By Adenike Lawal
Abuja, Nigeria’s federal capital, has long been known for its calm aura, sprawling estates, and the quiet comfort enjoyed by its elite. But under the watchful eyes of Nyesom Wike, the Minister of the Federal Capital Territory, the city is undergoing a dramatic transformation—one that is sparking unusual discomfort not just among the poor, but the rich as well.
Wike came into office with the fierce energy of a man on a mission. Known for his unapologetic leadership style during his time as governor of Rivers State, he brought that same fire to the heart of the nation.
His mantra: clean up Abuja, restore sanity, and make the city work again. And in fairness, work has begun.
Illegal structures are being demolished. Long-abandoned projects are being revived. Roads are receiving fresh asphalt.
City parks and green areas once overtaken by miscreants are being reclaimed. On the surface, it appears to be the dawn of a new Abuja—orderly, law-abiding, and modern.
But underneath the applause lies an uncommon grumble—this time not from street traders or low-income squatters, but from within the marble halls of luxury estates and behind tinted SUVs.
From Maitama to Asokoro, Wike’s bulldozers have not spared the mighty. Fences of high-rise buildings said to have encroached on green areas have been pulled down.
Multi-million naira properties lacking proper documentation have received demolition notices.
It is the kind of enforcement the wealthy in Abuja are not used to—and it is hitting hard.
In the past, political connections and deep pockets could buy silence or delay. Today, under Wike’s tenure, not even a senator’s mansion is immune if it stands on shaky legal ground.
It is a new experience for Abuja’s upper class, many of whom now find themselves grappling with the very same fear that once haunted the urban poor: fear of eviction, loss, and helplessness in the face of government action.
More interesting is how this shift is sparking conversations in hushed boardrooms and high-end social circles. Suddenly, documentation matters.
The location of a property, the legality of land acquisition, and the integrity of construction are being scrutinized with urgency.
But the discomfort of the rich is only one part of this evolving story. There is also growing tension among developers, some of whom claim that legitimate projects are being targeted without adequate engagement.
Others fear the unpredictability of Wike’s clampdown, which they describe as sometimes rushed and inconsiderate of long-standing investments.
Yet, supporters of the minister argue that Wike’s hands-on style is long overdue. Abuja, they say, has suffered decades of abuse by powerful individuals who broke building codes and flouted masterplans with impunity.
They see in Wike a long-missing enforcer willing to take on the sacred cows of the capital.
What is undeniable, however, is that Abuja’s development trajectory has taken a sharp turn. It is no longer business as usual.
Whether one lives in the suburbs or in a glass mansion, the message is clear—nobody is above the law.
Still, the challenge lies in ensuring that justice does not wear the face of vengeance, and that the rules being enforced are not selectively applied.
Transparency, fairness, and citizen engagement must walk side by side with this new vision.
For now, as Abuja reshapes under Wike’s grip, the elite may have to get used to an uncomfortable truth: in this new order, even the rich also cry.
