“No more Charly Boy?” The politics of naming, erasure, and ethnic messaging in Nigeria

On Friday, July 25, the Bariga Local Council Development Area in Lagos announced a rather controversial decision. It officially renamed the popular Charly Boy Bus Stop located along the Gbagada-Bariga axis to Olamide Baddo Bus Stop, replacing the name of one musician with another. The renaming was announced by the outgoing council chairman, Kolade Alabi […]

On Friday, July 25, the Bariga Local Council Development Area in Lagos announced a rather controversial decision. It officially renamed the popular Charly Boy Bus Stop located along the Gbagada-Bariga axis to Olamide Baddo Bus Stop, replacing the name of one musician with another. The renaming was announced by the outgoing council chairman, Kolade Alabi David, who gleefully proclaimed, “No more Charly Boy,” a declaration that felt less like a celebration of a local hero and more like an erasure of a perceived non-indigene. It comes down to this: Charly Boy is Igbo, and there is a mad rush to curtail the Igbo’s political and social influence in Lagos.

Yet, as is often the case with outgoing officials in Nigeria, the Bariga chairman’s proclamation has been effected with an urgency typical of the country’s fire brigade approach to governance—dally throughout your term in office, then launch a flurry of repainting and renaming initiatives in your final days. Council staff have since replaced signs and repainted surfaces, prominently inscribing “Olamide Baddo Bus Stop” over the former signage.

While this was not the only name change announced by the chairman—who also stated that the decision was part of a broader rebranding initiative to rename streets after other prominent figures such as King Sunny Ade, 9ice, Tony Tetuila, and even Arsenal and English football star Bukayo Saka—this particular change has struck a nerve and drawn criticism, including from prominent Yoruba voices. Omoyele Sowore and Femi Falana have publicly condemned the decision.

Renaming public places is hardly new. Historically, it often accompanies shifts in power, ideology, or public consciousness. Places are renamed to rewrite history, assert new authority, or distance institutions from tainted legacies, such as those tied to slave owners or colonial figures. Post-apartheid South Africa, for instance, undertook large-scale renaming to honour anti-apartheid activists and reflect indigenous heritage.

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But the case with Charly Boy seems more akin to political retribution or outright censorship. Some might even argue it is ethnically motivated. The debate around the place of the Igbo community in Lagos has become more pronounced since the 2023 elections. Charly Boy, a proud Igbo man, was a vocal supporter of Peter Obi.

In October 2022, he led what was reported as a “five million” solidarity march in Lagos for Peter Obi, running from the National Stadium through Ikorodu to Maryland. That election season, as we know, was marked by shameful tribal and ethnic rhetoric from both Obi’s and Tinubu’s supporters. Since then, Lagos has taken visible steps to reassert the political dominance of the Yoruba ethnic group. The renaming of this bus stop is not merely a harmless action by a local official—it is an extension of ethnic politics, political retribution, and an attempt to silence dissenting voices. Ultimately, it is unhealthy for Nigeria’s democratic development.

What the renaming also fails to acknowledge is that Charly Boy never lobbied to have the stop named after him. Just as he never advocated for the naming of Charly Boy Junction in Gwarinpa, Abuja, the name emerged organically. It was the people of Bariga who, in recognition of his presence and contributions since the early 1990s, chose to honour him. Charly Boy lived in Gbagada and supported the local community—including military personnel, pensioners, okada riders, and students—with scholarship schemes and activism that endeared him to many.

Olamide Baddo, while unquestionably a Bariga native and cultural icon, has had a different kind of impact. His influence, while significant, has been largely symbolic and indirect. He has represented Bariga through his music and inspired countless youths, but he has not had the kind of direct, lived-in social impact on the community that Charly Boy had. Replacing one culturally significant figure with another not only diminishes both legacies but also overlooks the possibility of celebrating each on their own terms. There are many bus stops the council could have named after Baddo without displacing another figure organically embedded in the community’s memory.

The chairman’s claim that the renaming was meant to celebrate individuals who have uplifted Bariga and Nigeria’s global profile feels more like a convenient justification than a genuine tribute. Not everyone may agree with Charly Boy’s style, but few can deny the depth of his social and cultural impact—on Nigerian pop culture, on political expression, and on the lives of ordinary citizens.

Indeed, politics has long influenced which names our streets and public institutions bear. The renaming of a bus stop in Lagos is just one of many controversial name changes across Nigeria. In 1987, for instance, the University of Ife was renamed after the late Obafemi Awolowo, a decision that was—and still is—vigorously opposed by many of its students, staff, and alumni.

More recently, FCT Minister Nyesom Wike sparked widespread backlash when he renamed the Abuja International Conference Centre after President Bola Tinubu. Such renaming is typically reserved for the deceased, or those with a broad consensus of acclaim. In just two years, Tinubu has had at least seven public institutions—including airports, schools, roads, and even a military barrack—named after him. This includes the Bola Ahmed Tinubu Barracks in Asokoro, a move critics called inappropriate given that Tinubu is a sitting civilian leader, not a career military figure.

If anything, a more fitting tribute to the armed forces would have been naming the barracks after a late general who embodied military service. Naming it after a current politician—one still very much active—only fuels perceptions of self-promotion and transactional politics. Imagine if the University of Maiduguri were renamed after Muhammadu Buhari, whose credentials in education are widely questioned. That’s the level of incongruity we’re seeing.

Perhaps the most bizarre case remains former Imo Governor Rochas Okorocha’s decision to name a street—and erect a statue—in honour of then-South African President Jacob Zuma. Zuma, a man plagued by scandal, had no real ties to Nigeria, and his presidency coincided with a rise in xenophobic attacks against Nigerians in South Africa. Unsurprisingly, one of Okorocha’s successors quickly removed the statue and renamed the street after a local hero.

What is unfolding in Bariga is a troubling reflection of Nigeria’s fractured political culture and the fragility of its proclaimed national unity. While I am all for celebrating local heroes, we must not let political agendas override the organic decisions communities have made in honouring those who have touched their lives. The council may change the signs, but I don’t know how they will alter the conviction of the people who long ago decided that for them, that bus stop will always bear Charly Boy’s name.

Symbols may be repainted, names may change on street signs, but the memory and meaning that communities assign to those names endure—and that is a legacy no government edict can erase.