By Suad Ayinla.
Edited by Bababunmi Agbebi
What does it mean to be young in Lagos and still feel like a suspect every time you step into the street? From Ikeja bus stops to inner streets in and around Lagos, many youths now move around with a quiet script in their heads: how to talk, how to stand, what to show and what to hide when officers say, “Stop there, where you dey go?” The routine of stop-and-search, sudden raids and late-night patrols have become so normal that young people swap tips about survival the way others might trade job leads or football scores.
On a typical weekday evening around Computer Village in Ikeja, you can see this script play out in real time. Young men and women walking back from work or school will quickly put their phones in clear view, zip up bags, and sometimes even clutch their ID cards before turning into certain streets. They have learnt that how they dress hoodies, ripped jeans, dyed hair can trigger extra questions, so some avoid “loud” fashion when they know they will pass police or task force checkpoints. Others deliberately walk in small groups instead of alone, believing that witnesses reduce the chances of extortion or abuse.
For many youths, phone searches have become the tensest moment of every encounter. Officers asking to “see your phone” instantly raises fears: private chats, work emails, bank alerts, even harmless pictures can be misread as evidence of fraud or crime. To cope, some young people keep a “clean” app layout, remove banking apps from their home screens, or avoid slang and emojis in certain conversations. A few even carry old backup phones with almost no data, just to have something “safe” to present if they are stopped, while their main devices stay hidden at the bottom of a bag or at home.
There is also the emotional script a way of swallowing anger in order to leave the scene safely. Many youths say they avoid arguing, even when they feel wrongly profiled, because they know that a raised voice can turn a simple stop into detention or a night at the station. They rehearse responses that sound respectful without sounding guilty: calling officers “sir” or “oga,” speaking calmly, and answering questions clearly. Yet beneath this politeness sits a growing bitterness and mistrust; young Lagosians often feel they must choose between dignity and physical safety in every interaction with law enforcement.
In the end, this is more than a story of tactics; it is a story about the kind of city we are building. If a generation learns that survival in Lagos means looking less like yourself, talking less like yourself, and moving with constant fear of uniformed men, what does that do to trust, citizenship and mental health? As youth quietly perfect their “No wahala, officer” scripts, the bigger question remains: when will Lagos become a place where young people can walk, work and live without needing a survival manual for every encounter with those meant to protect them?
