Surviving the streets: The resilience of Lagos’ street vendors

It’s 5:30 a.m. in Lagos, and the city is already stirring. As the first rays of sunlight filter through the smog-filled sky, Sade Adewole pushes her rickety wheelbarrow into the heart of Yaba Market, a popular spot on the mainland. Her tray is stacked with steaming bean cakes, known as akara, a morning staple for countless commuters. As she sets up her spot on a crowded street corner, the sound of blaring horns fills the air, competing with the loud calls of other vendors hawking their wares—fresh fruit, clothes, phone accessories, and even live chickens.

For Sade, this daily routine has been her reality for over a decade. “The streets are tough, but I’ve got mouths to feed,” she says, with a determined smile, as her hands move swiftly, wrapping hot akara in newspaper for a customer. By 7:00 a.m., the market will be packed, and the rush of buyers will begin. But for Sade and thousands like her, the challenges extend beyond the hustle of selling–-they face the ever-present threats of city enforcement officers, the dangers of dodging traffic, and the rising costs of doing business in one of Africa’s most expensive cities.

This is the world of Lagos’ Street vendors–-where survival, innovation, and sheer willpower intersect on every corner of the city’s frenetic streets.

Street vending, while informal, is a massive contributor to Lagos’ economy. According to International Labour Organization (ILO) estimates, about 1.2 million street vendors operate in Lagos alone. These vendors sell everything from food, clothes, and electronics to household goods, contributing significantly to the city’s estimated $136 billion economy. Despite this, their work remains largely unprotected and unregulated.

At dawn, Tunde Okafor wakes up in his cramped one-room apartment in Lawanson, Lagos, and heads to the local market to buy fresh fruits. By 6:30 a.m., he’s set up his mobile cart on a bustling street in Ojuelegba, where traffic from both commuters and vehicles creates a chaotic but lucrative selling environment. Tunde, who sells oranges, apples, and bananas, has been doing this for over five years.

“I make about ₦5,000 (about $3) profit on a good day, but there are times when I barely make anything,” he says, cutting through an orange with a knife, ready to serve it to a passing customer.

For Tunde and other vendors like him, street vending isn’t just a job—it’s a lifeline. In Lagos, one of the world’s fastest-growing megacities, where unemployment hovers around 33.3percent, informal jobs like street vending provide a crucial safety net. Over 65percent of Lagos’ economy operates in the informal sector, making people like Tunde the backbone of everyday commerce.

As Lagos continues to grow, the fate of its street vendors hangs in the balance. The city’s government has introduced several plans to modernise the economy, including a push for more formal marketplaces and stricter regulations on street vending. While these changes are aimed at reducing traffic congestion and improving urban planning, vendors fear they could lose their livelihoods.

“The government says they want to clean up the streets, but where will we go?” asks Tunde, with a shrug.

Urban planners, however, argue that street vendors could still have a place in the future of Lagos. According to a report by the Lagos State Government, plans are being developed to create designated zones for informal workers, allowing them to operate without clashing with the city’s modernisation efforts.

Funmi Adeola, a 29-year-old mother of two, sets up her small stall along the busy Mile 12 Market Road. Funmi sells fried yams and plantains to hungry passersby. Her hands move deftly between frying pans, as she juggles feeding her customers and keeping an eye on her two young children, who often sit by her side.

“I’ve been selling here for almost seven years,” she explains. “I used to be a tailor, but the competition was too tough, and the money was slow. Here, at least, I get to take home some cash every day.”

Funmi’s earnings, however, are subject to the whims of Lagos’ relentless city regulations. Like many other vendors, she faces the constant threat of harassment from local authorities.

“Last year, they came and seized all my goods,” she recalls. “I lost almost ₦50,000 ($30) that day. I had to borrow money from my family to start again.”

However, street vending comes with risks. Lagos’ roads are notoriously congested, and vendors who weave between cars in traffic are exposed to life-threatening accidents. A study by the Nigerian Institute of Safety Professionals showed that street vendors account for 15percent of pedestrian fatalities in the city. Vendors also struggle with poor access to healthcare, long working hours, and a lack of financial safety nets.

Funke Ojo, a young lady of about 28 is a point of sales (PoS) operator in Ikoyi Lagos.