Despite government bans, thousands risk arrest, injury, and humiliation daily to feed their families
At 1:45pm on Herbert Macaulay Way, a black SUV idles outside NNPC Towers. Men in suits pace, shouting into phones. Across the road, horns blare ceaselessly as cars crawl into a Total filling station.
But beside the station, a different world exists. Nylon sheets spread on the ground display sachet drinks, groundnuts, cucumbers, roasted yam, and corn. Umbrellas and faded campaign posters provide shade. This is where Abuja’s street hawkers defy the Federal Capital Territory Administration (FCTA) ban to survive.
“This sun can fry an egg,” says Paul, a regular customer, fanning himself with a file.
THE RAIDS
Suddenly, two white Abuja Environmental Protection Board (AEPB) vans screech to a stop.
Fifteen-year-old Hauwa, carrying a plastic bowl of goods on her head, drops everything and flees with the speed of light. Her sachets of water scatter on the road as she disappears between taxis. Other traders scatter. Within two minutes, the stretch is almost empty.
This is the daily routine for hawkers banned by authorities but determined to remain on Abuja’s busy roads—Wuse, Garki, Area 1, Berger, Jabi, and around government buildings.
HAUWA’S STORY
Hauwa shares a single room with her two siblings and three cousins in a slum outside Mpape. No running water. They fetch from a borehole 10 minutes away and sleep on mats on the floor.
Her parents are farmers in Niger State. Two years ago, bandits attacked their village, stealing food, money, and goats. Months later, drought destroyed the harvest.
“School finish for JSS2,” Hauwa says quietly. “No money again.”
She followed her aunt to Abuja, who sells vegetables in Garki Market. On a good day, Hauwa makes N3,500 to N6,000. Every Friday, she sends N10,000 to N15,000 home to her aged parents through a bus driver.
“My capital na N8,000,” she says, wiping sweat. “If they break my tray today, na two weeks food gone.”
Last month, a friend was hit by a motorcycle while running from AEPB in Wuse. The girl spent four days in hospital with no one to pay the bill. She now hawks with a limp.
Yet Hauwa is back. “If I no come, how we go chop?” she asks.
MUSA’S STRUGGLE
At Berger roundabout, Musa, 28, moves between cars selling phone chargers and earphones. He was a commercial motorcyclist until the 2023 okada ban. Now he averages N3,000-N4,000 daily—down from N10,000.
“I go school. Now I dey run from task force like thief. But hunger no dey hear grammar,” he says.
He rents a room in Nyanya for N200,000 annually. He wakes at 4:30am and returns after 9pm. He has applied for driving jobs but lacks the license, experience, and “processing” fees.
“They seized my phone once, and I paid N7,000 to collect it. That week, my children no chop well.”
MAMA BLESSING’S DETERMINATION
Mama Blessing, 45, sells roasted yam and plantain at a traffic light in Wuse II. Her husband died in 2021, leaving her with three children in secondary school. The eldest wants to study nursing.
She travels from Gwagwalada daily, spending N1,500 on transport. Her annual rent is N350,000.
“Na here better market dey,” she says. “For Gwagwalada, people no dey buy like this.”
On days without AEPB raids, she makes N8,000-N12,000. When they seize her wares, she must pay N10,000 to retrieve them.
BUYERS KEEP THEM ALIVE
“In 40-minute traffic jams, N50 water, N100 Gala, and N500 corn sell fast,” says a civil servant. “You pity them. These children suppose dey school.”
A banker buys from hawkers twice weekly. “It’s cheaper than the canteen and fresh.”
“It’s convenience and compassion,” says a taxi driver. “If I enter market, I go waste one hour. Here, they bring it to me.”
THE GOVERNMENT’S POSITION
The FCTA maintains there is no place for street hawking in a modern capital. Officials argue it blocks drains, causes traffic, litters streets, and attracts crime.
AEPB impounds hundreds of trays and goods monthly. Offenders pay fines of N5,000-N20,000. Repeat offenders face court.
“We have markets in every district. We have skills centres. We are not fighting the poor. But we cannot allow the city to turn to a motor park,” said a former AEPB director.
But hawkers counter: Markets are either too far or rent is too high—a lock-up shop in Garki costs N150,000-N300,000 annually.
THE HUMAN COST
At an FCT shelter in Bwari, a welfare officer notes most children picked up from streets come from outside Abuja.
“They come because of insecurity, hunger… Parents think Abuja has money. Abuja is expensive.”
The shelter houses children aged 10-17. “Girls get harassed. Boys get into fights. Some get knocked down by vehicles.”
Recently, a 13-year-old boy was hit by a car at Area 3 while fleeing the task force, spending two weeks in hospital with a broken leg.
“TELL US WHERE TO GO AND WHAT TO EAT”
“Government say make we no hawk. Government never tell us wetin we go chop,” Mama Blessing says.
Musa echoes: “Give us loan. Give us shop. Then talk. You no fit tell person wey dey hungry to wait.”
An empowerment programme Hauwa’s aunt registered for demanded N5,000 for forms—but nothing came of it. Mama Ada applied for a Garki Market space but officials demanded N150,000 for “processing.”
The Executive Director of CISLAC says: “You cannot criminalise poverty. Abuja’s economy is built on government… when government jobs are few and cost of living is high, people will find a way to survive.”
He suggests designated vending zones, micro-credit, and market linkages: “You don’t chase people away; you organise them.”
A CITY OF TWO WORLDS
By day, Abuja projects order—glass buildings, flyovers, police patrols, minister convoys.
By 7pm, the AEPB vans leave. Traffic eases. Hauwa returns with a borrowed tray, needing N2,000 before going home. Mama Ada made N3,200 today. Musa counted N3,800.
For hawkers, the choice is simple: obey the ban and go hungry, or risk arrest and feed their families.
