It was on March 6. I caught a well-dressed man urinating in the drainage at the turning to my house. Already stressed from hours in traffic after attending the 2026 Obafemi Awolowo Foundation Annual Lecture in Ikenne, I wound down my car window and shouted angrily:
“Next time you pee near my house like that, I’ll make sure you never pee again.”
He was shocked.
Even I was shocked at my own words.
How exactly was I going to achieve that? I quickly wound up the window as my driver burst into laughter. But I was genuinely angry. Would he do that in America or Dubai? Somehow, we have convinced ourselves that Nigeria can accommodate every form of indiscipline.
But let’s start from the beginning.
Once upon a time in Lagos, when the sun rose gently and not like a landlord knocking for rent, there was a decree: clean your surroundings… or face the consequences.
This takes us back to 1984, during the era of Muhammadu Buhari and Tunde Idiagbon. Nigeria was struggling with indiscipline—on the roads, in offices, and most visibly, in filthy gutters.
The government responded with a national reset: the War Against Indiscipline (WAI).
One of its most memorable initiatives was the Saturday Environmental Sanitation.
This was not a polite suggestion. It was enforced with authority—soldiers, whistles, and stern faces. On the last Saturday of every month, from 7 a.m. to 10 a.m., Nigeria stood still.
Markets closed. Roads emptied. Movement was restricted.
If you were found outside without a clear reason—or without at least looking like you were cleaning—you risked punishment. People did frog jumps beside gutters while reflecting on their life choices.
But here’s the remarkable part: people actually cleaned.
Families came out together. Children swept reluctantly. Mothers supervised like generals. Fathers suddenly became experts in clearing drains.
Gutters were desilted. Bushes were trimmed. Refuse was gathered.
There was also a sense of community. Neighbours who barely spoke found themselves working together:
“Madam, push it small!”
“Oga, carry that side!”
Sanitation became a shared responsibility—and even a form of social bonding.
Of course, Nigerians still found creative ways to “cope.” Some sprinkled water and disappeared indoors. Others swept the same spot for hours just to appear busy.
Still, it worked.
Over time, with the return of democracy, enforcement weakened. The fear disappeared. And like many good habits, the culture of sanitation gradually faded.
What replaced it?
Refuse lining the streets in black bags. Blocked gutters. Offensive smells. A growing culture of neglect.
And with it came consequences.
The Real Cost of Dirt
We often think dirt is just unpleasant to look at. It is far more than that—it is expensive.
Lagosians spend billions treating preventable diseases like malaria, cholera, and typhoid. That “small fever” is not small—it drains finances, productivity, and peace of mind.
Then there is flooding.
Blocked drainages force rainwater into homes, shops, and streets. Properties are damaged. Businesses suffer losses. Roads become impassable. Traffic worsens.
And yet, we blame everything except our habits.
Dirt does not appear overnight. It begins with one careless act—one sachet thrown away, one bottle dropped, one gutter misused.
Multiply that by millions, and the result is chaos.
But beyond the financial cost is something deeper:
Dirt affects the human mind.
It lowers standards.
It sends a message: “Nobody cares.”
And when nobody cares, anything becomes acceptable.
Clean environments, on the other hand, inspire pride, order, and responsibility.
A Necessary Reset
Now that Lagos is considering the return of Saturday environmental sanitation, we must not see it as punishment—but as a reset.
Imagine Lagos pausing again for just three hours monthly.
Imagine millions cleaning their surroundings at the same time.
Will it solve everything? No.
Will it help? Absolutely.
Yes, there are concerns—business disruptions, enforcement challenges, and potential misuse by officials.
But no meaningful system is perfect at the start. It can be improved.
What we cannot afford is inaction.
Government alone cannot clean Lagos. Citizens must take responsibility too.
You cannot litter the streets and blame flooding on the government.
You cannot block drainage and complain when your home is flooded.
A Mirror to Ourselves
The return of sanitation is more than policy—it is a mirror.
It forces us to confront our habits, our negligence, and our expectations.
Do we truly want a clean Lagos, or do we just want to complain about a dirty one?
Because both require very different levels of commitment.
Let us remember the Yoruba saying:
Imototo b’ori arun mo’le,
Bi oye tii b’ori ooru.
(Cleanliness defeats disease, just as cold overcomes heat.)
Three hours of inconvenience versus months of avoidable illness.
Three hours of discipline versus billions lost.
Three hours of collective effort versus endless complaints.
The choice is simple.
Lagos is too important to be dirty. Too vibrant to be suffocated by waste. Too ambitious to be slowed by preventable problems.
What should truly worry us is not just how dirty Lagos has become—but how comfortable we have become living in that dirt.
And that is a reality we must urgently change.
Funke Egbemode Egbemode, a Funke Egbemode is a prominent Nigerian journalist, columnist, former editor, and media manager, was a Commissioner of Information and Civics Orientation, in Osun State
