We want a voice in our land

The creation of Nigeria’s capital, Abuja, has left a lasting impact on the communities displaced from their ancestral lands. At 80, Lami Ezekiel remembers the day construction crews arrived in Maitama, where her family’s home was destroyed. “We just saw big trucks and construction vehicles destroying our farms,” she recalls. This occurred in the late 1980s, marking the beginning of a struggle that continues to this day.

The Birth of Abuja

Abuja’s development started a decade earlier, in 1976. The military government under Murtala Muhammed established the Federal Capital Territory (FCT), a region spanning 7,315 sq km (2,824 sq miles) carved from Niger, Plateau, and Kaduna states. The city was envisioned as a neutral ground, free from the political sensitivities of Lagos, which sat on the coast and in the heart of Yoruba territory.

A Promised Land Unfulfilled

Isaac David, born in 1982 in Kabusa—a site now within the FCT—remembered streams and farmland as part of his childhood. Families once drew water from springs and grew crops on land that had supported generations. Today, those streams are replaced by the Transcorp Hilton Abuja, and farmland gives way to government buildings and embassies. The Aso Rock presidential villa stands where a community shrine once thrived.

For many, the relocation to Kubwa was supposed to provide new opportunities. “We were promised farmland, housing, and access to electricity and water,” says Daniel Aliyu Kwali, leader of the FCT Stakeholders’ Assembly. Yet, as he notes, some anthropologists claim the area has been inhabited for over 6,000 years. “The FCT is just 50 years old; I am 70 years old. We are much older,” he adds.

The Relocation Process

Nasiru Suleiman, director of resettlement at the Federal Capital Development Authority (FCDA), explained that the government initially planned to move “few local inhabitants” out of the territory. However, due to the high cost of resettlement, the policy was reversed. “Those who wished to stay were allowed to remain,” he said, though not all were treated equally.

John Ngbako, a former community secretary, remembers the confusion and displacement. “What is wrong with us?” he asked, questioning why newcomers could settle while longtime residents were uprooted. Families were loaded onto trucks and transported to Kubwa, where residents report a lack of basic amenities. Tensions arose between the displaced and original inhabitants, with Laraba Adamu recalling hostility at a river where she once fetched water. “People would see us coming and say: ‘The government cows have arrived,'” she says.

Legacy and Unfulfilled Promises

Despite the promises, many displaced residents still face hardship. Ezekiel, living in a two-room house, cooks outside and buys water and electricity. “They promised us social amenities,” she says, “but none have been fulfilled.” Esu Bulus Yerima Pada, a descendant of traditional rulers, highlights another unmet pledge: legal documents confirming ownership of the new land. “Up to today, they have not done it,” he states.

Some community members take their children to Maitama, now one of Abuja’s most expensive neighborhoods, to show them the land their ancestors once called home. “Even the banana trees our forefathers planted are still there,” Pada reflects. Yet, the struggle continues. On 13 March 2025, bulldozers in Gishiri, an indigenous community predating the FCT, reduced homes to rubble. For Princess Juliet Jombo, a 32-year-old schoolteacher, the demolition marked another chapter in the ongoing displacement of her late father’s properties.