In Lagos, the refuse crisis has spilled into the heart of everyday life, transforming roadsides, markets and bus stops into informal dumpsites. Beyond the stench and visual blight lies a growing public health threat, as uncollected waste breeds disease, contaminates water and clogs drainage, turning what seems like a sanitation lapse into a warning that the city’s growth is outpacing its capacity to protect lives, report Raymond Mordi, Daniel Essiet and Udeh Onyebuchi
You perceive the smell before you see the garbage. On Agege Motor Road in Oshodi, near the Iyana Brown bus stop, a massive pile of trash occupies almost half a lane. Black plastic bags, rotting food, empty bottles, and discarded packaging form a putrid mound that greets anyone entering Lagos. The mix of decay and diesel fumes is a warning sign: the city’s waste management system is under severe strain. And this is far from an isolated case.
From Ajah in the east to Idi-Oro in Mushin, from Ikotun Market to Megida bus stop in Ayobo, refuse piles line roads, clog drainage channels, and crowd medians. The Nation observed that since early December 2025, garbage has become a regular, unavoidable feature of the metropolis. What began as isolated heaps has now spread, creating both a visual and health hazard. Even after the festive season, Lagos, a city renowned for its energy and constant change, remains stuck with its own waste.
The seasonal surge in waste is one factor. December in Lagos brings street parties, concerts and bustling markets, all accompanied by increased consumption. Disposable plates, cups and food packaging flood the streets. Yet, weeks after the festivities, much of the refuse remains uncollected. “You will find garbage on the road median every time,” says Samuel Oluwashola, a resident of Ijesha in Surulere. “Even if LAWMA clears it, two days later, people start dumping again.”
Residents, traders and drivers alike said they are feeling the impact. Heaps of refuse along the Ikorodu Garage, Apapa-Oshodi Expressway, Surulere, Iyana Ipaja, Abule Egba, and Toll Gate near Ogun State have become obstacles rather than mere eyesores. Traders lament declining sales as customers avoid smelly, congested streets. Drivers complain of longer trips and damage to vehicles. Health concerns are widespread, with residents worrying about malaria, cholera, and other sanitation-related diseases.
The Lagos State Government acknowledges that the festive season worsened the situation, but insists that deeper structural problems are to blame. The Commissioner for the Environment and Water Resources, Tokunbo Wahab, has cited the closure of the Olusosun landfill as a major setback to waste disposal. Many residents, however, remain unconvinced. For weeks, they have watched garbage piles swell across major roads with little visible response.
The current garbage crisis is not an aberration; it is the latest chapter in a decades-long struggle. Lagos, a megacity of more than 20 million people, generates an estimated 13,000 metric tonnes of waste daily. Official figures suggest that only about one-third of this volume is properly collected. The remainder finds its way into canals, lagoons, informal dumpsites and, increasingly, onto the streets.
Lagos’s battle with filth has long been notorious. In the 1970s, ahead of the FESTAC ’77 cultural festival, a federal official infamously described the city as the dirtiest capital in the world. The public embarrassment spurred the creation of the Lagos State Refuse Disposal Board in 1977, which later evolved into the Lagos State Waste Management Authority (LAWMA) in 1991. Over the years, reform efforts have yielded mixed results. The introduction of the Private Sector Participation (PSP) scheme in the early 2000s improved waste collection in several neighbourhoods and brought relative order to parts of the city. Yet fundamental weaknesses persisted, including a shortage of trucks and personnel, inefficient transfer loading stations, and heavy dependence on overstretched dumpsites.
The disposal system itself remains fragile. Lagos produces thousands of tonnes of largely non-biodegradable waste—much of it plastic—every day. Landfills such as Olusosun have operated far beyond their designed lifespan. Attempts to modernise waste handling through waste-to-energy projects and partnerships with foreign firms have repeatedly stalled. A sweeping reform plan unveiled in the late 2010s promised a decisive break from the past, but collapsed amid disputes, leaving the city largely dependent on the old, failing framework.
By December 2025, these long-standing problems reached crisis levels. Residents and waste workers alike said multiple failures occurred simultaneously. The holiday rush compressed already strained collection schedules. Some PSP operators reportedly suspended services on certain routes over payment disputes. Ageing trucks broke down and were not replaced. In high-traffic areas such as Oshodi, drivers avoided congested corridors or streets narrowed by illegal dumping, effectively abandoning some locations.
As refuse continues to accumulate, a familiar blame game has emerged. Government officials and LAWMA frequently fault residents for refusing to pay for waste services. “The main issue is that many Lagos residents are unwilling to pay,” said Kunle Adeshina, spokesperson for the Ministry of the Environment. He described a recurring pattern in which LAWMA clears road medians at dawn, only for them to be blanketed with refuse again by early morning.
Others see the problem differently. “There is no incentive to come here,” said a middle-aged trader who sells spare parts near the massive heap along Agege Motor Road. “The trucks can’t turn properly. If they get stuck, nobody helps them. So they just leave it.”
A former LAWMA official, who spoke on condition of anonymity, said politics and poor coordination often worsen operational failures. “Waste management looks simple from the outside, but it depends on fuel supply, vehicle maintenance, staff welfare and enforcement,” the source explained. “When one segment breaks down, the entire chain suffers. In December, several links failed at the same time.”
Enforcement remains one of the most contentious aspects of the crisis. While Lagos has laws prohibiting indiscriminate dumping, many of the refuse heaps lining major roads are not solely the result of individual misconduct. In some cases, waste is deposited at temporary collection points in anticipation of swift evacuation. When that evacuation does not occur, the piles expand and invite further dumping.
Areas most prone to refuse build-up tend to share common characteristics: high population density, intense commercial activity and poor road access. Oshodi, Agege, Mushin and parts of Surulere fit this profile. Ajegunle and Ijora contend with additional challenges linked to informal housing and industrial waste.
On Lagos Island, narrow streets and heavy pedestrian traffic complicate collection logistics. In Apapa and Mile 2, chronic port-related gridlock adds another layer of difficulty, often relegating waste evacuation to a secondary concern in an already congested urban landscape. Residents in many of the affected neighbourhoods speak of a growing sense of abandonment. “When you complain, they tell you to be patient,” said a shop owner in Mushin, gesturing at a mound of refuse behind her stall. “We have been patient for weeks. The rubbish is still here.”
Private Sector Participation (PSP) operators argue that policy shifts have compounded operational challenges. Kehinde, who works in Iyana Ipaja, blamed the sudden closure of the Igando dumpsite and the redirection of waste to Badagry. The longer haul, he explained, translates into higher fuel costs, faster vehicle wear and tear, and fewer collection trips per day. Another operator, Samson, was blunt: “If you spend most of the day travelling, your street coverage collapses. That is why you now see mountains of refuse.”
For residents, irregular collection erodes any incentive to pay for waste services. “People dump it on the road because nobody is coming to collect it,” said Abosede Aremu, a resident of Ikorodu. LAWMA’s Managing Director, Dr Muyiwa Gbadegesin, has acknowledged service gaps and admitted that some operators are underperforming. He has promised tougher enforcement, additional waste bins and improved accountability. Governor Babajide Sanwo-Olu has also announced plans for new recycling facilities and more collection trucks. To many residents, however, these assurances feel distant and abstract.
Meanwhile, the health and environmental consequences are immediate and severe. Open refuse heaps attract rats, flies and other disease vectors. As organic waste decomposes, it releases noxious gases, while plastics fragment into micro-particles that wash into drains and lagoons. Blocked gutters heighten the risk of flash flooding during the rainy season, sending contaminated water into homes and onto streets.
Public health experts warn that the outcomes are predictable. Cholera, typhoid and other water-borne diseases flourish where waste and stagnant water intersect. Respiratory ailments rise when refuse is burned—an all-too-common response when heaps are left unattended. Children, who often play near these informal dumpsites, are particularly vulnerable. Beyond health risks, the city’s reputation is also at stake. Lagos aspires to be a global African city, attractive to investors, tourists and creatives. “Detty December” has become part of that brand, drawing international attention and revenue. Yet images of trash-choked streets tell a less flattering story. For visitors, the thrill of concerts and nightlife quickly fades when the drive from the airport passes piles of rotting waste.
Some officials privately concede the scale of the challenge but insist that remedies are underway. A senior government source, who was not authorised to speak publicly, cited logistical bottlenecks as the cause of delays. “It is not a lack of concern,” the source said. “It is a question of capacity catching up with demand.” Critics remain sceptical. Environmental advocates note that Lagos has endured similar crises before. “Every few years, we find ourselves here again,” said one campaigner. “The root causes are well known: we generate too much waste, depend excessively on landfills, and underinvest in recycling, reduction and sorting.”
Looking back, the city is littered with missed opportunities—community-based sorting schemes that collapsed, recycling initiatives that never gained traction, and pledges to decentralise waste management to local councils that were quietly abandoned. Each administration unveils a new blueprint, only to confront the same structural weaknesses. For residents living beside the garbage heaps, such analysis offers little comfort. What they want is immediate action: clear the roads, restore access and eliminate the stench. A bus driver navigating around the pile on Agege Motor Road put it plainly: “We can manage traffic. We can manage stress. But living with rubbish on the road every day is too much.”
Lagos Waste Management Authority (LAWMA) under pressure
The Lagos Waste Management Authority (LAWMA) faces enormous pressure. The system relies heavily on Private Sector Participation (PSP) operators, who are responsible for collecting waste from households, markets and commercial areas. Lagos has roughly 450 PSP operators across 377 political wards. In theory, this ensures that every ward has at least one operator, with larger wards serviced by more. In practice, the system is overstretched. “Lagos is one of the largest megacities in the world, with a projected population of about 27 million,” says Dr. Muyiwa Gbadegesin, Managing Director and CEO of LAWMA. “Each resident generates roughly half a kilogramme of waste daily. When you do the arithmetic, that amounts to between 13,000 and 15,000 tonnes of waste every single day.”
But collection is only part of the challenge. Financing, infrastructure, and disposal capacity are major bottlenecks. A new compactor truck costs about N250 million, making fleet expansion prohibitively expensive. Meanwhile, the city’s major landfills, including Olusosun and Soluos, are nearing capacity. Soluos, located near Alimosho General Hospital, was recently shut after reaching dangerous levels, forcing operators to travel farther to disposal sites in Badagry and other distant locations.
“The closure of a landfill has ripple effects,” Gbadegesin explains. “PSP operators spend more time travelling and dumping, delaying their return to complete collections. When trucks break down or are delayed, residents often dump refuse on the roads. At that point, LAWMA has no choice but to intervene.”
Currently, LAWMA deploys about 100 trucks across 44 operational routes, working day and night to clear illegal dump sites and backlogs. “But 100 trucks are not enough for a city of this size,” Gbadegesin admits. Ideally, Lagos needs at least 1,000 compactor trucks, with another 1,000 as backup. Over the next decade, LAWMA plans to acquire 100–200 trucks annually to meet that target.
Beyond expanding collection capacity, the authority is pursuing transfer loading stations to reduce the distance waste must travel before disposal or treatment. Enforcement has been intensified, with teams expanded from one to four, covering strategic corridors across the metropolis. “We are increasingly becoming an enforcement agency,” Gbadegesin says. “We are even considering becoming a uniformed agency if that is what it will take. Every day, we arrest individuals who dump waste illegally and prosecute them through mobile courts. By law, every household must register with a PSP operator and pay its waste bill. Failure to comply carries consequences.”
However, enforcement alone cannot solve the problem. LAWMA is emphasising waste reduction, recycling and reuse. “Ninety per cent of what people throw away has value to someone,” Gbadegesin notes. “Throwing waste away is, literally, throwing money away.” The state’s long-term waste management strategy embraces a circular economy, viewing waste as a resource rather than a burden. Recovery of energy and materials from waste that would otherwise reach landfills is now central to the plan, alongside recycling and treatment initiatives.
Community recycling programmes have already been rolled out, including weekly buy-back schemes at transfer stations, where residents can exchange plastics, metals, paper, and even organic waste for cash. Plans are underway to expand these initiatives to Mushin, Ikeja, and all local government areas. LAWMA is also experimenting with lower-cost tricycle compactors for narrow streets and hard-to-reach areas. “A tricycle compactor costs about N7 million, compared to N250 million for a full truck. They may carry only one or two tonnes, but they improve coverage and create jobs,” Gbadegesin says.
Collaboration is also critical. LAWMA is deepening partnerships with local governments, market associations, and transport unions. “Cleanliness must be seen as a cost of doing business,” Gbadegesin stresses. “If you make money at a bus stop or in a market, you must keep that environment clean.”
Lagos is fast losing its clean status, warns AWAMN
From the private sector, concerns are mounting that Lagos is losing ground it once painstakingly gained. Dr. Olugbenga Adebola, President of the Association of Waste Managers of Nigeria (AWAMN), warns that weak enforcement, inconsistent policy, and inadequate government support are steadily eroding decades of progress. “There was a time Lagos moved from being one of the dirtiest cities in the world to one of the cleanest in Africa,” Adebola recalls. “By the end of Asiwaju Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s tenure as governor, Lagos had won awards and became a model for other states and African countries. We should not be back at this level.”
Adebola stresses that waste management is capital-intensive and largely private-sector driven. Investors will only engage where returns are assured. Currently, poor compliance with laws requiring households to register with PSP operators is a major problem. “Those who refuse to pay are often the same people dumping waste on highways and in drainages, destroying the city’s aesthetics,” he notes.
Population pressure compounds the challenge. Lagos attracts millions of daily visitors, who generate vast quantities of waste. “Lagos is catering to a massive population with a relatively limited budget,” Adebola says. He renews calls for special federal status to reflect the city’s unique burden. He also criticises the reliance on ageing dumpsites: “Olusosun is almost 40 years old. We should have moved from burying waste to treating it. Waste is not waste unless you waste it.”
More than half of Africa’s waste stream is organic and can be converted into fertiliser, biogas, or biomethane, while high-calorific waste can be turned into refuse-derived fuel. Globally, governments subsidise waste management as a public good. “Here, operators struggle with bank loans at 29–30 per cent interest. That is not sustainable,” Adebola warns. Poor waste management, he stresses, is a form of “pre-healthcare failure,” directly linked to malaria, cholera, dysentery, and Lassa fever. Without subsidies, grants, and affordable financing, Lagos risks losing hard-won gains.
Inflation is making matters worse. Foreign-used compactor trucks that sold for N8–N10 million a few years ago now cost between N55 million and N60 million. “This is the reality we are facing,” Adebola says. “That is why we are calling on the Federal Government, and on President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, to establish special funding to support waste management. Without intervention, the gains we once made will continue to slip away.”
As Lagos searches for solutions—from expanded recycling and tricycle compactors to waste-to-energy initiatives—the message from both regulators and operators is clear: a clean city cannot be achieved by trucks and laws alone. Consistent policy, sustained investment, and, above all, a shift in public behaviour are essential. For a megacity already straining under its own success, how Lagos manages its waste will ultimately determine its health, longevity, and economic resilience.
