2028, Lagos, the new Dubai. At least, that’s how they sold it.
In a scrubby pocket of land just beyond Toru-Elegede, where the bush still whispers and generators still sleep, Mr. Timi stood on a 10-plot expanse of land he bought for peanuts five years ago. ₦2 million a plot back then, now whispered to be worth ₦15 million or more. No roads. No electric wires. No humans. But value? Oh, the value was undeniable, at least on paper.
Obi-Wan Kenobi Properties Limited sold him the dream. His agent, Sule, sold him the urgency. “Sir, a buyer is already offering to pay you ₦16 million per plot. But if you hold just two more years, you could sell for maybe ₦25 million per plot.”
Mr. Timi smiled. “He should bring ₦20 million now, then we can talk.”
Then came Governor Twain.
Newly elected, with an Atlantic Ocean breathing down his coastline and a budget bleeding dry, he didn’t come to play. He needed to act decisively to save his dear state. His proposed Property Tax Bill was simple:
- Vacant plots of land to be taxed annually at 10% of their appraised value, assessment to be based on the land’s highest and best use—regardless of the prevailing sub-market realities, and not its current use. This applies whether or not the land is developed, actively utilized, or left idle.
- Income-generating developments on the property to be charged to pay a 3% annual tax on net operating income.
The bill passed its first reading with barely a whimper. Its objective was clear: to boost the State’s internally generated revenue, incentivize real development in affordable housing and infrastructure, discourage speculative hoarding, and align landholding with the state’s long-term economic and urban planning vision.
2 weeks later.
When Mr. Timi called Sule, this time to sell only 5 plots at the initial ₦16 million per plot offer, he was met with silence. The buyer was no longer interested. Mr. Sule’s voice was nervous. “Sir, he’s no longer picking his calls. Word on the street is that the tax bill is real. They’re even saying officials from the State’s Government House were tracking actual transaction prices to expose under-declaring landowners.”
In the days that followed, the Lagos property market spiraled. Panic hit Telegram groups. Speculators vanished from WhatsApp forums. Real estate influencers suddenly started posting about crypto.
It was June 13, 2028.
On the sixth floor of the Eau De Bleure View Penthouse, Rtd. General Satoshi Kwagame exhaled his cigar smoke into the salty wind. The sun had begun its descent over the Atlantic, casting shadows over the coastal skyline where land once symbolized power. Now, it symbolized liability. The evening news headlines buzzed below:
“Property Market on the Brink of Collapse as Lagos State’s Tax Bill Clears First Reading.”
He turned to his aide-de-camp and chuckled. He had liquidated his holdings months ago, thanks to a tipoff from his friends in the Governor’s inner caucus. He knew the bill wasn’t just about targeting opposition wealth or political revenge. It was about survival.
Behind closed doors, the ruling elite faced a reality more terrifying than losing elections. Rising sea levels were threatening entire districts of island properties once valued at $6 million per plot. Those with foresight were already planning relocations inland, to flood-resistant terrain. But the problem? Host communities saw the desperation, and began inflating land prices to extremes. Even ministers, ex-governors and billionaires were being priced out by their own people.
General Kwagame remembered a business associate who offered ₦650 million for a dry, inland parcel, and was laughed out of the meeting. “The indigenes told him to go back to his flooded island,” he sneered.
Meanwhile, urban migration was exploding. City populations were swelling. Private developers wanted to build housing, but couldn’t afford to. “The land is overpriced, uncleared, and unyielding,” one investor had said. “Even if we build, nobody can afford the rent.” So while developers sat idle, speculators sat on sand, demanding fortunes for dust.
Hence, Governor Twain’s plan was simple:
“Tank the market to destroy the financial base of opposition figures. Reset land prices to make them affordable again for the ruling elite. Break the pricing power of host communities hoarding flood-free land. Force dead land back into circulation before the sea swallows the coast.”
Kwagame and his friends had already liquidated their holdings and wired proceeds offshore.
They would return later, when the market bottomed out, to buy back better land at lower cost, far from the rising tide, far from speculation, far from resistance.
“Let the people panic,” he said. “Let the market collapse. Only then can we build a new empire, one we can afford.”
In the days following the rumors, nothing had changed, the bill hadn’t even passed its second reading. But across Nigeria, everything was changing. Investors in Anambra State began calling their agents to “test the market.” Those in Rivers State asked finance attorneys to “underwrite” their portfolios, just in case audits arrived.
Then came the panic texts and rumors:
“Heard the Rivers State governor is drafting a similar tax law.”
“Someone said they saw drones over Aleto-Eleme—plot scanning?”
Was it true? Didn’t matter.
By mid-October 2028, landowners across the country—especially those holding plots in dormant estates, cooperative-scheme bulk lands, legacy family farmland now claimed by shell companies—began dumping their holdings. Plots once offered at ₦22 million were now ₦7 million. ₦7 million became ₦3.5 million. ₦3.5 million became ₦850K—if they could find a buyer at all. Land agents stopped taking their clients’ call. Even desperate listings went unanswered. The worst hit? Speculators who had borrowed to “land bank”. Holding costs were once non-existent. Now they were terminal.
The panic didn’t remain with landowners.
Across Anambra, Imo, Abuja, Akwa Ibom, Rivers, and a select northern states, like Nassarawa, and Kano, entire real estate agencies folded. These weren’t small players. They sponsored award shows, ran billboards, sold the Nigerian Dream with drone footage and artificial scarcity. They had no assets, just contracts, commissions, and hype. When buyers froze and sellers flooded the market, their business models, built on churn and charm, collapsed. Their Telegram groups went quiet. Their founders “took a break to Dubai.” The rest vanished into debt and disbelief.
Governors in at least fifteen other states, suffering from the revenue crunch due to the recent Nigerian Revenue Service Act, suddenly faced an odd socio-economic dilemma:
“Do we pass a property tax law to boost our revenues, or do we say nothing and let the fear of such a law crash land prices?”
It didn’t matter which they chose. The market had already priced in the paranoia.
In Edo State, a state official was caught on camera asking estate valuers for average per-plot sale prices across LGAs in the state. A day later, land prices in its capital dropped 30%. A week later, two major developers halted new site launches. The fear wasn’t about the tax law anymore. It was about who might blink next.
Ironically, the wealthy, those who once laughed off the idea of regulation, were now trapped, as their holdings were too large to sell quickly, too high-profile to hide, too illiquid to shift without massive loss. Many had already “over-leveraged” these land assets for political favors, social standing, and bank loans.
Hence, what started in Lagos as an ordinary tax bill had now flattened land prices in 300 local government areas, frozen 15 state-level real estate registries, wiped out an estimated ₦150 trillion in speculative “on-paper” land value.
From the bush to the boardroom, the crash was complete.
The Nigerian property mania had one flaw baked in, it thrived as long as no one called the bluff.
Governor Twain had called it.
The morning in the days after the collapse, the air was different.
The streets were quieter now. Former agents, once loud, brash, and full of scripts about generational wealth, had gone silent. Some opened small food businesses. Others quietly joined agro start-ups or began studying for banking exams. The billboards once screaming “Buy Land Now or Cry Later” were stripped from their frames. Torn PVC banners fluttered in the gutter wind like the last whispers of a vanished dream.
The SEC stepped in.
In a move no one could envision 2 years earlier, the Securities and Exchange Commission finally brought real estate trading under its regulatory umbrella—classifying land dealings, income property sales and purchase, property trading, conveyancing, fractional property sales, developer-backed land banking schemes, etc., as investment-grade activities. From that moment forward, no real estate company in the country could operate without SEC licensing, diligence and underwriting reports, risk disclosures, and valuation filings for properties they wish to offer to the public market.
Back in Lagos State, now ground zero of the market correction, Governor Twain had moved faster than anyone anticipated. At a press conference watched across the nation, he stood in front of bulldozers and announced:
“…since 1978, the Lagos State government has been sleeping on its responsibilities. We have succeeded in mismanaging the only resource entrusted in our care by law. And we have suffered dearly for it. This is the end of that chapter in our history. Henceforth, we are no longer running a Ministry of Excuses. The Lagos State Lands Registry as you know it is gone…”
Behind him, the former Lands Registry building crumbled—demolished by Executive Order. In its place, he unveiled the “Central Bank of Lands, Lagos State.” A new regulatory authority with enforcement powers, valuation oversight, and legal authority akin to a financial clearinghouse.
And then came the mandate that sent shockwaves through every family compound, estate WhatsApp group, and village across the state, and the nation:
“…all private and communal landowners must commission and submit a state-recognized survey plan. Resolve all internal family disputes with notarized affidavits. Present verifiable documentation of their allodial (root) title. File same within 12 months…families or persons who fail to comply with these Order will see their lands confiscated and would face criminal charges for “intention to defraud the state of its resources”…ground rents shall be paid annually to keep and maintain possession and control of state land resources…all agents or brokers (practicing their trade and professions without a licence, not being lawyers or estate surveyors, valuers, or other professional body backed by a licence and subject to discipline) in the market must obtain a licence to able to earn commissions for services to the market. Defaulters will be dealt with decisively and used as an example for posterity and the collective good of State!…”
And just like that, land ownership was no longer a passive activity. It became a test of individual diligence and credibility. Elders who once boasted of “our forefather’s land” scrambled to call their solicitors and attorneys to swiftly resolve decades-old disputes out of court. Estate developers rushed to validate coordinates. Even traditional rulers began calling surveyors in the dead of night.
In under six weeks after Governor Twain’s speech, land ceased to be a trophy—it had metamorphosed to a financial instrument under public scrutiny. The age of speculation was over. The age of accountability had begun.
Mr. Sule, the agent, dusted off his contact list and called one of his old clients—Mr. Bayo, a quiet, no-nonsense man who once walked away from a deal on the Island because he “couldn’t see the sense in it.”
“My Bossiest Boss,” Sule said, whining him over the phone. “I have a hot one. Town axis near Ikorodada. Seller is begging for ₦5 million per plot…This property is solid one o. E no get 2 for market now. It is by the express-way.”
There was silence.
“Send me the survey and title details, as well as the location of the property on whatsapp.” Mr. Bayo said softly. Then the line went dead.
Five hours later, Mr. Bayo called back.
“I’ll pay ₦864,000.”
“Wait—what?” Sule laughed nervously. “Did you hear what I said? This is a plot that was ₦130 million six months ago o.”
But Mr. Bayo didn’t flinch.
“My advisors conducted a highest and best use analysis…,” Mr. Bayo said softly.
“…factoring in the area’s buildability, cost of construction development, and potential rental income from a high-rise development in the sub-market, the residual land value is ₦960K. If you adjust for the new annual land tax—that’s 10% on ₦960K, so ₦96K per year. Over five years, that’s nearly ₦500K in deadweight cost unless the land yields income. So, all in, I won’t go above ₦864,000. Besides, the highest rent user-tenants in the sub-market can pay tops out at ₦1.2M annually per office space, and I’d be lucky to get over 80% occupancy in the current market. With construction and holding costs layered in, the break-even NOI justifies land costs no higher than ₦850K–₦900K max. My property finance and investment lawyers have already flagged that under this new tax system, I’d have to justify a higher rent projection to the Central Land Bank to get approval on financing and land-use registration. That means digging into the economic base of the region, doing supply/demand stress testing, modeling hypothetical tenants and absorption rates—and frankly, I don’t have the time.”
He paused to catch his breath.
“I don’t have the energy or the money for all that stress. So tell the seller that this is what I can pay. And give him my reasons.”
Sule sighed. For the first time in years, buyers were no longer intoxicated by the narrative of endless appreciation on real estate. They were now doing math?! To buy a plot of land?!
Mr. Sule didn’t close the sale that day. But he now knew what he was up against. The markets had changed fundamentally. Nigerian investors were now reading about real estate investment models and teaching themselves how to underwrite land deals before making their offer and seeking professional guidance every step of the way. The myths had collapsed. And the real estate market, once ruled by sentiment, was now being rebuilt on something far more dangerous to agents like him:
Common Sense.
Whispers were growing in the regional property markets, that Accra’s East Legon plots had quietly dropped 18%, that Freetown’s hillside mansions were suddenly sitting unsold, that even developers in Nairobi’s Upper Hill were now renegotiating land leases. Echoes of the Nigerian property collapse had begun to ripple outward, triggering a slow domino across West and East Africa, as investors in speculative markets began questioning their assumptions, recalculating risk, and, more than anything, watching what Nigeria would do next.
Epilogue
The Nigerian property market isn’t just inflated, it’s deliberately engineered to collapse. But, unlike the mortgage-fueled housing bubbles of the U.S. in 2008 or Spain in 2012, which required millions of households defaulting to crash, Nigeria’s real estate market requires only one thing. A political decision. Not a collective sell-off. Not a global credit crunch. Not rising interest rates.
Just a signature backed by political will.
This play isn’t new. Nigerians have seen this movie before. In fact, it is all too familiar. For over four decades, the nation coasted on the illusion of economic growth and stability. A false sense of strength, propped up by fuel subsidies and rising oil prices and foreign reserves, kept prices artificially low and political tempers cooler. Instead of using those years to diversify into agriculture, manufacturing, and value-added production, Nigeria spent the oil boom chasing white elephants, funding bloated bureaucracies and conducting elections. Then the music stopped. The crash in global oil prices exposed the rot.
Then May 29, 2023 happened.
In one sentence, the subsidy regime ended. The single stroke unleashed spiraling inflation, currency devaluation, price shocks across every sector, a sudden, violent economic recalibration.
And what had seemed untouchable came crashing—overnight.
It didn’t take a protest. It didn’t take a war. It didn’t take market consensus. It took a policy. One man’s words.
In truth, the Lagos State government didn’t have to pass the bill. They only had to remind investors that land belonged to the State.
It only took one bill. One populist. One governor willing to act.
And just like that, the ants scattered from the carcass they thought was theirs.
End.
About the Author
Da-tonye Bright Agborubere is the Lead Solicitor and Head of Research for Boldmen Bridgewaters Advisory–a boutique corporate/commercial real estate firm based in the city of Awka, Anambra State, Nigeria. With a strong background in real estate finance, property law, investment analysis, and strategy, he provides expert advisory services on structured real estate transactions, mortgage financing, and housing policy development.
