Before leaving Lagos in late last year, I was certain I had left behind awful memories, like the stench that engulfed its megacities. I looked forward to the fresh air in Adamawa. After three days inside a bus from Lagos to Adamawa state, the stink of rubbish, like those mountains of refuse you find in the Olusosun landfill in Lagos, hit me on arriving in Yola. I asked then: Is Adamawa smelling?
Every non-indigene coming into Yola, the capital city of Adamawa state, for the first time experiences either the smell or the lazily buzzing flies over piles of mountains of refuse. Along the Doubele road down to Vinikilang-Adamawa, the most polluted area, the smell hits you before you see it.
The city along this road fades into sprawling settlements of mountain refuse piled up beside the busy road, with small kiosks and rickety homes. Plastic bottles, rusted irons, torn sandals, spoiled food, and discarded fabrics rot together in the open, attracting flies and vultures that hover overhead. You can guess that’s definitely a potential hotspot for cholera, malaria and other disease outbreaks—a trademark of neglect and failed waste management.
But here in Doubele, there’s something more beyond the heaps of waste. This pollution is not just a nuisance; it is a matter of survival. For some children here, survival comes from the waste others discard. From men, women, and children scavenging for old clothes, plastic bottles, and metals, to small kiosk owners who trade from scrap, buying cheap from scavengers to resell to buyers coming from outside the state who buy in bulk. The refuse, dangerous as it is, feeds an economy that keeps hundreds alive.
Children scrambling over rubbish (Photo: Bankole Taiwo James)
This is a scene one would not expect; however, at every corner, you find children balancing sacks of bottles on their heads, women bending to sort through discarded shoes, and men gagging over piles of plastics and metals.
This is the story of the bola boys and the Doublee community, where I spent a day trying to understand how pollution has become their lifeline and survival.
Gidan’s Kiosk: The Marketplace Built from the Rot
Just across the refuse site stands a small kiosk with rusted zinc roofing leaning against the wind. Inside, I met Gidan Yusuf, a 28-year-old who has been running this makeshift shop for three years. His kiosk is not like the regular traditional store stocked with factory goods. It is one of those marketplaces for refuse turned commodities.
“I started this business three years ago with my brother,” narrates Gidan, as he leans against the counter. His hands are rough, probably from years of lifting metal scraps. “But we quarrelled. He left. I sold my phone to pay my debts and started again alone.”
Around his shop, children and the older ones, known as bola, stocked it, selling to him. He buys plastic bottles or old iron for as little as ₦150 for 1 kilogram and resells them for ₦200 or more. On good months, he says, he makes ₦40,000 to ₦50,000, which is barely enough to keep him afloat.
Bola boys stocking at Gidan shop (Photo: Bankole Taiwo James)
Gidan insists there’s little left for personal comfort. “There is no wife, no children. We are just working,” he says. “We don’t have money for ourselves. If you want to rent a small house here, it is ₦3,000 to ₦5,000 per month. So everything I get, I just use it to survive.”
While trying to survive on his daily sales, Gidan has grown used to harassment from police raids and, sometimes, from locals. One of the challenges they face in their work is police harassment, which, in most cases, is set up.
“Police come, especially when children bring things. Sometimes they accuse us, and after they know the truth, they still ask us to pay. We settle them. That is how it goes.”
Image of Gidan standing outside his shop (Photo: Bankole Taiwo James)
Despite constant harassment and stress, he insists on being happy and satisfied with what he is doing. “Every day, I eat, I buy small things, I even dash people’s money,” he says. To him, his work, however stigmatised, gives him a sense of independence.
If the government eventually decides to do the right thing by clearing the dumps, Gidan admits he would have nothing left. “Maybe I will go back to my village in Bauchi state,” he says.
A 13-year-old’ lifeline in the Dump
A few meters walk away from Gidan’s shop is Sunanada Muhammad, a 13-year-old bola boy. Stuck with his sack bag, his small frame is half-hidden under the pile of plastic bottles he has stuffed into it. With sweat rushing over his forehead, he flashes a shy smile when asked about how long he has been doing this work.
“Since I was 10 years old,” he says. “My father used to do it. After he died, I continued.”
Sunanada Muhammad sitting inside Gidan’s shop (Photo: Bankole Taiwo James)
From his home in Nundi, Sunanada visits the dumps daily. Just like every other child like him, he combs through the waste, gathers plastic bottles and other recyclables. On an average day, he earns at least ₦500. If he collects 500 plastic bottles, he would earn about ₦2000 by reselling them.
“I save my money. I need to pay my school fees,” says Muhammad. “Sometimes I can make ₦10,000 in a month if I don’t spend too much.”
Does he plan to stop? With a shy smile, he shakes his head. “I can’t stop. I need money.”
Like many other children in his line of work, Sunanada tries to balance his work with school. He attends classes in Nundi, a community in Adamawa, but every afternoon, he returns to the dumps to scavenge. His dream for now is modest: he wants to save enough to buy a ram and sell it during Sallah. “Sometimes I am happy because I am saving,” he says. “But sometimes I am angry, because I have to give my money away.”
Many child rights advocates term Muhammad and bola boys’ work as child labour. And according to the United Nations Children’s Fund (UNICEF), child labour remains widespread across northern Nigeria, where many children are forced into hazardous work to support their families. Sunanada, just like other children, is among the thousands of Nigerian children caught between poverty and survival.
Bola boys sitting on rubbish as they count their day earnings (Photo: Bankole Taiwo James)
They Are Surviving
Abu Umar, a 56-year-old man, has lived in Yola for more than 30 years. According to him, the refuse is a resource. Families and children survive by it, and though the dangers of disease and pollution loom at large, he thinks the community has long come to adapt. The dumps have become part of his life here for three decades.
“People use the refuse in different ways,” says Umar. “The children make their money here. What can you say? They are surviving.”
But the consequences are evident everywhere. The risk of waterborne disease is real. There are cholera outbreaks during the rainy season, which claim lives each year. Malaria is constant. Open waste contaminates streams and shallow wells, making clean water a luxury. Despite these risks, residents like Umar largely ignore them.
Policy With No Plan B
In August 2024, the Adamawa state government issued an executive order banning all scavenging and criminalising rummaging through waste. Scavengers could face up to 6 months in prison or a ₦10,000 fine. But this legal crackdown offers no alternative means of livelihood. In response, the Waste Pickers Association of Nigeria warned that criminalising waste picking without creating alternatives could push thousands deeper into poverty and compromise sustainability. At this point, the law labels the scavenging trade a crime; what other options does the system offer?
While the governor’s anti-scavenging order may be well-intentioned from a public health perspective, without an alternative livelihood, it risks stopping people like Gidan and Sunanada from their only source of survival.
“The government came once to shift the refuse; since then, the government has not come. No one clears it. So people find a way.” Umar says.
Dignity in Rottness
Gidan paying bola boys in cash for exchange of goods sold to him (Photo: Bankole Taiwo James)
Back at his kiosk, Gidan counts the day’s earnings, just enough for food and rent. This time around, there are different sets of bola boys, shouting as they drag their sack bags around him. The view of the place is nothing more than a marketplace built from decay, a fragile ecosystem that sustains life even as it endangers it.
When asked what he is most proud of, he smiles quietly. “Every day, I am happy because I am satisfied,” he says. “I eat, I buy small things, I help people. I help these children by buying from them and giving them money. That is enough.”
Not Just Adamawa
Adamawa is just a microcosm of the larger crisis. Across Nigeria, millions live off dumpsites, from Lagos’ Olusosun landfill to Port Harcourt’s heaps. A 2022 report estimates that 70 percent of Nigeria’s waste is improperly managed, with limited recycling infrastructure. For policymakers, the problem is twofold: how to clear waste to protect public health, while also addressing the livelihoods tied to it. Simply removing dumpsites without alternatives could strip families of their only source of living.
Unlike Adamawa, where there are no community-based recycling programmes, Lagos state is formally engaging scavengers by employing them, providing protective gear, and integrating them into municipal waste systems. Innovations like Wecyclers in Lagos have collected thousands of tons of recyclables and created community income for scavengers. Also, there’s Chanja Datti, Scrapays, Victfold Recycles, and Pearl Recycling, which empower low-income individuals to earn from waste.
A truck by the refuse site buying iron substance in large quantity (Photo: Bankole Taiwo James)
Earlier this year, 17-year-old Amara Nwuneli from Lagos won the 2025 Earth Prize and a $12,500 award for transforming a trash-dumping ground into a playground using recycled tyres and other materials. Initiatives like this are a symbol of what waste-to-wealth can look like.
