It stayed quietly when the tide rolled in, rough when it pulled away. My father said you could hear the mood of the world in its rhythm. We listened. We lived by it. Our village sat between the lagoon and the cost, and every morning we cast our nets and waited for the sea’s reply.

Then the billboards arrived.

“A new era of Nigeria!” they screamed, officials of China Harbour Engineering Company. “Lekki Deep Sea port: Over 200,000 jobs!” (Dzirutwe, 2023) We gathered by the radio when the Chinese ambassador spoke: “This project will be a game changer.” (Dzirutwe, 2023) Ministers promised 112,000 direct and indirect jobs, billions flowing through our markets, and a new life for our youth (Olisah, 2022). “A pacesetter,” they called it (Adeyemi, 2023). A shining gateway to the global economy. They spoke of $361 billion projected economic gain, of $201 billion in future taxes and fees, and said we would finally catch up to the world (Adeyemi, 2023).

We believed them. We wanted to.

At the mosque and the marketplace, we spoke numbers we didn’t understand but liked the sound of. Three of my cousins put aside their fishing lines and bought reflective vests. One even started practicing Mandarin. They’re hiring, he said. Real jobs, this time. Not just promises.

We were proud.

The cranes hadn’t even touched land yet, but already we were standing taller.

No splashes. No glimmers of silver near the nets. The tide rolled in like always, but it brought nothing with it. My father just stared at the water and said nothing. We hauled in ropes that weighed more with salt than with catch (Adeyemi, 2023).

“They’re dredging again,” my cousin said, pointing to the horizon. Giant metal claws tore through the seabed—progress, they called it. But all we saw were scared fish fleeing into deeper waters we couldn’t reach (Adeyemi, 2023).

The elders said it out loud at last:

“The more they dredge, the farther the fishes run.” (Adeyemi, 2023)

Before the port, a good trip meant ₦200,000 in our pockets. Now, we come back with ₦30,000—if we’re lucky—and some days, we comeback with nothing. A fish seller down the road cried when she had nothing to sell for three straight days (Adeyemi, 2023). And still, the cranes hum, the ships come, the sea grows darker.

Then the smell changed.

Oil. Chemicals. Wastewater from the Free Trade Zone now drains straight into the lagoon, and no one dares to touch the black film clinging to the nets (Adeyemi, 2023). The sea that once fed us now chokes on industry.

The tides still speaks.

But now, it sounds like goodbye.

I learned that word—“concession”—from a man in a pressed suit. Forty-five years, he said (Odutola, 2021). That’s how long we’d owe. The Chinese bank lent $629 million, and the repayments began before the fish returned (Odutola, 2021). The loan felt like something far away at first—numbers only men in suits talk about.

But then things got expensive. Too expensive.

The goods stopped arriving like they used to. Importers said the cost to use Lekki Port is three times higher than others. Three times. They’d rather sail to Ghana or Benin and smuggle cargo back. I’ve heard of people bribing their way through just to avoid “prohibitive fees.” (Oluwatola, 2025)

Meanwhile, we pay the price here.

The food in the stall is dearer.

Rent goes up. School fees climb (Oluwatola, 2025).

All because the thing they built to save us is too costly to use.

“Triple the cost, triple the silence,” my uncle says now.

They promised us prosperity.

What they gave us was a bill.

They told us the future would rise on the land where our palms and coconut trees stood. Today, those trees are gone, replaced by jetty stones and cement. Hundreds of coconut palms withered away, taking our family businesses in coconut oil and palm crafts with them. The swamp ponds, once lush and filled with life, turned dry and silent (Adeyemi, 2023).

My father’s best friend lost everything. When they halted fishing during construction, officials handed him a token—₦50,000. He laughed bitterly. “Not even enough for cigarettes,” he said, and now, after almost three decades of feeding his family from the sea, he struggles daily just to find food for his ten children (Adeyemi, 2023). Another village elder stood outside the port gates, demanding answers. “Is the money enough to pay for the damage they’ve caused to our lives?” (Adeyemi, 2023)

Our young people lined up for jobs, but outsiders always got the better roles. “We have no power on our own land,” my uncle says, and everyday we believe him more (Adeyemi, 2023). They promised us progress; what they gave was a wound that won’t close.

But wounds remind us we’re alive.

Now, we must speak louder than before. We must demand real answers, real jobs, and real compensation—not empty tokens or broken promises. Our land is gone, but our voices remain. We must speak for the sea, for our children, and for the dignity they’ve tried to burry beneath their concrete. We must never let silence become our home again.

Because tomorrow, the tide will come again. And we must be ready.