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By Kingsley Adegboye

The Lagos State Waste Management Authority, LAWMA has acquired 100 Tata mini trucks for effective management of refuse in the state. The acquisition was informed by the need for proper coordination of refuse or domestic waste in some areas where heavy duty refuse disposal trucks cannot access.

The refuse disposal mini trucks which targets are the low income group in their respective areas, will operate as pay as you drop your refuse bag on daily basis, and charges are negotiable between PSP operators and refuse generators. Cart pushers formerly operating in such areas who have now been integrated into the PSP operations will work with PSP operators depending on agreement.

Handing over of the trucks to PSP operators at Ogudu, Lagos office of LAWMA last week, Lagos State Commissioner for Environment, Mr. Tunji Bello said the identified lapses encountered from the use of heavy duty trucks for waste collection by the PSP operators in the suburbs led to the introduction of the pilot scheme of mini garbage trucks in these areas to ease accessibility and ensure efficient services.

Bello added that the marked improvement recorded in waste collection in the pilot areas informed the need to extend the services to other areas. The TATA mini trucks have a 2.2 litre engine capacity and a four stroke naturally aspirated indirect injection diesel engine. Bello said they were built to easily navigate narrow alleys and enhance their capability to access tropical terrain.

"These mini trucks are also equipped with self-canceling turn signals and hazard warning switch with motorised round-shaped built-in packing lamp. It is rear driven, it can tip and has easy accessibility to poor communities. It can run one kilometre radius, and can also be used to provide community waste depot which is an integral part of communal waste collection services for low income areas.

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LAWMA boosts PSP operations with 100 mini trucks - Vanguard News Nigeria

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The Lagos State Waste Management Authority, LAWMA has acquired 100 Tata mini trucks for effective management of refuse in the state. The acquisition was informed by the need for proper coordination of refuse or domestic waste in some areas where heavy duty refuse disposal trucks cannot access.

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How much rubbish? What are the problems with rubbish?

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How much rubbish? What are the problems with rubbish?

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November 21, 2017
As this port city grew, its slums expanding across the muddy coastline, its skyline rising in glass and metal, residents ran into a problem plaguing all of the world's great metropolises: What should they do with the trash?

Years ago, there was a seemingly easy fix. Trucks drove the waste far outside town, depositing it at the 100-acre Olusosun dumpsite. That began in 1992, when Lagos's population was just over 7 million. Now it's about 21 million, and this is Africa's largest city.

Lagos has expanded well beyond Olusosun, and the cavernous dump now finds itself in the center of the city, a hospital on one side, a primary school on another, and homes hovering just over its precipice. It is directly off the main highway, and a whiff of burning trash sometimes blows across the city's standing traffic jams.
[Landfill photos from six cities highlight the global waste problem]
The world now produces more than a billion tons of garbage a year, which it incinerates and buries and exports and recycles. In New York, barges transport as much as 3,600 tons of waste down the Hudson River every day. In the Netherlands, which has a sophisticated recycling system, residents throw away the equivalent of more than 400,000 loaves of bread per day. In Jakarta, residents refer to the Indonesian city's growing dump simply as "the Mountain."

The world's garbage crisis - documented over two years by photographer Kadir van Lohuizen - is predicted to grow exponentially in the coming decades as people become richer and increasingly move to urban areas. By 2025, according to a World Bank study, the waste produced by cities around the globe will be enough to fill a line of rubbish trucks 3,100 miles long every day.

Africa, the fastest-urbanizing continent, is full of cities struggling to balance their extraordinary growth with sustainable waste management. Every year, improper garbage disposal contributes to devastating epidemics of mosquito-borne malaria, yellow fever and other potentially fatal diseases. This year, Lagos has had two outbreaks of Lassa fever, a sometimes deadly virus, spread by rodent urine or feces, that has been linked to poor sanitation.

In August, Nigeria's Guardian newspaper ran the headline "Epidemic looms in Lagos over piling heaps of waste."

The city's garbage problem had become impossible to conceal.

It wasn't just Olusosun. With the population surging, some of the city's coastal slums had run out of usable land and started filling in swampy areas with rubbish. Residents of one community, Bariga, agreed a few years ago to allow garbage collectors to use their neighborhood as a dumpsite. They took the trash and extended their property into the bay, covering it with sawdust and building homes on top.

Walking on Bariga's reclaimed land feels like balancing on a trampoline, the ground sinking slightly beneath your feet with each step. Children play barefoot in the trash that hasn't been covered yet. Earlier this year, a flood swept tons of garbage from the city's lagoons into some of its main streets.

"This is development for us. We have no other land to live on," said Ibrahim Abadu, 42, a Bariga resident.

Still, if Lagos is a symbol of the worst reactions to the world's garbage problems, it also represents some of the best solutions. It is a city where waste has become an enormous public policy challenge, a source of grave diseases but also a valuable commodity. Across the city, local entrepreneurs and international businesses have opened sorting and recycling plants that export plastics, metals and paper to China and India.

The garbage economy

Perhaps nowhere are the dangers and opportunities of trash so clear as in Olusosun, by far the biggest of the city's landfills.

The dump is a dystopian sight, a tower of garbage 10 stories tall with an endless stream of trucks arriving to unload heaps of waste.

"It's an eyesore," Lagos's environment minister, Babatunde Adejare, said in an interview. The government has announced that it will shut down Olusosun by 2022.

Today, more than 4,000 people work there, living in tentlike structures atop the trash. When trucks arrive, crowds of men with iron bars and plastic bags pounce on the back, convinced that the most aggressive workers will get the most valuable materials, such as metal cans and plastic bottles. They will then sell those to middlemen, part of a long chain of commercial activity that typically ends on a barge, with recyclable materials on their way to China to be melted and turned into bottles, sandals or clothes.

In the past, some garbage pickers have died or lost limbs when the dump trucks' hydraulics failed and the vehicles' containers crashed down on them. Other workers have fallen ill of unidentified diseases. As Olusosun has grown, it has become associated with the city's darker side. Human body parts have shown up in the trash heap. So have mysterious bags of cash and the relics of witch-doctor experiments, such as herbs and animal skulls.

Still, for decades, people have come from all over Nigeria to work at Olusosun and other nearby dumps, insinuating themselves into a strict hierarchy, with garbage pickers on the bottom and kingpins, running their own small garbage enterprises, at the top. In Lagos, for all the horrors involving waste management, trash is still seen as an enormous economic opportunity.

In 1988, Abdul Rashid Garba arrived in Lagos from northern Katsina state. First, he pushed a wooden cart with trash, making $4 a day. Then he became a scavenger, or "a picker," at the city's dumpsites. By the early 1990s, he moved onto the dump at Olusosun, sharing a makeshift tent with other laborers, spending his day filling bags with anything of value, which meant anything recyclable.

"I was here to make money, to do work, even if it was difficult," Garba said.

He climbed the ranks. After a few years, Garba started organizing his own group of pickers, and then a coalition of groups that reported to him. Now he is in charge of over 400 pickers and truck drivers and sorters. He earns $40,000 per year. He has built two houses back in his home state.

A new industry

Around the world, in the 1990s and early 2000s, recycling became an increasingly profitable business. And in Nigeria, where the average yearly salary is $2,000, thousands were drawn to the industry despite its often brutal conditions. It also helped the city eliminate some of its trash, draw foreign investors and win accolades internationally.

"This is what comes from a burgeoning middle class," said Lolade Oresanwo, the chief operating officer of the recycling and waste management firm WestAfricaENRG, as she walked around bags of the most valuable materials at one of the city's waste-sorting sites.

In a warehouse outside Olusosun, Bilikiss Adebiyi-Abiola runs Wecyclers, a business that collects and recycles plastic, paper and metal. Born in Lagos and educated at MIT, she estimates that scrap metal and plastic in Lagos is worth about $700 million per year. Her company has launched a fleet of vehicles and bicycles to pick up recyclable material across the city, compensating people with household goods and appliances.

"Before people just saw plastic as being useless," Adebiyi-Abiola said. "Now they say, 'This is money.' "

But only roughly a tenth of Lagos's waste is recycled, and there are massive challenges facing companies such as Wecyclers. The electricity necessary to turn plastic bottles into exportable pellets is unreliable in Lagos. And the companies are largely dependent on China's demand for recycled plastic, which the country has pledged to stop importing as part of its campaign against "foreign garbage." China says such trash harms the environment and serves as a public health hazard.

That leaves a growing pile of waste at Olusosun and many more tons of garbage dumped illegally, including in slums such as Bariga. But recently the government has come up with a new plan.

It has identified a new dump site in the city of Badagry, 40 miles from Olusosun. It would be a world away, hidden from the growing city, at least in the short term.

"It won't be another eyesore," promised Adejare, the environment minister.

Read more Today's coverage from Post correspondents around the world Like Washington Post World on Facebook and stay updated on foreign news

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The world is drowning in ever-growing mounds of garbage

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November 21, 2017 As this port city grew, its slums expanding across the muddy coastline, its skyline rising in glass and metal, residents ran into a problem plaguing all of the world's great metropolises: What should they do with the trash? Years ago, there was a seemingly easy fix.

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How is this initiative helping Lagos solve its rubbish crisis?

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The Cleaner Lagos Initiative (CLI) is focused on improving the environment to make it cleaner, safer and healthier for all Lagosians by promoting a harmonised and holistic approach to the challenges; and as a result, improving operational efficiency.

The initiative is geared towards addressing, enforcing and regulating the challenges in the solid waste management systems within Lagos State, while also aiming to protect the environment, human health and social living standards of Lagos State residents.

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The Cleaner Lagos Initiative (CLI) is focused on improving the environment to make it cleaner, safer and healthier for all Lagosians by promoting a harmonised and holistic approach to the challenges; and as a result, improving operational efficiency.

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2nd paragraph down - how much rubbish does Lagos produce? What are weyclers and how is the Olusosun Dump helping the situation?

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THE roughly 170m Nigerians who inhabit Africa's most populous country are producing far more waste than their creaking infrastructure can manage. Aminu Omar is one of thousands of unofficial waste-pickers who see this as an opportunity to make some cash. Half-immersed in a large bin outside a smart housing compound in the capital, Abuja, he pulls out beer cans, water bottles and empty jam jars, and stuffs them into his patchwork plastic sack. He then sells his haul for 700 naira ($4). "I take the rubbish, give it to a middleman and he sells it for much more," he says, leafing through a discarded women's magazine.

Nigeria's sprawling megacity, Lagos, with a population of 21m or so, disgorges 10,000 metric tonnes of waste a day. Overburdened municipal governments are reckoned to collect barely 40% of this rubbish. Only 13% of recyclable materials is salvaged from the city's landfills, according to Wecyclers, a young company keen to promote recycling and reduce waste.
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Wecyclers uses a fleet of bicycles to collect recyclables from over 5,000 households in densely populated, poor areas of Lagos neglected by waste-disposal lorries. The company awards points to registered households for the amount of recyclable material they provide, which can then be redeemed in cash or kind-a household item such as an iron, or a telephone credit-at the end of each quarter. Wecyclers makes money by selling the recyclables to bigger companies that melt or process and then sell them on, usually to Asia. "It reduces the number of people on dangerous landfills searching for waste at the mercy of a broker," says Bilikiss Adebiyi of Wecyclers, who says her company is the first of its kind in Africa. "Some [people] have given us tonnes of waste."

The Lagos State Waste Management Authority is trying to turn rubbish into energy by harnessing methane gas emitted from rotting waste at Olushosun, the largest landfill in Lagos. When completed in five years' time, the project is supposed to produce 25MW of electricity. That is a help for a country that produces only 3-4GW per year, a tenth of South Africa's output for a population triple the size.

In the metropolis of Kaduna, 200km (124 miles) north of Abuja, waste collection is currently free for the 1.5m inhabitants. But the state government is trying to get people to pay a monthly levy to reduce the burden on the authorities and to tempt in the private sector. It wants to award contracts to companies to collect waste from paying customers. Persuading people to pay for rubbish collection will depend on the quality of the service-or on the penalty for not co-operating. As with most Nigerian government contracts, politics and palm-greasing will probably play a part. Still, if more rubbish is collected, people may not complain.

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THE roughly 170m Nigerians who inhabit Africa's most populous country are producing far more waste than their creaking infrastructure can manage. Aminu Omar is one of thousands of unofficial waste-pickers who see this as an opportunity to make some cash.

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Why was the floating school a beacon of hope?

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Why was the floating school a beacon of hope?

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Why was the floating school needed?

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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 Adeyemi, the founder and principal of NLÉ Works 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.

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Makoko, Nigeria's oldest slum, is home to a population of roughly 100,000 residents completely adapted to life on water. Photograph: Iwan Baan

Around the time the evictions began, Kunlé Adeyemi 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.

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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.

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Makoko schoolchildren on their way back home after classes. Photograph: Iwan Baan

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."

Which other buildings in the world tell stories about urban history? Share your own pictures and descriptions with GuardianWitness, on Twitter and Instagram using #hoc50 or let us know suggestions in the comments below
Topics

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Makoko Floating School, beacon of hope for the Lagos 'waterworld' - a history of cities in 50 buildings, day 48

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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.

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What are the disadvantages of the floating school?

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What are the disadvantages of the floating school?

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An article to help you with the disadvantages, and working out whether it will improve the lives of the urban poor.

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Does Makoko Floating School's collapse threaten the whole slum's future?

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Multiple award-winning Makoko Floating School was a beacon of hope in this Lagos slum until its collapse this week. Now some fear the whole area and its 300,000 residents are at renewed risk of being cleared out for redevelopment

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Take a tour of the floating school with the architect who designed it.

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Architect Kunlé Adeyemi tells the story of why and how he came to design and build Makoko Floating School in Lagos, how he was inspired by the attitude of the slum's residents, and how he hopes his structure will act as a prototype for dealing with housing shortages and the impact of climate change - a kind of 'urbanism on water'

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Welcome to water world: the story behind the floating school of Makoko - video

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Architect Kunlé Adeyemi tells the story of why and how he came to design and build Makoko Floating School in Lagos, how he was inspired by the attitude of the slum's residents, and how he hopes his structure will act as a prototype for dealing with housing shortages and the impact of climate change - a kind of 'urbanism on water'

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Scroll through the videos to find: Eko-Atlantic General Presentation 2017.

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Eko Atlantic is a new coastal city being built on Victoria Island adjacent to Lagos, Nigeria, to solve the chronic shortage of real estate in the world's fastest-growing megacity. It is a focal point for investors capitalising on rich development growth based on massive demand - and a gateway to emerging markets of the continent.

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What are the problems with Eko-Atlantic?

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What are the problems with Eko-Atlantic?

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An article that identifies two issues with Eko-Atlantic.

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The key to understanding Lagos, Africa's most populous city, is in the water.

From the sea Lagos rose, from humble port city to economic and political powerhouse and sprawling home to around 22 million. It's the water that the city is named for-"Lagos," from the Portuguese word for lakes. Many of the poor, who make up 70% of the city's population, live in floating shanty slums in the city's lagoons.

It's also the sea that has been responsible for Lagos slowly sinking. Lagos consists of a mainland and a series of islands, which make it especially susceptible to rising sea levels. It is this proximity to the Atlantic Ocean, combined with risks from climate change, that pose the largest environmental threat to the megalopolis.

Lagos is composed of a series of islands and peninsulas.

And since 2009, it is to the sea that an ambitious development company has looked for an unorthodox fix to the problems that plague Lagos including joblessness and housing shortages: a brand new city, built on land clawed back from the bottom the ocean floor.

Eko Atlantic is the name of a grandiose project to create a new economic capital for Africa-notably, right next to the current economic capital for Africa. The development includes everything from sky-scrapers to luxury apartments, a new financial district, a private power-grid, and a shopping boulevard in the image of New York's Fifth Avenue. It's the brainchild of the Chagoury brothers, two Nigerian-born billionaires of Lebanese descent who own South Energyx Nigeria Ltd, a real estate development company created to build out Eko Atlantic.

Eko Atlantic is meant to be an antidote to Lagos's deepest recession in 30 years. The city is meant to bring 250,000 new jobs and address a housing shortage brought on by a surging population. This, and the fact that it's privately-funded, have lent it the support of the state and federal governments. It's being sold to investors as "a valuable foothold in Africa" one of the world's last emerging growth markets.

But what makes Eko Atlantic's development especially noteworthy is its location. The planned city borders Lagos directly. Eko Atlantic was built by dredging up and filling in 10 kilometers (about 6.2 miles) worth of land. Before the project began in 2009, the peninsula was virtually non-existent.

The result is that Eko Atlantic has the appearance of being an island created out of thin air. Satellite imagery highlights just how dramatic an effect the construction - which is far from finished - has had on Lagos' coast.

Satellite imagery courtesy of DigitalGlobe.

Photo courtesy of Eko Atlantic

The government of Lagos has programs in place to address coastal erosion because Lagos' location leaves it deeply susceptible to rising sea levels and catastrophic storm surges. In 2012, a storm surge in the exact area of Eko Atlantic's construction killed 16 people. In the aftermath of the tragedy (which some blamed on disturbances caused by Eko Atlantic's building) the developers of the project highlighted the fabrication of "The Great Wall of Lagos," a sea wall that wraps around the city and protects it from the effects of the surrounding Atlantic.

But according to some climate scientists, the same wall that will protect Eko Atlantic could worsen the situation for neighboring areas not protected by it, which includes much of Lagos. Dr. Alan Blumberg, renowned for his research and the effects of climate change on water structures, highlighted the challenges in a phone call.

The construction of "The Great Wall of Lagos."

"What happens when you build a wall is that the approaching storm surge will come up to the wall, and it will move to the left or right of the wall, searching for a weakness or a low spot. If there are two islands close to each other, it may go to the island next door instead."

David Frame, Managing Director of South Energyx Ltd, said in a statement to Quartz, that the sea wall is designed and tested to handle the worst storms in hundreds/thousand years; "The Great Wall of Lagos will ensure that everyone living and working within the 10 square kilometres (6.2 miles) of reclaimed land for Eko Atlantic and the population of Victoria Island are protected from the sea."

For Lagos, a city composed of a series of islands, if this is not the case, the situation Blumberg describes could be disastrous. Lagos' surrounding areas are not only unprotected by the wall, but are lower in sea level than Eko Atlantic. It's a combination that leaves the old city of Lagos and its hundreds of years of history startlingly vulnerable.

If the critics are correct, Eko Atlantic might provide parts of Lagos with yet another link to the sea, one rooted in potential danger and unknowable risk. To the sea parts of the city may return.
Correction: Construction on the project began in 2008, not 2009 as stated in a Update: This story was updated with a statement from an Eko Atlantic representative. n earlier version of this article.
"With sea walls, you have to figure out what you're protecting against," Dr. Blumberg advised. In the case of Lagos and Eko Atlantic, the better question might be who gets the protection.

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A 5-mile island built to save Lagos's economy has a worrying design flaw

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The key to understanding Lagos, Africa's most populous city, is in the water. From the sea Lagos rose, from humble port city to economic and political powerhouse and sprawling home to around 22 million. It's the water that the city is named for-"Lagos," from the Portuguese word for lakes.

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Read through the first 3 paragraphs that summarise exactly what Eko-Atlantic is.

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nigeria's plans for eko atlantic are not radical enough - cnn

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Nigeria's plans for Eko Atlantic are not radical enough - CNN

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Pitched as Nigeria's answer to Dubai, Lagos is building a new multibillion dollar city that could become the new financial center of West Africa.

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What the proposed mixed-use development will look like.