The Land Use Act. My position remains beautifully uncomplicated. Once land has been lawfully allocated to a citizen, only a court should have the power to decide whether it can be revoked on the grounds of “overriding public interest.” Not a Governor. Not a Governor’s cousin. Not a Commissioner who attended a weekend seminar on “Land Administration for Beginners.” A court.
But to understand why this simplicity feels revolutionary, we must go back — back to the era of mullets, bell-bottoms, and military rule: 1978.
How We Got Here: A Short History of Nigerian Land Reform
Before 1978, land ownership in Nigeria was governed by an intricate web of customary systems, communal controls, and English common law — depending on which part of Nigeria you stood on. In the South, families and communities held land in trust like sacred heirlooms. In the North, the 1900 and 1902 laws had already vested land in the Governor for the “use and benefit” of the people (whatever that meant in colonial English).
By the 1970s, this patchwork system had become chaotic — at least according to the military government of the day. Their diagnosis: land was too fragmented, too traditional, and too “unavailable” for national development. Their cure: a sweeping decree that would put the government in charge of all land, everywhere, instantly.
Thus came the Land Use Decree of 1978, signed by Gen. Olusegun Obasanjo.
The idea was noble in theory: democratise access to land, stop speculators, curb land-grabbing chiefs, and make land available for national development.
In practice, the decree created a new landlord class: Governors.
And because this was Nigeria, the Governors discovered they liked the arrangement — a lot.
When democracy returned in 1999, the decree — now baptised as an Act — refused to die. It remained entrenched in the Constitution like a stubborn guest who refuses to leave the party.
The Courts Tried to Help — They Really Tried
Over the years, the judiciary noticed that executive power over land had gone from “firm” to “ferocious.” So the Supreme Court began installing guardrails.
Olatunji v. Military Governor of Oyo State (1995)
The Court held that the government must clearly state the public purpose for which land is being taken. This is not an administrative courtesy; it is a legal lifeline. Without that clarity, a revocation becomes nothing but executive graffiti.
NITEL v. Ogun State (1999)
The Supreme Court insisted that a revocation notice must be properly served. Not whispered. Not implied. Not published in a newspaper nobody reads. If it’s not served, the revocation is invalid — full stop.
Bello v. Diocesan Synod of Lagos (1973)
Even before the 1978 Decree, the Court had warned that “overriding public interest” must be real, genuine, and provable. Not imaginary. Not political. Not spiritual. Real.
Why an Amendment Is Now Necessary
The judiciary has done its part, but court judgments alone cannot restrain creative governors equipped with legal advisers trained in Advanced Interpretation & Manipulation.
The Land Use Act still gives the executive enormous discretionary power — the kind of power that makes investors nervous, landowners sleepless, and developers religious.
I’m calling for one reform: constitutional amendment to entrench the judicial guardrails the courts have already developed.
Because imagine the possibilities—
– Landowners who won’t wake up to bulldozers doing morning aerobics on their fence.
– Investors who won’t need to hire prophets to predict gubernatorial moods.
– Developers who can build with confidence instead of consulting the Commissioner’s horoscope.
– Banks who won’t treat land as collateral that may disappear over lunch.
Strengthen property rights, and Nigeria’s economy will finally breathe.
Keep things as they are, and only one thing remains powerful: the Governor’s pen — the most dangerous land instrument in the federation.
One reform.
One amendment.
And suddenly, the ground beneath Nigerian feet becomes solid — legally, economically, and literally.
Centre for Nigeria Progress 