In this Sept. 5, 2012 photo, motorcycle taxis known as "okada" and other traffic backs up at an intersection in Lagos, Nigeria. Many Lagosians simply acknowledge the traffic as a living, breathing aspect of daily life in a nation where oil money vanishes into corrupt pockets, police routinely harass those they should protect and a livelihood comes only to the swift and the fearless. (AP Photo / Sunday Alamba)
In the bustling Nigerian cities of Lagos, Abuja and Kano, motorcycle and bike taxis have long served as lifelines for affordable, accessible transportation. Locally known as okadas, the vehicles weave through the cities’ traffic jams, delivering residents to jobs, markets, places of worships and other destinations.
But in the past few years, these commercial vehicles have faced widespread bans, framed by authorities as essential measures to reduce road accidents and curb organized criminal activities, including kidnapping, robbery and theft.
In 2020, the government of Lagos State placed an “indefinite and total” ban on okadas, restricting their operations in six local government areas, nine local council development areas and 10 major highways across the mega-city. It was time to “restore sanity to the roads” and protect lives, Lagos State Gov. Babajide Sanwo-Olu argued.
Transportation officials pointed to alarming statistics on accidents and crime rates associated with these vehicles, citing 11,000 fatalities caused by motorcycle accidents between 2011 and 2019 and at least 600 fatalities related to motorcycles between 2018 and 2019. Similar arguments echoed in Abuja and Kano, where authorities justified the bans as necessary for urban order.
Five years later, how have these bans affected the public health, well-being and socio-economic fabric of urban Nigeria? Experts say the primary argument for the bans, road safety, has merit. Data from Lagos State government shows a marked decrease in motorcycle-related accidents since the ban. A recent report from officials in Delta State also point to noticeable reductions in crime rates following a similar ban.
However, public health officials say that without adequete mass transit alternatives, the economic and mental health consequences may outweigh any safety gains.
“We need to ask ourselves if the trade-off is worth it,” says Joseph Okpara, a town planner and urban policy researcher at the University of Nigeria. “Reducing road accidents is important, but can we justify policies that deepen poverty and create new health challenges for millions?”
For thousands of former okada and keke drivers, the bans have been nothing short of devastating. These vehicles allowed millions to earn a livelihood, particularly young men with limited formal education. With their primary source of income eliminated, many drivers have fallen into poverty.
“After the ban, I tried to get a job as a security guard, but the pay was too little to support my family,” says Suleiman Musa, a former okada rider in the affected part of Lagos. “Now I do odd jobs, but it’s not enough to support me and my family.”
The economic ripple effects extend beyond the drivers themselves. Their families face reduced access to healthcare, education and basic necessities, as do former riders. According to a report by ActionAid in Nigeria, the bans have exacerbated inequality, pushing vulnerable households deeper into poverty.
“The uncertainty and inconvenience caused by the bans contribute to higher levels of anxiety and frustration,” says Tanimola Akande, a professor of public health at the University of Ilorin, Nigeria’s largest university. “Low-income earners, who already face economic pressures, are disproportionately affected.”
While road safety advocates celebrated the decline in motorcycle-related accidents, the impact on low-income commuters was immediate and severe. The public transportation alternatives provided by the state government, including BRT buses and taxis, have become overcrowded, and many commuters have been forced to walk long distances to reach their destinations.
“Before the ban, I could easily catch a keke to my shop,” says Hadiza Ahmed, a trader in Lagos. “Now, I walk almost two hours daily because the buses are either too full or too expensive.”
Some supporters point to increased physical activity, often linked to cardiovascular health and reduced obesity rates, as a positive outcome. Not quite, experts say. “Walking, even if unplanned, can improve physical health over time,” Adewale Ogunleye, a public health expert in Lagos, acknowledges. “However, the health benefits depend on various factors, including the environment and stress levels.”
Urban Nigeria is far from a pedestrian-friendly environment: Crumbling sidewalks, chaotic traffic and air pollution expose walkers to serious risks. For commuters like Hadiza, walking is less about exercise and more about survival, often performed in stressful conditions.
The daily grind of navigating limited transport options, battling traffic and enduring long commutes — compounded by growing financial precarity — adds significant stress to already overburdened urban dwellers.
Critics of the bans argue that more inclusive policies could achieve road safety without creating widespread hardship. Suggestions include regulating okadas and keke napeps through licensing, enforcing strict safety standards, and designating specific routes for their operation.
“Outright bans are a blunt instrument,” Okpara says. “What we need are smart policies that balance safety with accessibility. Training programs for riders, helmet distribution, and better enforcement of traffic rules could make these modes of transport safer without excluding them entirely.”