When
Jessica Collins and photographer Iwan Baan visited Lagos in 2013 to
document a radical new school, the Makoko slum was facing demolition.
Now the building’s global recognition is helping to give the community
fresh hope
Driving into Lagos along the Third Mainland Bridge,
the city greets us with a sky as thick as coal-slurry and a soundtrack
as soulful as Fela Kuti. Pedestrians slowly criss-cross the eight lanes
as we drive, while could-be Area Boys transform the beds of pickup
trucks into mobile azonto dance-floors.
Halfway across we turn
and spot the Makoko Floating School rising like a beacon out of the
murky Lagos Lagoon. It is December 2013, and this is our first glimpse
of the inspiring triangular timber structure – only three storeys high,
yet commanding the attention of all who travel across the longest bridge
in Africa.
We are travelling to meet Nigerian architect Kunlé
Adeymi, founder and principal of the NLÉ practice who, in collaboration
with the Makoko Waterfront Community, conceived, designed and built the
floating school. Makoko, Nigeria’s oldest slum, is home to a population
of roughly 80,000 residents who, over the centuries, have banded
together to create an informal but fully working city-on-stilts at the
edge of the lagoon.
With most of the population working in the
fish-smoking or fishing industry, a whiff of Makoko smells of just that.
The air is thick with fumes; smog seeps out from the hundreds of
wood-burning kilns and smokehouses scattered across this community.
As
it grew, the lagoon gradually became divided into a series of informal
canals, through which taxi-canoes are manoeuvred by nimble young bodies.
From the stilted architecture to the re-appropriation of found objects
(such as the emptied parboiled-rice bags that double as roof shelters)
to canoes equipped with stereo-systems serving as mobile music-boxes,
the inhabitants of Makoko have adapted their lives completely to
surviving on water.
Three years ago, however, the Lagos
authorities announced that in just 72 hours, a process of forcible
eviction was to begin here. Some 3,000 residents have since been
displaced from Makoko – regarded as a potentially lucrative waterfront
site – leaving behind a resilient yet sceptical community.
Around
the time the evictions began, Kunlé Adeymi began asking questions about
the adaptability and sustainability of Makoko, and other such African
coastal communities. The answers he got led to an immediate
architectural response: his Makoko Floating School, completed in March
2013, would primarily serve as a school and community centre, while also
being scalable and adaptable for other purposes.
Dressed in a
crisp linen shirt and breezy summer trousers, Kunlé meets us at the
main water-taxi dock. Like the school he designed, he offers a bright
contrast against the charcoal waterscape of Makoko. We sail through the
labyrinth of canals as Kunlé explains the ins and outs of this unique
waterworld.
It’s a Sunday morning in a country where 50% of the
population is Christian, and for once this part of the city has a near
sci-fi silence to it – save for the dip of a paddle into the water, and
the sound of young children yelling “Yavo! Yavo!” (francophone slang for
“foreigner”). We pass a beauty salon, photo-booth, grocery stores, a
myriad of churches, DVD and barber shops before finally arriving at a
clearing where the floating school stands tall in the water.
When
he set about building the school, Kunlé was well aware the state
government would show resistance to it, given the unplanned nature of
the community. His first step was to look around the community for
design solutions. In Makoko, there’s an “anything that floats” mentality
when it comes to building materials, so Kunlé decided to buoy the
school on floating barrels and locally sourced timber.
The aim of the school was to generate a new, sustainable building system for Africa’s coastal regions. Photograph: Iwan Baan
Unskilled
local workers were hired to build the structure, with the idea that
they could then go out and build their own homes with the techniques
learned while erecting the school. Everyone in the community understands
its value, not least because all of the materials used are ones they
live with each day.
Inexpensive and elementary to assemble, the
main aim of the school was to generate a new, sustainable and ecological
building system for the teeming population of Africa’s coastal regions.
The floating structure adapts to the tidal changes and varying water
levels of the lagoon, making it invulnerable to flooding and storm
surges.
Yet a more immediate impact of the new building was the
powerful sense of ownership that Makoko’s inhabitants derived from it –
even before the doors to the school were opened. As the only public
space in the area, it has become a vital meeting-point for the community
where, when classes are out, market ladies park their boats and
fishermen steal some shade to mend their nets.
Visiting Makoko as
foreigners back in 2013, many people had questions about why we were
there and what our intentions were. But when we explained our purpose
was to document the new school, doors and hearts seemed to fly open,
with residents eager to show us their homes and businesses, built with
their own hands. Indeed, the pride they displayed did not seem so very
different from what we see in professional architects when they complete
a project they have poured their heart and soul into.
A few
months after the school finally opened, we made a second trip to Makoko
to further document the community and school in full function. By then
it was abundantly clear that, while life in Makoko is synonymous with
struggle and resilience, the floating school had made an important
statement that the people living there do matter.
Makoko was on
the verge of demolition in early 2013. Since then, its floating school
has earned a “pin” on Google maps, and on 20 April this year, the Lagos
State Ministry of Physical Planning and Urban Development announced it
is considering incorporating the school’s structure into a regeneration
plan for the entire Makoko community.
“This is a rare and
significant moment in history,” Kunlé says now, “where innovation is
finally matched with an equally open-minded reconsideration of
established policies … [It] is an important signal for mobilising the
local and global interest that is critical for addressing the challenges
and opportunities posed by rapid urbanisation and climate change in
developing African waterfront cities.”
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