Makoko and Why Community Leaders Are Right to Reject NGO Representation

Taye Paul Olubayo

For years, foreign journalists and development agencies have called Makoko “the Venice of Africa,” a romantic framing that transforms grinding poverty into exotic architecture, which makes picturesque what is actually precarious. The comparison flatters our capacity for metaphor while obscuring material reality: people living under high-tension cables, children navigating lagoon waters to reach school, families sleeping on boats.

At Tuesday’s Lagos State Assembly session, community leaders said something more honest: we don’t need representatives, we’ll speak for ourselves. That statement deserves more attention than it has received.

The rejection of NGO intermediation wasn’t a throwaway comment. Community leaders explicitly told assembly members that they no longer want non-governmental organizations to represent them and are ready to engage directly with the government. This matters because the question of who speaks for Makoko, and how, shapes everything that follows.

The NGO intermediation model treats communities as subjects to be represented rather than agents capable of self-representation. Well-meaning organizations position themselves between government and residents, translating community needs into grant language, softening demands into policy recommendations, and turning grievances into consultancy reports.
The arrangement serves multiple interests: the government manages stakeholder engagement rather than direct confrontation, NGOs justify their existence and secure funding, and communities gain representation.

But representation is not the same as agency. When external organizations speak for communities, they inevitably speak from their own institutional logic, their funding requirements, and their theories of change.

Community priorities get filtered through what is fundable, what aligns with donor interests, and what fits established program frameworks. The result is often advocacy that serves the community at large while overlooking the specific needs of individual residents.

Consider what Makoko’s displaced families need most urgently: not studies or advocacy or awareness campaigns, but shelter. When the Yaba LCDA Chairman distributed foodstuffs to people sleeping on boats, the State Assembly rightly criticized the gesture. What people needed was housing, not palliatives. That clarity, the ability to name immediate need without diplomatic softening, is what direct engagement enables.

The Makoko/Iwaya Waterfront Regeneration Plan, developed starting in 2012 and submitted to the government in 2014, was genuinely community-led. Residents articulated their vision: preserve traditional lagoon-front culture, maintain the fishing economy, improve housing and sanitation, and enhance disaster resilience. The plan made the community’s priorities foundational rather than incidental. But comprehensive plans are one thing; implementation is another.

What happened between the initially communicated 30-metre safety corridor and the eventual demolition of structures 200 metres away? Who made those decisions, and were community leaders genuinely consulted or merely informed?
These questions reveal why communities increasingly prefer direct dialogue. When parameters shift during implementation, residents need to be in the room where decisions happen, not receiving filtered information through intermediaries.
The Egun fishing community in Makoko has existed for 200 years, with governance led by baales who command genuine community trust. This isn’t an absence of structure requiring external intervention; it’s a functioning system that predates many of the organizations claiming to represent it.

The State Assembly’s proposal to constitute community leaders as members of the Taskforce Committee recognizes this reality. The question is whether their role will be consultative, attending meetings to provide input on predetermined agendas, or substantive, with actual decision-making power over regeneration sequencing and resource allocation.

The government should welcome this direct engagement rather than fear it. Community leaders know what displaced families need, understand local dynamics, and can mobilize cooperation in ways no external organization can match. They also bring accountability: leaders who must face their communities daily cannot afford the diplomatic abstractions that characterized some earlier stakeholder processes.

The Special Adviser to Lagos State Governor on E-GIS and Planning Matters, Dr. Olajide Abiodun Babatunde, has assured that Makoko “is part of Lagos history” and will be preserved, which is encouraging. But preservation cannot be merely rhetorical. It requires protecting not only the place but also the people, governance systems, and economic activities that make Makoko culturally significant.

Taye Paul Olubayo writes from Abuja