What’s floating in the water at Makoko? (Part 1)

I can’t swim and I float like a rock. I’m actually leery of large bodies of water including swimming pools. Why then, am I sitting in a canoe-like fishing boat, chest-high water all around, in the middle of the Lagos lagoon? I’m in Makoko; a city built on water and populated by no less than 100,000 inhabitants. So yeah, no, I can’t swim and I’m in a battered wooden fishing boat whose sides rise barely three inches above the water as we rock left and right, all the while dodging a heavy traffic of various sized seafaring vessels cruising along the waterway through the heart of Makoko. While houses, churches, salons and shops are perched atop stilts, the soupy, black, litter-filled water below is bustling with boats ferrying people, cargo, foodstuffs and amenities of all types. I’m greeted from weather-and-time-beaten, stilt supported platforms and passing boats with smiles, waving hands and shouts of “good morning” from adults and children of all ages. Amongst the navigators in this marine-traffic are boys and girls no older than four years, singly maneuvering vessels that dwarf the 10 foot boat in which I worriedly sit. It’s mid-morning and nearly all of the men are away fishing in deep waters; departing before dawn. The women remaining behind conducting the business of trade; some climbing in and out of boats with infants tightly fastened to their backs while carrying heavy loads on their heads. I’m amazed at all that I see.

If not for my guide, a 26 year-old, 5th generation Egun fisherman, I’m certain I wouldn’t have entered the canoe—his name is Noah. Yes Sir, a fisherman named Noah who lives in a city built on water—there’s no ark in this story, but something just as profound. We’ll get to that in Part 2. Noah Shemede is Director of Makoko’s Whanyinna Nursery and Primary School. Whanyinna is “Love” in English. Although the school is our destination, we first stop to announce our presence in Makoko to the local Egun Chief, Baale Emmanuel Shemede, the Ajaka Ekun (“Fighting Lion”)—he’s one of Noah’s elder brothers and visiting traditional leadership when entering an area is customary. Approaching the platform of the royal abode I’m dubious as to my ability to climb out of the boat without capsizing and drowning. I’m first to exit, struggling to pull myself upon the platform amid broken and battered supports and planks—a pitiful exhibition, but I’m successful. Following me is Mr. Ibrahim, my chaperone, driver and security advisor for the day. Although mature beyond my years, Mr. Ibrahim spryly disembarks. Last, Noah bounds out of the boat with the agility of a ninja—I’ve never felt so old and fat. It’s a brief meet and greet with the Chief and we re-enter the boat—another pitiful exhibition in nimbleness—and set out for the Whanyinna School.

Whanyinna Nursery and Primary School in Makoko. Photo: Asr Alkebulan

Approaching the Whanyinna School, erected upon stilts like every structure on the water, our boat slows and docks at the entrance of a small, bamboo fenced, sand-filled courtyard, abounding with rambunctious children. Ages three to ten years, they’re neatly dressed in bright yellow and electric blue uniforms—some tattered and torn; mended, but not replaced, as the expense lies beyond the budgets of most families. Completing my clumsy climb from the boat, I’m standing amongst nearly half of the 218 welcoming faces enrolled free of charge at Whanyinna. The children playing in the courtyard enjoy recess and our three-man delegation ascends a rickety looking, yet sturdy staircase to Whanyinna’s second story where classes are still in session. As we step into a classroom and before my eyes adjust to the dim natural lighting, the children rise to attention and in chorus recite their greeting, “Good morning, Sir . . . we are glad that you came, God bless you.” I’m humbled by this warm and disciplined child-ambassadorial reception, although feeling like an undeserving distraction. After snapping a few photographs, we retreat to the library; a small room off the main school structure, sparsely supplied with just a few hand-me-down books, two boxes of white chalk, a human anatomy poster, a world map and mismatched conference table and chairs.

As Noah and I converse, he recounts for me the centuries old history of Makoko and his family—his delivery is modest, but contains hints of deserved pride. According to Noah, the city was established in the Lagos area by migrant fishermen, mainly Egun (75%), but also Ilaje and Ijow peoples, from nearby Badagry (Lagos area historical slave port), present-day Ogun State, Nigeria and the neighboring Benin Republic. After years of incessant bi-weekly travel to the Lagos lagoon fishing locale, these fishermen and their families joined and permanently settled in the predominantly Yoruba area nearly 200 year ago, long before Nigeria was established as a British colony. Noah’s father, brought to Makoko by his father at the age of ten, was an expert fisherman. He trained as a boxer, served as a Scout during Nigeria’s colonial period and was self-taught in British law and governing. Fluent in English and Yoruba, Noah’s father frequently represented the peoples of Makoko in minor civil matters and acted on behalf of the fishing city regarding interactions with local government. His knowledge and activism prompted the Makoko elders of the time to appoint him the fishing city’s first Chief. He reigned 36 years, living to age 115; fishing nearly every day until shortly before his death. Noah’s mother, one of his father’s three wives, bore her husband 10 children and lived 80 years. Both of Noah’s parents passed away in 2013.

Makoko. Photo: Asar Alkebulan

In all, Noah’s father sired 22 children, of which, Noah is the last born and the only one to experience formal schooling. Laughing, he recounts that as a child, his elder siblings forced him to attend school under threat of beatings. He continues saying that at time he didn’t realize the importance of education, but since understands its value and vows to educate as many of Makoko’s children as he can. Noah insists that educating Makoko’s youth will aide in transforming the community; a community where 10 – 30 individuals of an extended family share a housing structure is not uncommon. A community where there are no government utilities (potable water, electricity or waste removal) and public healthcare is a fantasy; as the people rely on traditional medicine, and a couple of unaffordable private health and maternity clinics operated out of homes.

Although born into fishing, Noah is a former teacher turned School Director and community activist—a hero in every profound sense of the word. Noah tells me the Whanyinna School was built in 2008 by foreigners. At that time he taught all subjects, while only a few years earlier attending secondary school himself; focusing on economics and finance. It’s through this knowledge and training relating to fiscal concerns and business management, be it rudimentary, that Noah maintains operations at the Whanyinna School. “Everything is donated,” he tells me. The monthly salaries of eight teachers ($60 each) are donated—payments sometimes delayed for months and sometimes paying a few teachers while others remain unpaid. Books are donated from local schools. Supplies like chalk are also donated. Furnishings are all donated. Student uniforms were donated and have been passed on several times. The sturdy, but rickety looking staircase and the bamboo fence; all donated.

Inside Whanyinna School. Photo: Asar Alkebulan

Without local, state or federal government assistance of any kind or any contributions from Nigerian philanthropic organizations or mega and multi-national corporations, Noah, asking here and borrowing there, has kept Whanyinna’s doors open, educating the children of Makoko through sheer courage and determination—and as the name translates, with Love. Listening to Noah matter-of-factly describe the innumerable obstacles and uncertainties he faces in continuing to educate his community’s youth and the abject poverty and dilapidated living conditions existing ubiquitously throughout Makoko, I’m consumed with empathy for his plight and in awe of this young “fighting lion’s” resolve. Although incomparable with his reality, having worked nearly 25 years as a Youth Advocate and “wannabe” community activist in Washington, DC’s poorest neighborhoods, my greatest accomplishments now appear diminutive in comparison to this young man’s valor.

Inside Whanyinna School. Photo: Asar Alkebulan

Aside the seemingly insurmountable challenges facing Noah, the Whanyinna School and the people of Makoko, the greatest threat is posed by the Lagos State government and land developers who want to demolish the entire area after nearly 200 years of existence; thereby displacing more than 100,000 men, women and children—offering nothing in the way compensation or relocation—all for the sake of waterfront revitalization, which is geared toward creating a high-end entertainment, recreation and commercial shore-side corridor, catering to corporate and social elite interests.

Leaving the Whanyinna School—again, with abundant awkwardness—I climb down into our waiting vessel. The weather is warming and humidity rises from the murky waters as the sun approaches its zenith. Our journey continues southward toward Lagos’ Third Mainland Bridge and the open sea to find what’s floating in the water at Makoko.

To contact Noah at the Whanyinna School, please send an email to ShemedeNoah@yahoo.com. Thank you.

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