A little over a week ago, social media exploded with a viral clip portraying a heated confrontation between Nyesom Wike, the minister of the Federal Capital Territory (FCT), and officers of the Nigerian Navy. The bone of contention was a plot of land in Gaduwa, a residential district south of Abuja.
While the altercation promptly became fodder for online jokes, it revealed the longstanding tensions associated with authority and land ownership in Nigeria.
In the footage, Wike is seen interrogating the legitimacy of the construction, demanding documents. The naval officers countered that they were acting under instructions.
The showdown raised a bigger question about who actually controls land in Nigeria.
The Gaduwa incident thrust into public focus Nigeria’s most contentious land law—the Land Use Act (LUA) of 1978.
The illusion of ownership
Nigerians generally believe that purchasing land confers absolute ownership—but that’s far from it, legally. The Land Act mandates that all land in each state is vested in the governor—and in the case of the FCT, its minister—to hold in trust for the people, explains Aisha Ohida Ibrahim, a property lawyer.
What individuals receive is a right of occupancy, statutory in urban areas and customary in rural regions. This grants exclusive possession and the ability to use, transfer or even mortgage the land, but always subject to the overriding power of the state.
This, in effect, is akin to a lease, with citizens exercising their rights within limits defined by the state. Although Section 43 of the 1999 Constitution grants Nigerians the right to acquire property, the Land Use Act simultaneously restricts that ownership by vesting ultimate authority in government.
Thus, as barrister Maryam Kawu notes, individuals can challenge trespassers but cannot challenge the state, which legally owns the land.
Government Revocation
Perhaps the most controversial aspect of the land act can be found in Section 28, which empowers governors and the FCT minister to revoke land rights—whether for public infrastructure, urban development, extractive projects or violations of land-use conditions.
Notwithstanding, the law requires written communication, followed by adequate compensation. The law also mandates the courts to nullify unjust revocations.
In practice, though, this process is rarely followed. Revocations are often abrupt, politically motivated and clouded by mistrust.
The requirement of “fair and adequate compensation” is another concern. Because the state owns the land, compensation is paid only for unexhausted improvements such as buildings, structures, crops or economic trees.
In principle, compensation should restore the occupant to a position as close as possible to their status before revocation.
However, delays, undervaluation and inconsistent assessments are widespread. Because the law does not define what constitutes fairness, this ambiguity triggers many lengthy legal battles, says Kawu.
“What qualifies as fair and adequate compensation is honestly subjective to each individual and also depends on what the government considers as fair and adequate,” she says. “However, a citizen can go to court where he believes what was given to him is unfair or where he has not been given any compensation at all.”
Military influence vs civil authority
Historically, the military has held large swathes of land in Abuja due to allocations made during the military rule.
However, military personnel do not gain legal land rights simply by virtue of service, contends Ibrahim, the property lawyer.
“Legally, military personnel do not have any special land rights under the LUA simply by virtue of service. Occupancy of military quarters or land is based on administrative allocation, does not confer proprietary rights and is subject to government control,” she said.
The Nigerian Armed Forces may have enforceable rights over officially designated military land, but ultimate authority rests with the civilian government, which can order relocation, provided due process is followed.
The Gaduwa standoff exposed lingering administrative overlaps, including un-gazetted claims, outdated maps and an institutional culture in which military authority rivals civil law.
From urban demolitions to land grabs in rural settlements, land disputes are routine in Nigeria. Hapless citizens find themselves at the mercy of government agencies, security forces, or influential individuals.
Technically, they can seek injunctions, judicial review or legal action. But the cost of litigation is beyond the reach of countless ordinary Nigerians.
Land act: a long-overdue amendment
Experts insist that the Land act is overdue for an overhaul, arguing that it’s out of step with the current population growth and economic realities.
Despite major changes in land ownership patterns, “there has not been any single amendment since 1978,” says Kawu.
Ibrahim believes reforms must prioritise decentralisation, stronger tenure security and digital land registries.
Several African countries offer valuable lessons. Kenya, for example, enacted the Land Act and the Land Registration Act in 2012 as part of constitutional reforms. These laws decentralised land administration, digitising the process to improve transparency and minimise disputes.
South Africa also progressively reformed land legislation post-apartheid through its Land Reform Programme and the Communal Land Rights Act (2004).
Recent amendments have focused on formalising communal tenure, providing compensation frameworks for expropriation and ensuring broader access to land for disadvantaged communities.
Nigeria could take a cue from these countries to prevent the next viral fracas between civil authorities and the military.
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