Thoughts on enhancing the livelihood of young men at the fringe of society
Every time I drive through Oshodi, I see large groups of young men gathered at different spots. Some clusters are as small as three, while others swell to ten or more. Depending on the time of day and the traffic situation, they are either engaged in loud conversations or actively chasing down public buses to collect money from the conductors. They are a common sight at major bus parks and busy areas across Lagos and some other major cities in Nigeria. Their role in the city’s ecosystem is often ambiguous. Commonly known as agberos, they are sometimes referred to formally as area boys.
Seeing these young men, I often wonder about their stories. How did they get here? Why do they remain? Do they dream of a different life? The typical area boy is dressed in old, tattered clothes, appears unkempt, and likely has not had a proper bath in days. They live on the streets and endure harsh conditions daily. My curiosity about their lives is tinged with concern, given my own encounters with them.
One such experience stands out. My mechanic had just installed new brakes in my car, and as I descended the Island-bound lane of the Oshodi bridge, I heard an unsettling metallic grinding noise emerging from my front wheels. I quickly pulled into the service lane and parked off the road. Almost immediately, one of the area boys approached me, offering to get a mechanic. Within minutes, he returned with one, who began inspecting the wheels while on the phone with my mechanic. Familiar with how area boys operate in Lagos, I knew I would have to part with some money — whether for his assistance in finding a mechanic or simply for keeping an eye on my car.
Not long after, another area boy appeared. I sensed trouble brewing but remained unbothered since I already had one of them with me. As the mechanic worked, the new arrival muttered something. I suspected he was addressing me, but since I had no business with him, I ignored him. This angered him. His voice rose as he accused me of disrespect. I remained unfazed. When the mechanic finished, I paid him and gave some money to the first area boy. Immediately, the ignored one stepped forward, demanding payment. When I asked what service he had provided, he claimed he had been guarding my car. I explained that I already had someone else assisting me. This did not sit well with him, and he began shouting and moving aggressively toward me. His skin was discoloured in patches, his clothes ragged, and his body emitted a strong, unpleasant odour. While I felt pity, I was also wary. What if he decided to strike me? Fortunately, the first area boy intervened, diffusing the situation, and I seized the moment to drive off quickly. I still wonder what might have happened had I been alone with the hostile one.
This is just one of my many encounters with area boys in Lagos. Some have been tense and even frightening, while others have been unexpectedly helpful. I consider myself fortunate that I have never been in a situation where I felt completely helpless. Sadly, I know others have had far worse experiences — ranging from harassment to outright robbery — though some have also received assistance in difficult moments.
A pressing question remains: Why do area boys continue to operate so freely? It seems safe to assume that they are tolerated, if not outrightly sanctioned, by the authorities. They are frequently seen collecting money from bus conductors or drivers who park in busy areas. Are these official levies? If so, why aren’t they properly uniformed and cared for as legitimate government agents?
It is well known that area boys are often employed by nefarious actors to disrupt peaceful protests or elections. The #EndSARS protests and the 2023 Lagos elections serve as stark reminders of how easily they can be mobilized. Given their circumstances, it is unsurprising that they can be hired for any purpose by the highest bidder.
Many of these young men reportedly come from troubled homes or have fled environments where survival is a daily battle. For them, life on the streets was not necessarily a choice — it was a necessity. While it is easy to see them as faceless troublemakers, they are individuals with histories, families, and, at some point, aspirations. Many are simply broken men with abandoned dreams, struggling to find their place in the world.
Private interventions have sought to reform and rehabilitate area boys. Organizations such as God Bless Nigeria Church have undertaken notable efforts, the most publicized being the case of Shanowole, a young boy rescued and rehabilitated who went viral when his before and after video was shared online. Chess in Slums has also made remarkable progress in places like Oshodi and Ibadan, using chess to engage young boys and teach them valuable life skills. Other organizations are undoubtedly working toward similar goals. However, these efforts, though commendable, can only assist so many. For every young man who is rehabilitated, countless others remain on the streets.
One question lingers: Do area boys even want to leave their current way of life? Many lack fundamental skills and may feel they are too old or too entrenched in their ways to start anew. To someone who has spent most of their life on the streets, what does a “better life” even look like? These groups likely have their own hierarchy, with those at the top fiercely resisting any disruption to their status. This suggests that the most effective interventions may need to focus on the younger boys before they become fully assimilated into street life.
Ideally, state governments should prioritize the reformation of area boys, equipping them with skills that make them productive members of society. Education and vocational training could provide a pathway to stability. However, the more I reflect on this, the more I recognize its complexity. If it were this simple, wouldn’t it have been addressed by now? Perhaps previous attempts have been made — what were their outcomes? Lagos has had area boys for so long that they have become embedded in the city’s culture. But can a city striving to become a global megacity continue to accommodate them? If Lagos can ban okadas (motorcycles) from major roads, should it not also have a plan to address the area boy phenomenon?
As individuals with varying degrees of influence, what can we do to improve the lives of area boys and ultimately reduce their presence on the streets? I would love to see a Lagos without agberos, but I struggle to identify a clear course of action that I, or any other ordinary citizen, could take to make this happen. If you have ideas on tangible steps we can take, I would love to hear them. Sometimes, small, collective actions can spark meaningful change. This is the way I see things today.Photo credit