It started like a whisper in a smoky backroom—then burst into the streets like a trumpet. Lagos was at it again, changing names, repainting signboards, and rewriting addresses that people had known all their lives. Charly Boy Bus Stop became Olamide Bus Stop. Ilaje Road was now King Sunny Ade Road. Some cheered, some booed, and some shrugged and moved on.
In the middle of the noise, I asked myself a simple question: what really changes when a street name changes?
You don’t pay less for garri because your road now bears the name of a music legend. The rent doesn’t shrink because the bus stop you know has a new label. NEPA won’t suddenly keep the lights on because someone decided to swap Tony Amadasun for Chief Dosunmu. The truth is brutal and unpolished—these names don’t touch your pocket, your kitchen, or your child’s school fees.
But Lagos is a city where names carry more than directions. They are memories, identity, pride. Old Ilaje Road wasn’t just tar and potholes; it was history—fishermen, songs, sweat, and survival. When you strip that away without asking the people, they feel robbed, and in Lagos, robbery is something folks don’t forgive easily. That’s why the protests, the petitions, and the angry voices won’t stop.
I get it. People don’t like to be ignored. They don’t like their history erased in the dark while they sleep. That’s one side of the story.
The other side? Politicians love attention. The more we kick, the more they know we’re watching, and that’s half the reason they do it. Names are tokens of power, a way of stamping legacy, of saying I was here. Tomorrow another politician may come, scratch the boards, and write his own heroes into the city’s memory. It’s a game as old as politics itself.
So where’s the middle ground? Simple. Government must stop playing magician with people’s history. Before renaming a street, sit with the community, listen to their stories, weigh their emotions, and then decide together. That’s justice. That’s peace.
And the people? We must learn where to spend our outrage. A name is just a name. It matters, yes, but it doesn’t put food on the table. Lagosians should save the real fire for the things that break our backs daily—the traffic that swallows hours, the cost of bread that rises like a stubborn tide, the hospitals that groan under neglect. Those are the battles that change lives.
Street names? They’ll come and go, like the politicians who stamp them. What stays is the city, its people, and their struggle to live and thrive.
At the end of the day, Lagos doesn’t need another quarrel. It needs balance. It needs leaders who respect history and citizens who know when to fight and when to let the little things slide. Peace and justice don’t come from the name on a signboard—they come from fairness, consultation, and focusing on the real work of progress.
And that’s the name of the game.
