21/05/2026
TENAT’S RIGHTS BEFORE EVICTION:
THE LANDLORD’S LETTER.
The harmattan had arrived early that year in Surulere, coating Lagos in a dry, amber haze that made the air taste like dust and old promises. Mama Chisom stood at her doorway on Bode Thomas Street — the same doorway she had stood at for eleven years — holding a crumpled sheet of paper. Her hands were shaking. Not from the cold. From the letter.
"You are hereby given SEVEN (7) DAYS to vacate the above-mentioned premises…"
Seven days. Eleven years of rent collected faithfully, sometimes at the cost of her children's school fees, and now this. The landlord, Chief Adewale Bankole, had sold the property to a developer. The block of flats on which she had hung her children's names in her heart was to become a shopping complex. There was no discussion. No negotiation. Just a boy on a motorcycle, a knock, and a folded page.
Her neighbour, Emeka, a secondary school teacher on the third floor, received the same letter. So did the elderly Iya Agba on the ground floor, who had lived there since the Obasanjo years. They gathered under the mango tree in the compound that evening, six families clutching identical sheets, their voices a low tide of confusion and fear.
"Seven days," Emeka read aloud again, as if repetition might change the meaning. "My children wrote their WAEC here. My wife brought our last baby home to this flat. Seven days?"
EMEKA OKONKWO, THIRD FLOOR TENANT
It was Mama Chisom's daughter, Adaeze, a second-year law student at the University of Lagos who broke the silence. She had arrived from the campus that afternoon with a borrowed textbook tucked under her arm. She spread it on the bonnet of Emeka's old Peugeot and cleared her throat.
"This notice is not valid," she said quietly. The compound fell silent. Even the generator two streets away seemed to pause. "Under the Lagos Tenancy Law, Papa Emeka cannot be thrown out in seven days. None of us can. And if Chief Bankole tries to force us out if he changes the locks or removes the roof — he will be committing a criminal offence."
Old Iya Agba, who had said nothing all evening, clicked her tongue slowly. "God bless this girl," she said. "Now — tell us what to do."
Adaeze stayed up that night composing a formal response on her laptop, citing law after law, section after section. By morning, Chief Bankole had received a letter of his own. By the end of that week, a lawyer had taken their case pro bono. The seven-day notice was challenged — and failed. The families stayed. The developer adjusted his plans.
The mango tree in the compound still stands today. Mama Chisom still hangs her wrappers out to dry beside it. And on the wall near the gate, someone has painted, in careful orange letters:
“Know your rights. No one else will tell you."
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