The first thing that strikes a visitor or listener when Kirikiri is mentioned is ‘maximum prison.’ However, there is more to this community beyond the prison, as before sunrise, scores of commercial motorcycles snake through the two narrow roads linking the community with Mile 2, Apapa and Lagos Island. Kirikiri is a well known area in Apapa, Lagos State, famous for housing the Kirikiri Maximum Prison, a major federal correctional facility established in 1955. The unending queue of trucks entering the community to lift petroleum products from the numerous tank farms lines both sides of the roads, with urchins collecting tolls from the trucks. During school hours, pupils in crisp uniforms dodge motorcycles as they navigate their way to classrooms, while the aroma of fried akara and freshly baked puff-puff from roadside kiosks at the entrance into Kirikiri community fills the air. From the waterfront, wooden fishing boats glide across the calm waters as fishermen return with the morning’s catch. Nearby, barges ferry goods between jetties, a reminder that Kirikiri’s economy, has always been tied to Lagos’ maritime heritage. Yet, outside the community, few people know this side of Kirikiri. How Kano emerged world’s 9th most populous city How northern youths abandoned Okada riding for farming in Ogun For millions of Nigerians, the name evokes only one image, the sprawling correctional centre that has, for decades, made Kirikiri synonymous with incarceration. Most residents said single narrative had eclipsed the story of a thriving neighbourhood, where generations have lived, worked and built their futures. At 66, High Chief Babatunde Babalola Shabi, the Baale of Kirikiri town, has watched the community transform from a sparsely populated settlement surrounded by mangrove vegetation into one of Lagos’ busiest working-class communities. “When I settled here in the late 1970s, there were more cashew trees than houses. The prison was already part of the landscape, but nobody imagined that one day, the entire community would become known only because of it,” he recalled. Pointing towards a busy street filled with tricycles and traders, he said: “Look around you. Does this look like a prison? This is a living community.” According to Shabi, his greatest disappointment is that outsiders seldom see beyond the prison gates. He said, “I have children who are professionals. Whenever they tell people they are from Kirikiri, the first reaction is always about prison. Imagine carrying that stereotype throughout your life.” The traditional ruler narrated how the community assists warders in ensuring that inmates never abscond when they come out to do public work. “I remember how some inmates tried to escape during the COVID-19 period. About six or seven of them had a hashed plan of how to burrow a hole through the prison walls without knowing that the surrounding environment is a tick-reptile-infested mangrove swamp. The Navy assisted the hunt with their helicopter. The fleeing inmates were tracked down into the swamp. About two of them had been eaten up by crocodiles before security operatives got to them,” he said. Another resident of the area who identified himself as James Oyinkro disclosed that he moved into Kirikiri town with his parents many years ago. He said the town was more of a fishing community than what it is today. “As a young man I used to go fishing with my late parents along the Kirikiri creeks. It was a community of very few people. There was a small airstrip in the area. Smaller aircraft landed and took off carrying some Europeans who were in charge of the construction of Tin-Can Island port,” he noted. He also said that as young boys, they usually rushed to the airstrip to watch the landing and takeoff of the aircraft, adding that those who owned small fishing trawlers started setting up small offices by the jetty. Weekend Trust reports that long before the correctional centres became household names, Kirikiri was sustained by water. Along the waterfront, fishermen repair torn nets beneath makeshift sheds, while wooden canoes bob gently against the shoreline. The air carries the smell of smoked fish and salt water as traders negotiate prices with buyers from neighbouring communities. A 58-year-old fisherman, Bassey Edet, who has spent nearly three decades on the waters said, “The lagoon feeds many families here. “People think Kirikiri is only a prison, but many households survive through fishing, marine transport and waterside trading.” Our correspondent reports that children run along the shoreline as barges loaded with building materials and industrial supplies navigate nearby channels, illustrating how the waterways remain vital to commerce. Factories that keep Lagos moving Beyond the residential streets are Kirikiri industrial estates, where thousands of workers report daily at manufacturing companies, warehouses and logistics firms serving Apapa
Don't miss out on breaking stories and in-depth articles.
