It was barely five days after the memorial of 9/11, when the world paused to remember the nearly 3000 who lost their lives, including over 200 people who jumped to their deaths from the 110-storey twin towers (the tallest buildings in the world at the time) to escape the fires after planes crashed into the buildings, terrorists at the controls.
The world mourned the horror of that day, and for survivors, the trauma never really faded. Then, in Lagos, Nigeria, a chillingly similar scene unfolded, not due to planes, not from terrorists, but from our own deep-rooted ill-preparedness.
Scrolling through Twitter (Now X), I stumbled on a video that made my stomach drop: people leaping from upper floors of Afriland Towers on Broad Street, Lagos Island, their fates surrendered to gravity and chance. No firemen in sight, no emergency crews at hand. Just ordinary Nigerians, area boys (touts), passersby, fellow workers, stretching out ladders, a giant pillow, and catching survivors with bare hands until professional help arrived much later.
One by one, they jumped, uncertain whether they would land softly or smash into concrete. I cannot recall every figure that fell, but one moment refuses to leave me: a young man dressed professionally in a crisp white shirt and black trousers, perched stiffly on the ledge of a smoky window. His fear was naked, his hesitation clear.
Then, with a strange kind of resignation, he loosened his tie, tossed it back into the burning office, as if severing the last cord to normal life, and prepared to plunge. Below him, dreadlocked area boys spread their arms, his survival hinging not on trained rescuers but on men society routinely brands as touts. The irony bit deep: in a country where systems collapse, it is the very people we may sneer at who hold up the safety net.
People say, “May Nigeria never happen to you.” Watching that video, the phrase took on a haunting new meaning.
On September 16, 2025, Afriland Towers, a six-storey commercial building, turned into a furnace of fear. The fire started in the inverter room in the basement around 1:30 p.m. and quickly spread, smoke curling its way through staircases and suffocating hallways.
This wasn’t just any building; it was home to the offices of the Federal Inland Revenue Service (FIRS), United Bank for Africa (UBA), United Capital, Heirs Holdings, and Afriland Properties, the owner of the tower itself. In short, this was the nerve centre of Nigeria’s corporate and financial world.
As flames rose, panic followed. Workers smashed windows, some jumped, and others clung to ledges until rescuers rigged ladders against walls. A handful were resuscitated on-site. Yet by the time the fire was contained, the damage was not only physical, it was human, tragic, and deeply preventable.
By September 18, the death toll had risen to 10. Among the victims were six United Capital staff and four FIRS workers, including assistant directors and managers. Survivors speak of birthdays turned into death days, of colleagues who had just resumed from maternity leave, never returning home again.
At least four were hospitalised with severe burns and smoke inhalation, while more than 100 were reported injured or affected. Beyond the statistics, what lingered most was the gut-wrenching thought: many of these deaths might have been avoided.
The Chairman of Heirs Holdings and UBA, Tony Elumelu, expressed grief that resonated far beyond the corporate world. “I am shattered,” he said in a statement, cutting short his U.S. trip to mourn with staff. He halted group activities, called for reflection, and admitted that UBA’s earlier statement, which emphasised business continuity, was “hasty” and failed to capture the weight of the tragedy.
Government officials followed with condolences. President Bola Tinubu, Lagos State Governor Babajide Sanwo-Olu, and Speaker Mudashiru Obasa all urged vigilance. Yet for many Nigerians, condolences feel like clockwork responses. What they crave isn’t sympathy; it is safety.
Social media lit up with grief, horror, and rage. Videos of people jumping circulated widely. Commentators, from Atiku Abubakar to Bukola Saraki, mourned the dead but also asked hard questions: Where were the fire exits? Why were the roads clogged, blocking emergency access? Why does Lagos, a megacity, still lack enough well-equipped fire stations?
Ordinary Nigerians joined the conversation, tying this tragedy to the larger “ember months” fire epidemic on Lagos Island. Traders lamented multimillion-naira losses, with some accusing leaders of selective sympathy, tears for corporations, and silence for market women.
This isn’t an isolated event. On the very same day as the Afriland blaze, another fire gutted Emab Plaza near Mandilas, while warehouses on Taiwo Line also went up in flames. Weeks earlier, a Mobil station fire in Ikeja left several injured. In April, a Dosunmu Market fire killed one and injured eight. In January, a tanker fire on the Third Mainland Bridge disrupted traffic for hours.
The Lagos State Fire and Rescue Service itself reported handling over 1,000 emergencies in just the first half of 2025. If this doesn’t scream crisis, what does?
And it is not just Lagos. Nationally, the Federal Fire Service reported over 100 fatalities and property losses amounting to ₦67.1 billion due to fire incidents in 2024.
The pattern is undeniable: Nigeria is a tinderbox, and we’re always caught unprepared.
The Nigerian Fire Service remains underfunded, under-equipped, and underwhelming. Building codes are ignored or enforced only after lives are lost. Access roads are clogged with illegal structures. High-rises lack functional fire escapes. And when the inevitable happens, ordinary Nigerians, those same people who have little training or equipment, are the first to respond.
Pastor Adeboye even predicted more fire tragedies this year. Yet nothing substantial has been done. Instead, Nigerians are left with prayers, condolences, and task forces that rarely deliver real reform.
The Afriland Towers fire should not fade into yet another sad entry in Nigeria’s long book of avoidable tragedies. It should be a wake-up call for the government to fund and reform the fire service, for urban planners to enforce safety codes, and for corporate leaders to prioritise staff safety over glass facades.
Because if there’s one thing worse than watching people jump from a burning building, it’s knowing that we had the chance to prevent it, and didn’t.
Until Nigeria gets serious about safety, “May Nigeria never happen to you” will remain less of a prayer and more of a warning.
