By any standard of governance, public safety must come before political optics. Yet, recent developments surrounding President ’s visit to the suggest a troubling inversion of priorities—one that risks turning Nigeria into a convenient destination for problems other nations are unwilling to manage.
While the fanfare has rightly highlighted the £746 million port redevelopment deal aimed at revitalising Lagos’ congested maritime infrastructure, far less celebratory is the migration agreement signed with the UK. Under this deal, Nigeria will receive deported failed asylum seekers and convicted criminals—individuals the UK has determined it can no longer accommodate. The agreement, executed by Interior Minister and UK Home Secretary , raises urgent questions about sovereignty, security, and the true cost of diplomatic concessions.
Let us be clear: this is not routine repatriation. Nigeria has always had an obligation to accept its verified citizens. What is new—and deeply alarming—is the reported willingness to accept deportees based on alternative identification mechanisms, including UK-issued documentation rather than strictly verified Nigerian travel papers. In effect, this lowers the threshold for determining nationality and opens the door to potential abuse.
At a time when Nigeria is grappling with severe internal security challenges, this policy direction appears not only misguided but reckless. According to data from Nigeria’s National Bureau of Statistics, over 600,000 serious crimes were recorded nationwide in recent reporting cycles, with millions of households affected by theft, assault, and violent offences. The Nigeria Police Force remains overstretched, while non-state actors continue to exploit governance gaps across multiple regions.
Security experts have consistently warned against importing additional risks into an already fragile system. As former Inspector-General of Police, , once emphasised, “Policing in Nigeria is already under immense strain due to population size, resource gaps, and evolving criminal networks.” To now contemplate absorbing convicted criminals from abroad—individuals socialised in entirely different criminal ecosystems—is to ignore these warnings with dangerous consequences.
Globally, countries have become increasingly resistant to accepting deported criminals, even when they are their own nationals. The United States, for instance, has repeatedly faced pushback from countries such as Jamaica and Haiti, where authorities have expressed concern that deported offenders were contributing to spikes in organised crime and gang violence. In El Salvador, officials have publicly criticised the long-term impact of U.S. deportation policies in the 1990s, linking them to the rise of transnational gangs like MS-13. These are not abstract fears; they are documented outcomes of poorly managed deportation arrangements.
In Africa, similar caution prevails. Several countries insist on stringent identity verification and often delay or resist the return of individuals with serious criminal records, precisely because of the security implications. Nigeria, by contrast, appears poised to take a more permissive route—one that could have far-reaching consequences.
Even within the UK, the deportation debate is fraught with controversy. Human rights organisations and policy analysts have repeatedly pointed out that deported offenders often lack reintegration support, increasing the likelihood of recidivism. As one UK policy briefing noted, “removal does not eliminate risk; it merely relocates it.” The question, therefore, is simple: why should Nigeria become the recipient of risks others are unwilling to manage?
The Lagos dimension of this policy only deepens the concern. For years, critics have argued that the Tinubu administration’s development strategy is disproportionately Lagos-centric. From infrastructure financing to policy attention, Lagos appears to be the default destination for federal initiatives. Now, with port upgrades on one hand and deportation inflows on the other, the city risks becoming both Nigeria’s economic hub and its unintended social pressure point.
Urban planners have long warned about the dangers of overburdening megacities. Lagos, already home to over 20 million people, struggles with housing deficits, unemployment, and overstretched public services. Introducing an additional layer of complexity—through the influx of deported individuals, some with criminal histories—could exacerbate existing tensions.
It is difficult to ignore the political timing of these agreements. With the 2027 election cycle already casting a long shadow, the urgency to secure visible economic wins is understandable. A multi-million-pound port deal offers a compelling headline. But governance is not merely about headlines; it is about consequences. And the consequences of this migration agreement could outlast any short-term political gains.
Former British Prime Minister once observed that “the art of leadership is saying no, not saying yes. It is very easy to say yes.” In this instance, Nigeria’s leadership appears to have said yes too quickly—and perhaps without fully reckoning with the implications.
No responsible government should accept an arrangement that effectively outsources another country’s security challenges onto its own population. Nigeria’s first duty is to its citizens—the market trader in Kano, the farmer in Benue, the student in Ibadan, and indeed, the residents of Lagos who already bear the weight of the nation’s economic ambitions.
This is not an argument against international cooperation. Nigeria must engage with global partners, including the United Kingdom, on trade, investment, and migration. But such engagement must be anchored in reciprocity and national interest—not in asymmetrical agreements that expose the country to avoidable risks.
The administration must therefore provide full transparency on the terms of this deal. How will identities be verified? What categories of offenders are included? What reintegration mechanisms are in place? And crucially, why was Nigeria deemed an appropriate destination for individuals the UK considers unfit to remain within its borders?
Until these questions are answered, the optics remain troubling. A government that secures funds to fix Lagos ports while simultaneously opening the door to imported criminality sends a conflicting message about its priorities.
And if indeed this policy must stand, then it should follow the same logic that governs the administration’s development choices. If Lagos is the focal point for the benefits—receiving the bulk of infrastructure funding and economic attention—then Lagos should equally bear the weight of the consequences. The President cannot, in good conscience, channel national resources into Lagos while redistributing the risks to other parts of the federation. To do so would be to enjoy the optics of development while exporting the burdens of policy failure.
Mr. President should therefore make his position clear: will these deported individuals be settled in Lagos, the same city benefiting from the borrowed funds used to upgrade its ports, or will they be dispersed quietly into other states already grappling with insecurity and economic hardship? He should dare to take them elsewhere while Lagos enjoys the gains—and in that decision, reveal the true balance, or imbalance, of his administration’s priorities.
Mr. President, Nigeria is not a dumping ground. And Lagos, for all its resilience, cannot—and should not—carry the burden of policies that place political expediency above national security.
Mohammed Bello Doka can be reached via [email protected]