— Green Zones Fast Disappearing as Illegal Buildings Spring Up
Wuse is Abuja’s restless heartbeat.
Its streets—named after African towns and cities—carry a certain poetry. They whisper history, while its stretches of green affirm its Nigerian authenticity. Alongside Garki, Maitama, Asokoro, and the Central Business District, Wuse forms the living core of the Federal Capital City (FCC)—that tightly woven cluster where Nigeria’s power, commerce, and culture converge.
Unlike Maitama and Asokoro—whose ghost estates and silent mansions often betray absentee owners—Wuse is alive—entirely peopled—buzzing from dawn until well past midnight. Here, the upper-middle class rubs shoulders with “old money” aristocrats, civil servants with clout, expatriates, diplomats, politicians, and discreet business magnates. It is one of the few places in Abuja where MSMEs and retail truly thrive—not just because people live here, but because they have the purchasing power to keep the wheels of commerce turning.
Every street, crescent, and alley is animated. Markets jostle with malls. Eateries hum with chatter—gyms and sports centres pulse with evening energy. From roadside suya stands to upscale restaurants, from tech shops to tailoring ateliers, Wuse is not just real estate—it is a living organism.
The New Noise in Town
In the past year and a half, Wuse has been undergoing a dramatic transformation, one that is as loud as it is relentless. The pace of change under the Tinubu administration has accelerated into something close to a construction frenzy, raising urgent questions about the city’s future.
Paradoxically, this is not happening in empty, undeveloped parts of the city. Wuse is already densely built up. Yet, the district now feels like a single, sprawling construction site. Old, modest but dignified buildings are being snapped up, demolished, and replaced with towering plazas, glitzy malls, and palatial duplexes that speak in the language of excess.
What’s more alarming is the quiet erasure of Wuse’s green belts and recreational spaces. These are the city’s lungs, designed to keep Abuja’s master plan breathable. But now, chunks of these green zones are being carved up, fenced off, and built over—often under the suspiciously passive gaze of authorities. In a city where zoning laws were once sacrosanct, the silence feels like permission.
Who’s Funding the Takeover?