions.
“When they demolish, will they build for the use of those who occupied those properties?” asks Moses Ogunleye, a fellow at the Nigerian Institute of Town Planners.
The pattern is grimly familiar. After previous demolitions in waterfront areas like Maroko and Oworonshoki, the cleared land was quickly filled with sand and sold to property developers who erected expensive high-end estates for Lagos’s wealthy elite. The poor are displaced; the rich move in.
In Oworonshoki, residents accuse the Oba (traditional ruler) Babatunde Saliu of backing the demolitions to reclaim waterfront land for private development—a charge he denies. But when compensation was finally offered, only 79 people were listed out of more than 10,000 affected residents. Community members alleged the payments went to palace loyalists who hadn’t lost homes.
“We reject this mockery of justice,” said activists Olanrewaju Olusegun and Adewale Ogunnusi in a statement. “We demand transparent enumeration, an independent investigation, and adequate compensation for all victims.”
Lives in Limbo
Fifteen-year-old Esther Eniefiok didn’t die from falling walls or burning structures. According to accounts from Oworonshoki, she died from severe emotional distress and panic when demolition crews arrived in her community. She was crushed not by rubble, but by fear.
An elderly man known as “Baba Aro” died within 24 hours of a November 2025 demolition wave. Reports from October allege a newborn and a five-year-old child also perished during the initial chaos.
For those who survived, the trauma continues. Schools in Makoko have been closed since the demolitions began. Children don’t attend classes; adults don’t go to church. Fear hangs over the community like the teargas smoke that so often fills the air.
“All schools have been closed. People have not been going to church. There is fear on people’s faces,” says Ayinde Roderick, a resident. “People who lost their houses are sleeping on boats.”
Idowu Israel, a youth leader and school owner, made a heartbreaking decision: “I pulled down my school on Sunday because I spent a lot of money building it. I don’t want the government to just destroy it without compensation.”
Protests Met With Force
On January 28, 2026, displaced residents from Makoko, Oworonshoki, Otumara, and Baba Ijora marched to the Lagos State House of Assembly complex. They carried placards reading “Stop the Demolitions,” “Stop Punishing the Poor,” and “Our Lives Also Matter.”
The response was swift and severe. Police deployed teargas and arrested scores of protesters, including youth leader Hassan Taiwo, known as Soweto. Witnesses say the police commissioner was present at the scene.
The Lagos Assembly defended the police action, claiming protesters had been “openly confrontational and verbally abusive” and that one activist had made “defamatory and inflammatory” accusations. But the images of teargas and arrests only deepened comparisons to military-era repression.
More protests followed. On January 15, demonstrators blocked roads near the Assembly. Days later, another group converged at Ikeja Under-Bridge, their placards declaring: “Makoko Lives Matter,” “Demolition Without Resettlement Is Injustice,” “Lagos Is for All, Not the Rich Alone.”
A City’s Contradiction
Lagos is a city of contradictions—Africa’s beating commercial heart, a megacity racing toward global relevance, yet home to some of the continent’s deepest poverty. Up to 75% of its estimated 20 million residents live in informal housing, according to the World Bank. The city faces one of Africa’s most severe housing shortages, with a deficit estimated at over 4 million units.
No reasonable person disputes the need for urban planning or the danger of structures beneath high-voltage lines. What is contested is the manner of enforcement: the violence, the lack of notice, the absence of meaningful resettlement plans, the pattern of clearing valuable waterfront land for elite developments.
“What government has to do is support these communities, not destroy them,” says Nnimmo Bassey, Executive Director of HOMEF, speaking at a community engagement themed “Community Eviction Halting Dialogue.”
Noble Chigbo of the Socio-Economic Rights and Accountability Project (SERAP) puts it more bluntly: “They were supposed to be consulted with and resettled before any demolition should happen. But what we’re seeing in this country, unfortunately, is that the rule of law is not being respected.”
A Humanitarian Crisis
As of early February 2026, the demolitions continue. Tens of thousands remain displaced. Families with small children sleep in boats, under tarpaulins, in church buildings, or simply under the open sky. The rainy season approaches.
Jide Ojo, a displaced Makoko resident, described the experience as “very traumatic and horrible.”
“A situation where you have government discussing regeneration, upgrading and development with members of the community suddenly turned out into demolition and unexpected demolition,” he told Arise Television. “Before the government can carry out demolition, there must be what we call a contravention notice. But none of that was done.”
Ojo alleges that the death toll is higher than officially acknowledged: “A lot of people have died. Some died instantly. Some died along the process as a result of the inhuman and illegal demolition. There was a lady who died under the intense smoke of teargas, and about six people are still lying down in the mortuary now.”
The United Nations Youth Association has called on the Lagos government to provide temporary schools and mobile health clinics for displaced residents. Civil society organizations demand an immediate halt to demolitions, the release of detained activists, independent investigations into reported deaths, and adequate compensation and resettlement for victims.
Lagos government officials have largely declined to address residents’ specific allegations. Governor Babajide Sanwo-Olu has defended the evictions, citing safety risks around critical infrastructure. But he has not explained why demolitions extended far beyond initial safety zones, why they proceeded despite court orders, or why they occurred with such overwhelming force.
Echoes of the Past
Makoko has weathered demolition attempts before—in 2005, in 2012, and now again in 2025-2026. Each time, the government cites safety, sanitation, or urban renewal. Each time, residents are displaced with minimal warning or compensation. Each time, luxury developments eventually rise on the cleared land.
But this wave feels different to many observers. The scale is unprecedented. The violence more systematic. The disregard for due process more brazen. The echoes of military-era impunity more pronounced.
“These actions starkly contradict earlier assurances,” says Akinbode Oluwafemi, Executive Director of CAPPA. “They show a disturbing pattern of disregard for the constitutional rights to life, housing and dignity of marginalized Lagos residents.”
For Victor Ahansu, politics and policy debates seem distant abstractions as he sits in his canoe with his wife and infant twins, watching the ruins of Makoko float past on the lagoon’s murky water. His immediate concerns are more basic: shelter from the rain, safety from the next demolition wave, some way to feed his children.
“They treated us like we are less than animals,” says Alex Wusa, a 25-year-old teacher, sailing through what remains of his community.
As Lagos races to become a global megacity by 2100, thousands of its poorest residents are learning a hard lesson: in the competition between development and dignity, between property and people, between the powerful and the powerless, the methods of enforcement matter as much as the law itself.
And increasingly, those methods look disturbingly like the heavy-handed tactics of an era Nigeria thought it had left behind.