Lagos State Governor Babajide Sanwo-Olu is facing renewed scrutiny over allegations of political disloyalty and questionable land allocations, despite official denials of a rift with President Bola Tinubu. The Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) has demanded records on the allocation of 96 hectares of land on Banana Island to firms linked to both leaders, including Banana Island Higherend Castle Limited. The investigation, tied to broader money laundering and land racketeering probes, has identified 14 companies involved, such as Walaris Nigeria Limited and Tafba Nigeria Limited, which acquired hundreds of hectares in sensitive areas. Separately, Aisha Achimugu, an associate of Sanwo-Olu, was investigated by the EFCC for allegedly funneling funds to opposition candidates Peter Obi and Atiku Abubakar during the 2023 elections. The agency ordered the forfeiture of $13 million from her firm, Oceangate Engineering Oil & Gas Ltd., citing illicit proceeds. Achimugu denied owning the funds, attributing them to bank loans. On April 7, Lagos Commissioner for Information and Strategy Gbenga Omotoso dismissed reports of tension between Sanwo-Olu and Tinubu as "mere speculation," describing their relationship as father-son. He insisted Tinubu has not voiced dissatisfaction and pointed to presidential visits as proof of ongoing collaboration. Sanwo-Olu has also ordered the removal of illegal structures on Banana Island and banned unapproved dredging.
The most striking element of this unfolding drama is not the EFCC's probes, but the fact that Aisha Achimugu—a figure tied to Sanwo-Olu—stands accused of funding opposition candidates to the tune of $13 million, a move that reportedly unsettled President Tinubu. That such financial flows allegedly occurred under the governor's political orbit raises uncomfortable questions about loyalty networks within the ruling party, especially in a state as politically pivotal as Lagos.
The land allocations—particularly 96 hectares on Banana Island and hundreds more across Lagos Lagoon to firms like Walaris and Tafba—occur against a long history of elite land grabs in Lagos, where public assets quietly become private holdings through opaque processes. The EFCC's involvement, while framed as anti-corruption, arrives amid a pattern of federal scrutiny on state-level projects linked to political figures not fully aligned with the centre. Sanwo-Olu's second term, once expected to be smooth, now bears the weight of both policy disputes—like the delayed 2025 administration law—and deeper suspicions about where his political loyalties truly lie.
For Lagos residents, the implications are tangible: land meant for public infrastructure or affordable housing continues to be parceled out to connected firms, while enforcement—like demolitions of illegal structures—feels selective and reactive. Investors and low-income settlers alike operate under uncertainty, knowing that today's approved project could be tomorrow's illegal encroachment.
This is not an isolated feud. It reflects a recurring cycle in Nigerian politics where second-term governors, once backed by powerful godfathers, begin asserting autonomy—only to face institutional pushback through agencies like the EFCC. Sanwo-Olu's experience mirrors past tensions in other states, where political independence is often interpreted as betrayal.
