•It’s a flood plain, says government
In the flood-prone community of Agboyi, Lagos, survival is a daily act of resilience amid systemic neglect. Divided by water yet united by struggle, its residents rely on canoes and courage to navigate life’s basics—health, hygiene, and hope. Despite transformative aid from the Red Cross Society, lasting change remains elusive without government investment. Agboyi’s fight is not just against rising waters, but for recognition, dignity, and infrastructure. UDEH ONYEBUCHI visited the community.
The rhythm of life in Agboyi follows not the clock but the current. In this community tucked away behind Alapere and Ogudu in Lagos, Agboyi‑Ketu Local Council Development Area, time is measured not in days or weeks, but in flood cycles. Every year, without fall, the waters rise. And with every rise, the community fights not just to stay afloat but to be seen.
Agboyi is not a singular community—it is three distinct enclaves: Agboyi I, Agboyi II, and Agboyi III. These settlements, separated by narrow strips of water and connected by history, have quietly endured in the shadow of Lagos’ expansion. With a combined population inching towards one million, Agboyi exists in the liminal space between rural past and urban neglect. There are no motorable roads connecting all sections of the community. Instead, residents rely on wooden canoes to navigate their way to hospitals, schools, and markets. During the peak of the flood season, from August through October, many of these wooden vessels become lifelines.
According to Chief Lateef Adeyemi Adeshina, the Baale of Agboyi III, “Even if it doesn’t rain, the water rises,” His words are not alarmist—they are lived reality. In Agboyi, flooding is not a seasonal surprise but an annual certainty. The lagoon swells, creeping silently into homes, swallowing fences, washing away childhood toys and livestock alike. The water climbs as high as five meters in some parts, rendering some pathways unusable and turning compounds into islands.
Survival by adaptation, not design
Like is natural with humans, the people have responded the only way they know how—with quiet resilience. Some have built raised platforms inside their homes. Others have reinforced walls to withstand the surge. In some cases, even graves have been elevated, a sobering testament to the permanence of this crisis. “We cannot leave. This is our ancestral land. Our fathers lived and died here. We too will stay,” Chief Adeshina said with steady eyes.
But resilience has its limits. Life in Agboyi is a daily battle with nature and neglect. With no public drainage system, no reliable waste disposal, and no government-built toilets, the river serves as both a source of water and a site of waste. It is not uncommon to see children swimming in the same spot where refuse floats and adults squat in makeshift wooden latrines.
There are no illusions among the people. They know the water they use to cook, bathe, and drink is not clean. Waterborne illnesses are common, and when they come, there is little in the way of medical support. The nearest health centers are often inaccessible during the worst of the floods, and many residents cannot afford private treatment.
According to Salewa Akinrogun, a trader in Agboyi I, “We spend more money on water than food.” She buys water in a gallon for ₦100, but it is never enough. Boreholes promised by politicians have yet to materialise. Pipes lie buried in promise, not in practice.
The Red Cross arrives, but the government lingers
Despite this, Agboyi has not been without help. A turning point came four years ago, when the British Red Cross, in partnership with the Nigerian Red Cross Society’s Lagos branch, stepped into the fray. What began as a humanitarian intervention soon evolved into a multifaceted program focused on resilience, empowerment, and infrastructure. The Red Cross did not merely drop off supplies and disappear; they embedded themselves in the rhythm of the community, earning trust and building systems.
According to Mr Olakunle Lasis, Branch Secretary of the Nigerian Red Cross, Lagos. “When we first came here, many people thought we were just another NGO dropping off aid. But our goal was not just to respond—it was to build long-term resilience. We wanted to leave behind systems that would survive long after we stepped back.”
Their work was transformative. Cash distributions revitalised small businesses, allowing residents to purchase goods, rebuild stock, and meet urgent household needs. Protective items—rain boots, mosquito nets, and raincoats—reduced exposure to the elements. More importantly, the Red Cross introduced systems for long-term survival. Water testing and purification campaigns helped communities understand how to treat water at home. Schools became centres of hygiene education, where children learned to wash their hands properly and returned home as small ambassadors of cleanliness.
The disaster management Officer, Ige Oladimeji, stated that “The water quality was toxic. We found E. coli levels far beyond acceptable limits. That’s when we knew water purification had to be central to our mission—not just relief but education. You can’t stop a flood, but you can reduce the illnesses that come with it.”
In total, the Red Cross injected more than ₦358 million into Agboyi’s struggling economy—an intervention of a scale unmatched by any state or federal effort in recent memory. Over the span of four years, the humanitarian programme reached approximately 4,000 households across Agboyi I, II, and III, touching nearly every corner of the community. For Victory Shola, it was the first time any form of organised external support had not only arrived but stayed long enough to make a measurable difference. It stands today as one of the most extensive and sustained humanitarian interventions in the history of the three Agboyis.
Behind this practical work was a strategic push toward what the Red Cross called “humanitarian diplomacy.” This involved linking Agboyi’s traditional leaders with ministries, government agencies, and NGOs that had long overlooked them. Slowly, the doors of bureaucracy began to open. Relief from NEMA (National Emergency Management Agency) became more regular. Visits from the Ministry of Environment were no longer one-off appearances but part of a growing acknowledgment that Agboyi exists.
But aid alone is not enough. As the Red Cross built relationships and delivered resources, they also worked to create local structures that would outlive their presence. Community resilience committees began monitoring water levels and issuing early warnings. Youths were trained in first aid and emergency response, ensuring that when crises came—as they inevitably do—the first responders were neighbours, not outsiders.
Crucially, the Red Cross insisted on inclusion. Women, people with disabilities, and residents were all brought into planning and decision-making. A confidential hotline allowed residents to report abuse or misallocation of aid, and oversight from the International Red Cross ensured that accountability was not a buzzword but a practice.
Voices rising from the water
Still, the community yearns for more. Infrastructure remains the gaping hole in Agboyi’s survival plan. A bridge now connects Agboyi I to the rest of the city—a hard-won victory—but Agboyi II and III remain cut off. A modern hospital stands, built but unequipped; its wards empty and silent. Roads are still nonexistent. During elections, politicians arrive with promises and plastic smiles, only to vanish once the ballot boxes are sealed.
Kemi Omolade, a trader in Agboyi II, is one of the many whose businesses received a lifeline from the Red Cross’s support. “The money helped me restock,” she said, “but we still need the state government.” In her tone was not ingratitude, but exhaustion—the weariness of someone who has heard too many promises echo across too many floods.
From Agboyi III, Kazeem Adejumo paints a grim picture. “We swim and defecate in the same river,” he said. His words cut through policy reports and strategy papers with the raw truth of lived experience. For him and his neighbours, development is not a concept; it is clean water, a working toilet, a reliable clinic.
The community chief, Agboyi III, spoke for a generation caught between education and unemployment. “We have graduates—HND, BSc, even PhDs—but no jobs,” he said. “We need empowerment, not just palliatives. Let the government stop using us for political theatre.”
A floodplain, not a settlement – Government responds
In the face of growing calls for more robust infrastructure and state support, the Lagos State Ministry of Environment and Water Resources maintains a firm position: Agboyi’s geography makes permanent habitation risky, and government intervention can only go as far.
The Director of Public Affairs at the Ministry, Kunle Adeshina, speaking on behalf of the Commissioner, described Agboyi as a natural floodplain and low-lying wetland.
“It’s a floodplain. Even during very dry seasons, if you go there, the water is always there. That place ordinarily should not be a habitation,” he said.
According to Adeshina, the state government has consistently advised residents of the dangers of living in such terrain.
“Governments over the years have made it clear to these people that it’s like going to water territory to meet it. There’s no way around it. You’re displacing water from its natural habitat. That comes with consequences.”
He emphasised that the location’s topography means the area will remain vulnerable, regardless of rainfall or drainage interventions.
“That you’ve lived there for 600 years doesn’t change the fact that the land is not meant for settlement. Most of the time, their only mode of transportation is the canoe. It’s not even just September to October. It’s all year round.”
Adeshina further argued that many buildings in the area were constructed without proper approval or planning permits.
“Some of these communities grew from scattered settlements to densely built areas, often without regulation. Selling land in such terrain—where none should be sold—has worsened the problem.”
While acknowledging the community’s ancestral ties, he pointed out the limitations of urban planning in flood-prone zones.
“When you have too much flooding in such low-lying areas, people should consider relocating temporarily to higher ground. But most won’t agree. They cite ancestry. Nobody disputes that history, but it doesn’t change the environmental reality.”
He also noted that the state has not been idle. Bridges have been built, and more may come, but responsibility is shared.
“It’s not that the government is doing nothing. Bridges have been built to assist them. If they want more, they should channel it appropriately. But no one should suggest that it is government action that caused the flooding. They built into water.”
While not dismissing the community’s struggles, the ministry’s response underscores the broader debate between urban expansion, ancestral claims, and environmental sustainability.
A call
As Lagos builds sky-high towers in Lekki and expands expressways through Ikoyi, Agboyi waits, afloat on its own patience. Yet that patience is not endless. The people here are not begging for charity—they are demanding dignity. They want roads, not excuses. They want clinics with staff, not structures for show. They want clean water that does not come with a price tag. And most of all, they want to be heard not just when the waters rise, but when they fall.
Agboyi’s battle against rising waters is not simply a fight against nature. It is a struggle against systemic neglect, political apathy, and a city that too often turns its back on its most vulnerable. Yet in the raised graves, the floating schools, the rebuilt stalls, and the stubborn hope of its people, one finds a community that refuses to drown in silence.
