Beyond Roof and Walls: Redefining Homelessness in Nigeria Amidst National Power Failures 

To have a home is the aspiration of many, if not all, as it offers relief from the burden of paying rent and elevates one’s social status. However, the concept of home extends far beyond merely possessing a physical space; it is deeply intertwined with identity, stability, and social standing. 

Before leaving Nigeria for the United States, I rarely thought of homelessness in the way it is commonly understood in the West. In my experience, if someone couldn’t afford rent, they would likely stay with relatives, as the support networks in Nigeria often provide a buffer against the complete lack of shelter. This communal safety net meant that homelessness, as defined by the absence of a physical roof over one’s head, was an uncommon experience in most parts of Nigeria. 

However, my time in the U.S. has prompted me to reconsider the concept of homelessness and the deeper, more complex layers associated with the idea of ‘home.’ It is safe to infer that lacking a home is not only about physical absence but can mark one as a social ‘deviant,’ with impacts on access to fundamental needs like sleeping, bathing, and even establishing an official presence through a registered address. My reflection has led me to consider how this concept applies in Nigeria currently, where, despite apparent access to physical shelter, many may still experience a form of homelessness. 

This rethinking of homelessness became especially poignant following the recent, complete collapse of Nigeria’s National Power Grid, which left millions without electricity for weeks in a country where the average household already struggles with limited power access. This infrastructural breakdown revealed a new dimension of housing precarity: while people may have roofs over their heads, their homes become dysfunctional and unstable in the absence of “power in the wires”—the electricity that has come to define modern life. The collapse highlighted how essential infrastructure such as electricity is for making a home truly livable, shaping personal identity and social belonging within one’s living space. I propose that our understanding of homelessness must include not only those without a roof but also those whose homes are stripped of essential functionalities by infrastructural deficiencies. 

By exploring these issues, this reflection aims to challenge and broaden the definition of homelessness to include those whose access to a stable, functional home environment is limited by systemic power shortages. This perspective offers an interesting way of understanding the relationship between people, space, and identity in the modern Nigerian context, where infrastructural challenges increasingly impact what it means to have—and to feel at home. 

The recent collapse of Nigeria’s National Power Grid has illuminated a deeper form of homelessness experienced by those who may have physical shelter but lack the essential stability and functionality typically associated with a home. According to the World Population Review, over 24 million people in Nigeria are officially homeless, making the country’s homelessness crisis one of the most severe in Africa. 

As the most populous nation on the continent, Nigeria faces an epidemic where millions not only lack housing but also appropriate access to basic services such as electricity, water, and sanitation. The report highlights, “Over 24 million people are considered homeless, with many more not having appropriate access to a proper dwelling that has access to some of the most basic services.” This official narrative, however, often overlooks the lived reality of those who, while technically housed, still experience a form of infrastructural homelessness.

 In Nigeria, where access to reliable power and essential services is precarious even at the best of times, the collapse of the national grid has further destabilized lives and livelihoods. Through the stories of four hypothetical individuals, we can see how this crisis has dismantled livelihoods, stifled ambition, and revealed the inadequacies of current infrastructure in providing a true sense of “home.” Imagine Miriam, a market vendor who sells perishables. Already marginalised by daily power cuts or shedding, Miriam’s income depends on her ability to keep her stock fresh—a feat she accomplishes by renting and navigating poor access to power. 

The grid’s collapse, however, has left her in a dire situation. With fuel prices skyrocketing and the cost of generator maintenance becoming unfeasible, her stock quickly spoils, erasing any chance of profit. In the evenings, she returns home to darkness, unable to refrigerate her food or rely on even the most basic electrical amenities. 

Miriam’s struggle epitomizes a form of homelessness where her physical space—her home and her place of business—lacks the fundamental resources necessary for a stable life. This powerlessness and inability to sustain her business render her “homeless,” despite having a roof over her head. Picture Samuel, a university student and aspiring engineer, who once found solace and focus in his studies despite the challenges of power rationing. 

When the grid collapsed, Samuel’s academic journey took a sharp turn for the worse. He now spends hours commuting to a nearby internet cafe, one of the few places still running on generators, just to access the electricity needed for his assignments. As fuel costs soar, his daily expenses eat into what little money he has, forcing him to make impossible choices between meals and study materials. With his education hanging by a thread, Samuel’s experience reveals how the collapse of infrastructure turns a promising student’s dreams into illusions. In a place where education is a primary vehicle for social mobility, the absence of basic resources within his “home” strips him of the stability needed to cultivate his future.

 I can talk about Amaka, a young entrepreneur, who launched her design startup with big dreams. Relying heavily on digital tools and a constant internet connection, she initially navigated power rationing by investing in a modest generator. But as fuel prices doubled, her expenses outpaced her earnings, forcing her to consider closing her business. Without power, Amaka’s workspace has become a place of frustration and helplessness. Her inability to rely on a steady source of electricity not only jeopardizes her business but also her identity as a creator and provider. Amaka’s “home,” as both a business and personal space, is rendered functionally empty, highlighting how the loss of infrastructure transforms one’s sense of self and stifles the potential to grow.

 Joseph, a retired schoolteacher, spends his days in his modest family home, now relying on candlelight for evening tasks as he did in his youth. A simple life was never an issue for Joseph, but the government’s neglect to ensure stable power has now erased the sense of dignity and comfort he long associated with retirement. Without reliable light, he struggles to read and complete even the simplest of tasks, leaving him isolated and cut off from the world. Joseph’s story reveals how the “roof over one’s head” is insufficient when a person’s ability to live with dignity is undermined. His plight underscores the government’s failure to create stable infrastructures that honour the lives of its citizens. 

There are countless stories like this. As the crisis deepens, many find a last refuge in religious organizations, which have become lifelines for entire communities. Places of worship are some of the few spaces that remain open and functional, pooling community resources to keep generators running, offering both literal and symbolic sources of light. Churches, mosques, and temples have become sanctuaries for charging phones while maintaining social connections and morale. These religious spaces operate as temporary relief centres, offering people a fleeting sense of security and support that their homes can no longer provide. 

However, this dependence on religious organisations raises concerns: How sustainable is it to rely on communal support in the long run? How long can these spaces bear the burden of compensating for government shortcomings? The growing reliance on places of worship as makeshift community centres reveals a troubling gap in government support, highlighting the limits of social infrastructure stretched beyond its purpose. 

While ordinary citizens bear the brunt of the grid’s collapse, Nigeria’s political elites enjoy an insulated existence, comfortably running on private 24-hour generators and staying unaffected by the chaos surrounding them. This divide emphasizes the state’s neglect of its citizens’ welfare, as those with influence and power retreat to gated enclaves, shielded from the struggles of the majority. The contrast is stark: the same taxes paid by citizens now suffering in candlelit homes are funnelled into the luxury of those who have rendered them homeless in a functional sense. The government’s failure to uphold its social contract, abandoning citizens to the age of candles and kerosene lamps, forces the average person to live in conditions that deny them dignity, security, and a sense of place.

 I do not want to sound all pessimistic, although there is every reason to be! 

Amid this despair, a glimmer of hope could emerge: What if the grid’s collapse is an unintended catalyst for communities to explore the self-reliance spoken in “Every Household, Its Own Government,” where Daniel Jordan Smith notes the adaptive spirit of Nigerian communities, who have often found ways to navigate government neglect through improvised infrastructure and entrepreneurial resilience. This infrastructure breakdown may indeed signal an opportunity for communities to reclaim autonomy over their power sources, embracing off-grid solutions that harness local resources. In a reimagined Nigeria, households and neighbourhoods could develop community grids, creating decentralized power systems that lessen dependence on a flawed central grid.

 By pooling resources and embracing innovative energy sources, citizens might build sustainable systems that reflect their needs and identities, transforming this crisis into a chance for community-driven infrastructure. 

The path forward demands courage, resilience, and collective action. As Nigerians navigate a world where the national grid no longer provides stability, they have an opportunity to redefine home, not only as a space but as a locus of shared responsibility and self-governance! 

Fwangmun Oscar Danladi, is currently a PhD Student at the University of Iowa, Iowa City, USA / +16093754780 / fwangmun-danladi@uiowa.edu