“Mama Nike breathes tradition into every artwork, sharing the secrets of her curated collection”

December, 2023. The air is viscous – as if a thick cloak of heat and cloying humidity has wrapped itself around me. As I walk out of the Murtala Muhammed International Airport, I am instantly hit with what I now call the “Lagos Smell” – a mélange of kerosene fumes, petrichor, sweat, street food, hope, and hustle. A long way from home, I was in the economic powerhouse of Nigeria. The bright Ankara print of the colourful dashikis and wrappas of the locals are juxtaposed against the dreary buildings with antiqued water stains.The cacophony follows me closely, not just loud, but layered. The honking of impatient danfo buses with their peeling yellow paint, the revving of okadas weaving recklessly through traffic, the calls of hawkers precariously balancing tubs of pure water sachets on their heads and the muffled din of conversations, negotiations, life – the city is alive!

Lagos doesn’t ease you in. It demands that you adjust your rhythm, that you recalibrate your senses.

The drive from the Mainland to the Island is like crossing timelines. One minute you’re surrounded by vociferous markets, corrugated rooftops, and open drains; the next you’re in Lekki, where opulent condominiums and manicured streets rise like mirages. It is here that you encounter the much-lauded New Africa – modern, urban, and ambitious. But, despite the stark transformation in skyline and pace – one thing never changes.

From Ikeja to Victoria Island, from under the Third Mainland Bridge to the footpaths outside gated estates, the streets are covered with the same squalidly familiar debris: pure water sachets. Thousands of them. Crumpled, half-deflated, glinting in potholes, tangled in gutters, plastered on fences, drifting in the lagoons. Lagos seems to be choking on the very thing that was meant to quench its thirst. These transparent sachets, sold for approximately twenty-five naira a piece, are the most democratic object in Lagos. Everyone uses them, and everyone discards them. In a city riddled with inequality, pure water is the great equaliser as pollution transcends class.

To understand plastic pollution in Lagos, you have to understand the pure water economy. These heat-sealed polyethylene sachets contain filtered drinking water. Consumed by millions, they offer sanitary hydration where piped water is unreliable. But they are also a growing environmental catastrophe. Nigeria produces over 2.5 million tonnes of plastic waste annually, with Lagos accounting for a substantial share. Less than 12% of this is recycled; the rest finds its way into open dumps, drains, and rivers, or is burned in the open, releasing a cocktail of toxic pollutants into the air. 

According to the IPCC’s Sixth Assessment Report (2023), the broader impacts of inefficient urban waste management systems is clear: open burning of plastic emits black carbon and methane, both potent contributors to greenhouse gas emissions. Plastic production and incineration already account for an estimated 3.4% of global greenhouse gas emissions and this will only double by 2040 if urgent interventions aren’t made.

Africa’s heightened vulnerability to climate change makes the continent’s waste management crisis more urgent. Informal waste collection systems dominate, and plastic leaks easily into marine and urban ecosystems. With rising temperatures, heatwaves, and erratic rainfall already destabilising food and health systems, the last thing Lagos needs is clogged drainage systems and toxic air. Yet, the domination of plastic is also structural. Most plastic waste in African cities arrives through global supply chains, unregulated import routes, and multinational packaging strategies, while excluding the continent’s voice from climate decision-making.

There is a disheartening continuum across African slums where people are born, live, and die in the shadows of dumpsites. In Lagos, the Olusosun landfill is a dystopia of urban neglect, where children scavenge for recyclables and families routinely inhale toxic fumes from open-air incineration sites. Plastic isn’t just a pollutant here; it is a landscape, a livelihood, a slow violence. And then there is the flooding. Lagos is a low-lying coastal city. During the rainy season, the city regularly submerges under brown flood water, thanks in no small part to drainage systems choked by plastic waste. By 2050, climate change could displace over 9.4 million Ngerians, with Lagos at high risk due to its rapid urbanisation, informal settlements, and weak infrastructure. 

Yet, despite this bleak reality, hope is not entirely lost. 

As I explored the city, I stumbled upon Nike Art Gallery, nestled in Lekki. It was there that I met the iconic Mama Nike – Nike Davies-Okundaye, a Batik Iand Adire artist – a regal figure wrapped in indigo and cowrie beads. Her presence commands space, but it is her art that disrupts time. Room after room brimmed with adire textiles, wooden masks, intricate beadwork, and wall-sized canvases exploding with color and culture. But, what moved me the most were the colourful beads made from repurposed plastic. With quiet pride, Mama Nike explained to me how she had started crafting the traditional òdìgbà beads from melted pure water sachets. I was stunned, and oddly relieved. For days now, those crumpled sachets all over town had felt like a question with no answer, a constant, nagging presence gnawing at me. And finally, the answer was right there as waste transmuted into tradition. 

“In Yoruba cosmology,” she said, “nothing is useless. Everything has a spirit. Even plastic.”

The more I looked at the intersection of plastic pollution and art in Africa, the more I realised, this isn’t just an aesthetic innovation, it is a material critique. A direct challenge to the system that floods the continent with waste, yet silences its voice in the global climate arena. Here, art becomes a form of scientific storytelling: a data point rendered in brushstrokes and beads, layered with indigenous knowledge, social memory, and ecological grief. 

Mama Nike’s work is part of a wider movement among African artists to turn environmental pain into cultural expression; a creative response that not only confronts environmental degradation, but also reclaims agency in telling Africa’s climate story. In Accra, Ghana, Serge Attukwei Clottey creates haunting installations from yellow plastic jerry cans, symbols of water scarcity and plastic waste. His installations speak to the everyday realities of survival and resilience in Accra. In Nairobi, artists like Cyrus Kabiru sculpt eyewear and abstract art from e-waste and bottle caps, challenging the boundaries between trash and treasure. These artistic interventions are not merely aesthetic; they critique consumer culture, expose environmental injustice, and celebrate African ingenuity.

As a social scientist, I work in the language of metrics; scientific spaces tend to privilege this kind of vocabulary. Lagos taught me that numbers alone don't move people. Stories do. Sensations do. The smell of burning plastic, the clang of metal scavenged for resale, the slap of rain on a flooded street, the memory of a sachet brushing against your ankle and the click of beads made from waste.

Through my Lagos experience, I was reminded that “adaptation is urgent and feasible“, but also that equity, culture, and inclusion must shape that adaptation. That means listening to grassroot voices, informal systems, the artists, the scavengers, the women weaving necklaces from refuse. It also means recognising that Africa doesn’t need to be saved, it needs to be heard. And supported. 

The Yoruba-Pidgin phrase “Oya wake up, Jaare” is difficult to explain, but to me, it captures urgency with a touch of tenderness. It is a nudge, a call to action, but with urgency. And this is the message I want to leave you with this Earth Day. Plastic pollution is not just an environmental issue. It’s a human rights issue, a climate issue, a design failure, and a cultural challenge. In Lagos, its consequences are visible and visceral. But so too are its countercurrents -- artists, scientists, activists, market women, and children, all finding ways to reuse, reimagine, and resist.

Words carry warning and wisdom. In the words of Mama Nike herself: “Nature will rewoke. We must act now”.

Photo Gallery

“With quiet pride, Mama Nike explained to me how she had started crafting the traditional òdìgbà beads from melted pure water sachets.” 

“Who needs bus stops? A danfo casually stops on Eko Bridge for one more passenger to the Mainland.”

“From factory floors to street corners - drinking water for the masses”

“Everyone uses them, and everyone discards them. In a city riddled with inequality, pure water is the great equaliser as pollution transcends class.”