Lagos: A City Losing Its History

Richard Tokunbo Akerele

There is a dangerous trend quietly unfolding across Lagos — the gradual disappearance of its memory.

Cities, like people, derive identity from history. Streets, bridges, public buildings, monuments, and even names are more than physical objects; they are chapters in a collective story. Remove them carelessly, rename them endlessly, demolish them completely, and eventually a city begins to forget itself.

Lagos today is developing at extraordinary speed. Towers rise where bungalows once stood. Roads expand. New estates emerge from reclaimed land. Investment pours in. Progress is necessary. Growth is inevitable.

But development without preservation creates a city with no visible roots — perhaps even a city without a soul.

Over the decades, Lagos has steadily changed the names of roads and landmarks that once connected generations to the city’s past. Colonial names disappeared after independence, which many understandably viewed as symbolic of a nation reclaiming its identity. Yet one must also ask an uncomfortable question: should history be erased simply because parts of it are painful or controversial?

Colonialism, however difficult its legacy, remains part of Nigeria’s historical journey. Erasing reminders of it does not erase the past itself. Mature societies acknowledge history, learn from it, and move forward without pretending earlier chapters never existed.

Unfortunately, the renaming did not stop with decolonisation. Roads, public places, and institutions have continued changing identities depending on political administrations, personalities, or the fashions of the moment.

In the process, historical continuity has slowly been lost.

A city should not erase its past every few decades. It should explain it.

Young Lagosians increasingly move through streets whose original stories they no longer know. Entire generations may never understand why certain roads existed, how districts evolved, or who shaped the city before them. Historical understanding becomes fragmented, reduced to fading memories carried mainly by the elderly.

But perhaps the deeper question is this: what happened to the memory of the original Lagos itself?

Before the bridges, skyscrapers, and commercial districts, there was Eko — shaped by indigenous Awori settlements, fishing communities, lagoon trade, migration, and layered cultural influences that would eventually form modern Lagos. Over time the city absorbed Benin influence, Portuguese traders, Afro-Brazilian returnees, British colonialism, and later Nigerians from every part of the country.

That layered identity is precisely what made Lagos unique.

Yet many of those layers are disappearing physically and culturally at the same time.

Historic neighbourhoods vanish. Old family compounds disappear. Traditional architecture gives way to anonymous concrete towers. Oral histories fade. Even the memory of who originally inhabited parts of Lagos risks becoming unclear to younger generations. A city that loses its historical layers eventually loses depth itself. The problem extends beyond names. Historic infrastructure that once defined Lagos is steadily disappearing rather than being carefully restored, modernised, or integrated into contemporary life. Structures carrying emotional, architectural, and historical significance are often demolished entirely instead of renovated with respect for their heritage.

The old Carter Bridge remains one of the enduring symbols of Lagos Island’s connection to the mainland and the city’s early expansion. Yet many of the surrounding historical environments that once gave character and context to such infrastructure have gradually vanished under relentless redevelopment.

At Murtala Muhammed International Airport, generations of Nigerians experienced emotional departures abroad and unforgettable reunions home. The airport became part of the memory of post-independence Nigeria itself. Yet while modernisation is necessary, little effort appears to have been made to preserve elements of its earlier architectural identity as part of a living historical narrative.

The same can be said of older civic and medical institutions across Lagos, including facilities once central to public life around Awolowo Road in Ikoyi. Buildings representing important chapters in healthcare, nursing, and public service disappear entirely instead of being thoughtfully adapted into modern facilities that still preserve architectural continuity.

One particularly painful example was the gradual destruction of historic Brazilian and Portuguese-influenced architecture around Tinubu Square and other parts of Lagos Island. These buildings reflected the Afro-Brazilian returnee culture that helped shape nineteenthcentury Lagos. Their balconies, arches, facades, and courtyards were not simply old structures; they were physical evidence of Lagos’ multicultural origins and maritime trading history.

The old Brazilian Quarters of Lagos Island could have evolved into one of Africa’s great heritage districts — a cultural and tourism destination comparable to preserved historic quarters elsewhere in the world. Instead, much of it has slowly disappeared building by building, street by street.

Equally symbolic was the disappearance of the historic Lagos Racecourse, once an important civic and social gathering space in colonial and early post-colonial Lagos. The open elegance and civic atmosphere of the old racecourse environment eventually gave way to dense modern construction that many feel lacks any meaningful connection to the historical spirit of what existed before.

The question therefore becomes unavoidable: are we building for civic legacy — or simply for commercial density and short-term wealth creation?

This debate is not unique to Lagos. Many great cities faced similar crossroads and chose preservation alongside development.

Rome continues expanding while preserving ruins and architecture dating back thousands of years. Beijing, despite massive modernisation, still protects parts of its historic hutongs and imperial heritage. Shanghai has preserved districts such as the Bund alongside futuristic skyscrapers. Quebec City protected its old quarters so successfully that they became UNESCO-recognised heritage zones and major tourism assets.

London modernises constantly while fiercely protecting historical districts and landmarks. Istanbul carries Roman, Byzantine, and Ottoman history simultaneously within a functioning modern metropolis. Havana preserved large parts of its colonial architecture despite economic hardship.

Old cities understand something Lagos increasingly risks forgetting: preservation is not anti-development.

In fact, preserved history often becomes an economic asset in itself through tourism, education, culture, architecture, and civic pride.

What exactly are we preserving in Lagos today for future generations to inherit, understand, and feel connected to?

Perhaps there is still time for places like Yaba — with its railway history, educational institutions, and older residential character — to be protected before the same pattern repeats itself completely.

Ikoyi itself has already undergone dramatic transformation. The lush gardens, low-density elegance, and distinctive architectural atmosphere that once defined the area have steadily given way to aggressive vertical development. One must ask whether this represents balanced urban progress — or development driven primarily by land value and commercial return at any cost.

This is not an argument against development. Lagos must grow. Infrastructure must improve. Airports must modernise. Roads must expand. New architecture must emerge.

But development and preservation are not enemies.

They can — and must — coexist.

Old bridges can be restored and integrated into modern transport systems. Historic public buildings can become museums, galleries, libraries, hotels, restaurants, or civic centres. Original road names can coexist alongside modern names through dual-signage systems explaining historical origins. Important architectural districts can be protected before demolition approvals are casually granted.

Most importantly, Lagos urgently needs a serious long-term urban preservation policy — one that treats heritage not as an obstacle to growth, but as part of growth itself.

Without such policies, decisions are left entirely to short-term commercial pressures and changing political administrations. Cities then begin evolving without memory, continuity, or cultural direction.

Because once history disappears physically, memory soon follows.

And when memory disappears, identity weakens.

Lagos is one of Africa’s greatest cities — energetic, ambitious, creative, and globally influential. But greatness is not measured only by skyscrapers, luxury towers, reclaimed land, or expressways. Great cities preserve visible evidence of their journey.

A people without historical reference points eventually lose part of their cultural compass.

To understand the present, we must preserve the past.

And to build a meaningful future, Lagos must remember where it came from — otherwise it risks becoming simply another vast modern city without character, continuity, memory, or soul.