The irony is striking: we complain about poor governance processes, while breaking the very rules that could make the roads and Nigeria work better. The Nigerian road is thus an open-air exhibit of a country that struggles to obey its own laws, by both government and citizens alike. Until we treat the road not as a place to bend rules but as shared public space that demands responsibility from everyone, whether you’re in uniform or behind the wheel, the chaos on our roads will continue to mirror the broader disorder in our society.
Driving in Nigeria goes beyond moving from point A to B; it is a daily negotiation with chaos. Potholes widen into trenches day by day, streetlights barely function, and traffic rules are interpreted more as suggestions than obligations. But beyond the poor conditions and reckless road habits lies something deeper: the Nigerian road is a vivid metaphor for the dysfunctional state of Nigeria. It is where infrastructure failure, poor policy implementation, environmental degradation, weak institutions, and lawlessness collide, often with fatal consequences.
According to the World Bank, over 80 per cent of Nigeria’s roads are in poor condition. In major cities the problem shifts to suffocation: go-slows that stretch for kilometres, unregulated commercial buses stopping mid-lane, public cars inventing third lanes, pedestrians darting across expressways, and keke drivers who seem to have skipped every driving lesson and simply bought a tricycle to join the madness. Roads that are designed for two lanes often accommodate up to five lanes of traffic. This problem is clearly synonymous with the governance challenges in Nigeria. Every crack in the road, every missing signpost, and every non-functional traffic light represents an abdication of responsibility by government officials meant to uphold the public good.
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Nigerian driving habits are often reckless, yet they are not isolated incidents. This behaviour validates the normalisation of the deviance phenomenon, a behavioural concept in which dangerous actions become routine in the absence of consequences. Over time, it becomes normal to drive one-way, ignore road markings and signs, or bribe your way through checkpoints. Everyone adjusts to dysfunction, and over time, it feels less like a crisis and more like the norm. Motorists who obey rules are mocked as abnormal. Traffic lawbreakers and reckless drivers are barely punished, and when they are, it often feels random, depending more on the traffic warden’s mood than on any actual rules or laws.
Law enforcement agencies also reinforce this dysfunction. Rather than focus on deterring dangerous driving, officers frequently position themselves at lucrative checkpoints to collect ‘egunje’ from motorists. Fines become tools for revenue generation, not deterrence. Traffic enforcement is more visible near tollgates or high-income environments, not because those places are more dangerous, but because they offer better returns. As such, road safety becomes less about protecting lives and more about monetising disorder. I have seen security convoys of political office holders barrel through intersections with sirens blaring, bullying other road users and flouting traffic rules, while ordinary motorists swerve in confusion, unsure who actually has the right of way. Such conduct exhibits a ritual of domination, a show of power that normalises impunity in the most public of spaces.
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This is where my recommendation for reform becomes strategic. The Federal Road Safety Corps (FRSC), Nigeria’s leading road safety agency, understaffed at approximately 27,000, should make deliberate internal policy reviews that reflect an understanding of operational impact. Applying a modified version of the Pareto Principle, the FRSC should adopt a workforce structure in which 80 per cent of its personnel are deployed to field operations and only 20 per cent are in administrative roles. This prioritisation ensures that enforcement, education, and rescue services have a strong physical presence on the roads, an operational philosophy often missing in all sectors of government. This should also include 12-hour shifts, with officers working in two main cycles per day to maintain constant visibility and responsiveness across major transport corridors. This round-the-clock presence can deter dangerous driving, enforce regulations, and reduce fatalities, especially along high-risk highways such as the Jos–Lafia–Makurdi route, the Kano–Zaria expressway and Zaria–Kano highway, the Abuja–Lokoja highway, and the Lagos–Ibadan expressway. These recommendations are not idealistic, they are practical and achievable if political will exists.
It’s also important to state here that I am not a saint. On some occasions, I have driven without a driver’s license or complete car papers, not out of defiance, but because these are the norm on Nigerian roads. What should be the exception? It has become routine. This self-incrimination is not for spectacle but to make a point: impunity on the roads cuts across all social classes, and when a system fails to uphold standards, everyone, including the well-meaning, adapts to its dysfunction.
The costs of these failures are massive. According to the Federal Ministry of Works, it costs around ₦4 billion to construct one kilometre of road, depending on terrain, design specifications, and location. Yet, many such projects are poorly executed or abandoned entirely. The 700-kilometre Lagos-Calabar coastal highway, for instance, is budgeted at ₦15 trillion, and yet transparency around its planning and cost breakdown remains murky. In contrast, the Eleme-Onne section of the East-West Road in Rivers State, at 30 kilometres, was awarded at ₦156 billion, costing nearly ₦5.2 billion per kilometre. These staggering costs lack accountability and indicate the leakage of public funds, which fuels poor infrastructure outcomes.
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The environmental impact of the unsafe road culture in Nigeria is equally alarming. In Lagos, roadside monitoring stations have recorded carbon monoxide concentrations of up to 51.38ppm, significantly exceeding Nigeria’s Federal Environmental Protection Agency’s (FEPA) safe limit of 10ppm. These emissions contain PM2.5 particles, small enough to enter the bloodstream and damage organs, posing heightened risk to roadside traders, street hawkers, and passengers alike.
The transport sector contributes around 24 per cent of Nigeria’s carbon emissions, making it a critical area in the climate crisis conversation. A 2024 report by the Nigeria Centre for Disease Control (NCDC) identified cities like Port Harcourt and Abuja as the most noise-polluted cities, regularly surpassing 90dB at peak hours, well above the WHO threshold of 70dB. Studies have shown that constant exposure to such noise correlates with hypertension, anxiety, and impaired cognitive function.
Nigerian engineers are adapting recommendations from researchers at the University of New Hampshire that asphalt layers should now be increased from 7 per cent to 32 per cent (roughly 150 mm to 200 mm) in new designs to improve climate resilience, but these are exceptions, not the norm. Poor urban planning, politically influenced construction approvals, and an over-reliance on fossil fuels for transportation pose challenges to adaptation strategies. Road development rarely includes drainage, pedestrian walkways, or tree coverage; features that reduce climate vulnerability and improve safety.
In many ways, the Nigerian road is both a scene of environmental degradation and a testament to infrastructure failure – a stark metaphor for the country’s deeper crisis of governance. It is where the rule of law is visibly absent: traffic lights are mere suggestions, road signs are ignored, and lane markings vanish under the weight of corruption and neglect. Law enforcement officers often prioritise collecting facilitation fees over doing the right thing, while motorists break rules with impunity, emboldened by a system that hardly punishes wrongdoing. The neglect of road maintenance, failure to enforce environmental standards, and lack of climate-adaptive infrastructure reflect a society that has normalised impunity at all levels. Even in the presence of reforms, the entrenched failures of leadership and policy often overshadow them.
The irony is striking: we complain about poor governance processes, while breaking the very rules that could make the roads and Nigeria work better. The Nigerian road is thus an open-air exhibit of a country that struggles to obey its own laws, by both government and citizens alike. Until we treat the road not as a place to bend rules but as shared public space that demands responsibility from everyone, whether you’re in uniform or behind the wheel, the chaos on our roads will continue to mirror the broader disorder in our society.
Odeh Friday is a human rights activist, anticorruption advocate, and the country director of Accountability Lab Nigeria.
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