On June 12, 2025, Nigeria celebrated 26 years of uninterrupted democratic rule, a milestone marked annually by Democracy Day, which honors the nation’s resilience since the return to civilian governance in 1999. Given recent events across West Africa—which has, unfortunately, become Africa’s “coup belt”—this achievement is no small feat for a country with a turbulent history of violent military interventions, one of which led to a brutal civil war from 1967 to 1970. 

Yet beneath the surface of Nigeria’s democratic triumph lies a stark contradiction: The country’s urban centers, supposed showcases of civil progress, are governed with an autocratic mindset that betrays the democratic ideals the nation claims to uphold. Across Nigeria’s major cities, urban policies reflect a deep disdain for the poor, perpetuating a form of urban tyranny that prioritizes elite aesthetics over social equity.

Democracy, by definition, is participatory: government of the people, by the people, for the people. In Nigeria, however, this principle falters in its cities. Municipal administration often mirrors the prejudices and inequalities that democracy should ideally dismantle. A glaring example emerged a few weeks ago, when a Nigerian senator moved a motion in parliament for the relocation of low-income communities near Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport in Abuja. The senator argued that these settlements, visible from the air, were an “eyesore” unfit for a capital city aspiring to global status. Instead, he envisioned skyscrapers and landmarks to impress visitors descending into Abuja. Though the motion was marginally defeated in a voice vote, it exposed a troubling mindset among Nigeria’s ruling class: the urban poor are not citizens to be served, but inconveniences to be hidden out of sight. 

This incident is far from isolated. Across Nigeria, urban policies consistently favor the elite. In Abuja, roads in affluent neighborhoods such as Maitama and Asokoro receive regular maintenance, while those in low-income areas—Nyanya, Kubwa, and even middle-class neighborhoods like Gwarimpa—deteriorate into potholed hazards. Waste management systems in poor neighborhoods districts are often shabbily run, forcing communities to sometimes navigate piles of uncollected garbage. Over the years, forced evictions and demolitions have displaced thousands from informal settlements, often without compensation or alternative housing. 

Nigeria’s urban tyranny is not merely administrative neglect, but a deliberate agenda rooted in class disdain. The urban poor, who make up the majority of city dwellers, are treated as obstacles to the vision of a “modern” Nigeria. This vision, often modelled on cities like Dubai or Singapore, equates progress with glass towers and manicured boulevards, leaving little room for the informal economies and vibrant communities that define African urbanism. The consequences are stark. In most cities, aggressive gentrification has transformed neighborhoods into enclaves for the wealthy, pushing low-income residents to the city’s fringe that receive a marginal percentage of the city’s infrastructure budget.  

Ironically, Nigeria’s cities fall short of even the flawed urbanism of Communist-planned neighborhoods. While far from perfect, model Communist urbanism often prioritized the needs of residents over superficial aesthetics. My own experience living in a Communist-planned neighborhood in Eastern Europe offers a stark contrast. In the early 2000s, I spent time in a Communist-built housing estate in Kyiv; several kilometres of monotonous concrete residential blocks housed a diverse assortment of communities. Despite the stark aesthetic and ideological flaws of this urbanism, the neighborhood was designed with intention: schools, hospitals, and playgrounds were integrated into the urban fabric, fostering a sense of cohesion. Waste was managed efficiently, and public spaces were accessible to all. 

The disdain for the poor is not just a policy failure but a cultural one, rooted in a post-colonial elite mindset that equates low-income communities with dystopia and dysfunction.

Under Nigeria’s democracy, by contrast, urban centers lack such foresight. The disdain for the poor is not just a policy failure but a cultural one, rooted in a post-colonial elite mindset that equates low-income communities with dystopia and dysfunction. This attitude is evident in the language of urban planning: slums are “cleared,” communities are “relocated,” and informal markets are “sanitized.” These euphemisms mask a brutal reality: the erasure of the low-income earners from the urban narrative.

The consequences are dire. Exclusionary policies deepen social divides, fuelling resentment between the haves and have-nots. The consequences of Nigeria’s urban policies extend far beyond infrastructure. They deepen social divides and fuel a climate of mutual resentment between rich and poor. The senator’s motion in Abuja was not just about aesthetics; it signalled that the poor do not belong. Such rhetoric fans the embers of class tension, already strained by Nigeria’s staggering inequality—an inequality that’s not just economic but spatial. What makes this urban tyranny particularly insidious is its veneer of progress: actions justified as “urban renewal” often destroy livelihoods and community networks. Informal settlements, though lacking formal infrastructure, are hubs of economic activity, from street vending to artisanal workshops. Destroying them without providing alternatives destabilizes the urban economy and exacerbates poverty. 

Moreover, urban tyranny undermines social harmony. Nigeria’s cities are melting pots of ethnic and religious diversity, but exclusionary policies risk fracturing these delicate balances. It also ignores the vibrant, chaotic lifeblood of African urbanism: the street vendors, artisanal workshops, and tight-knit communities that sustain the majority of Nigerians. 

Nigeria’s urban crisis demands a reimagining of its cities, not as showcases for the elite, but as inclusive spaces that reflect the nation’s diversity. This begins with rethinking urban planning. Rather than demolishing informal settlements, governments should invest in upgrading them, as seen in successful models elsewhere, that prioritize community-led development over top-down gentrification.

Urban policies must also address inequality directly. Instead of bulldozing informal settlements, the government should upgrade them, drawing on models like Brazil’s favela revitalization. Participatory budgeting could give residents a voice in spending, while progressive land reforms might curb the elite’s stranglehold on urban wealth. Above all, Nigeria must embrace its urban diversity; the markets, the street life, the resilience as assets, not liabilities. 

Planners should draw on indigenous knowledge to design cities that work for all. As urbanist Jane Jacobs argued, cities thrive on diversity, not uniformity. Nigeria’s urban future depends on recognizing the value of its people—all of them.

Featured image: National Assembly Building, Abuja, Nigeria, via Wikimedia Commons.