By Cynthia Ukachukwu
For nearly a month, Lagos, the bustling commercial heartbeat of Nigeria, has been thrown into turmoil as swathes of the city endured a prolonged 25-day power outage.
The blackout, tied to maintenance work on the Omotosho–Ikeja West 330KV transmission line, has left residents and business owners groaning under unbearable experiences, mounting losses, and worsening mistrust in the nation’s power sector.
The Transmission Company of Nigeria (TCN) had announced that the shutdown was necessary to replace ageing equipment and install fibre-optic cables, which it said would ultimately improve the reliability of electricity supply.
The Eko Electricity Distribution Company (EKEDC) further explained that the planned outage would affect parts of Lagos and adjoining service areas daily, between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m., for 25 days.
Yet, for many Lagosians, the explanation sounded hollow. Poor communication, inconsistent restoration of power, and the sheer length of the disruption made the exercise unbearable. Instead of reassurance, residents were left with what they described as “chaos in disguise.”
For Mrs Adenike Adedeji, a mother of three in Alimosho, the experience has been both physical and psychological. By mid-morning, her small apartment becomes boredom, her children restless and irritable.
“They just take the light without telling us. No notice, no warning. We woke up one day and there was no electricity,” she said, fanning herself with a piece of cardboard.
Her story is echoed across Lagos: from Agege to Oshodi, Mushin to Iyana Ipaja, tales of frustration abound.
Students preparing for examinations struggle to read in environment not properly iluminated; artisans cannot power their tools; small businesses reliant on refrigeration face ruin.
Mr Oluwasegun Ayeni, who runs a cold room in Iyana Ipaja, described the situation as catastrophic. “Electricity is not a luxury, it’s a necessity. Fuel is too expensive. Even two days without light can ruin everything in my freezer. Now imagine 25 days,” he exclaimed, visibly frustrated.
*Businesses collapse, families suffer, mistrust deepens over Nigeria’s fragile power sector
The most enormous casualties have been micro and small enterprises.
From frozen food sellers to welders, tailors, barbers, and cyber café operators, many have been forced into shutdown.
“If I don’t work, I don’t eat,” said a smoothie vendor in Ikotun, who had to close shop after days of failed attempts to preserve fruits without electricity. A tailor in Agege lamented that customers had withdrawn their fabrics, while another trader noted that the blackout had doubled their operational costs as they turned to generators.
Petrol and diesel—already at record-high prices—offered little respite. For many, running generators daily was financially impossible. “Even when you buy fuel, you cannot sustain it. The profit is gone before the business begins,” a mechanic explained.
Children, home for the long school holidays, have borne a unique burden.
With no electricity for fans, television, or indoor games, many are forced outdoors under the unfriendly wheather. Parents worry about their health and safety.
“It’s dangerous,” a mother in Surulere complained. “Exposing children to such cold wheather can cause illness. And when children are outside all day, there is the risk of accidents or even abduction. The government should think of families, not just cables.”
Though officials insisted that electricity was restored daily by 5 p.m., residents say reality tells a different story. Some communities reported that supply returned much later—or not at all.
“They say it’s only daytime, but some nights we remain in darkness. We’ve seen this before—what starts as temporary maintenance turns into a prolonged blackout,” said a resident from Agege.
The inconsistency has fuelled deep mistrust.
For many Lagosians, this was not just about technical maintenance but another episode in the long saga of inefficiency and opacity in Nigeria’s electricity sector.
While mainland residents groaned, some on Lagos Island experienced little disruption.
Shops stayed open, boutiques thrived, and prepaid meters cushioned the blow.
“We haven’t felt it much,” admitted a boutique owner. “We use prepaid meters and have an inverter system, so business continues.”
Still, she pointed to the rising cost of electricity as the bigger challenge. “What’s affecting us is not the blackout itself, but the high price of buying units. Electricity is becoming unaffordable for many.”
The disparity highlighted the widening gap between those with access to alternative energy solutions and the vast majority who cannot afford them.
*Broader implications for Nigeria’s power crisis
The Lagos outage has rekindled debate about the chronic inefficiencies in Nigeria’s electricity system.
Despite billions of dollars spent on reforms since privatisation in 2013, power supply remains unstable, with national grid collapses occurring frequently.
Experts warn that prolonged disruptions, whether “planned” or not, undermine public confidence and further entrench poverty.
For Lagos, the country’s economic hub, the stakes are even higher.
Prolonged blackouts stall productivity, reduce competitiveness, and deepen the struggles of ordinary citizens.
“This is not just an inconvenience—it’s an economic crisis,” said an energy analyst. “Every hour without power is a loss in GDP, a loss in small business revenue, and a loss in household welfare.”
The outage has become, for many, a metaphor for Nigeria’s deepening inequality. Those with solar panels, prepaid meters, and inverters continue to cope. Those without are left behind, sweating in darkness, their businesses collapsing, their children restless.
“Electricity in Nigeria is no longer a service. It has become a privilege,” lamented a local trader. “If you can’t afford backup, you’re condemned to darkness. And that is not how a country should treat its people.”
As the 25-day blackout drags to a close, Lagosians are united in one sentiment: never again.
