Taming the menace of open defecation in Nigeria

When people think about economic growth, they often picture high GDP, highways, power grids, or financial inclusion. What they rarely consider is the toilet. Yet in Nigeria, the absence of proper sanitation infrastructure, particularly in rural and peri-urban communities, is quietly undercutting human development, public health, and even national productivity.

Open defecation is not simply a nuisance. It is a public health emergency, an affront to dignity, and a drag on economic progress. And nowhere is this more evident than in most rural communities in Nigeria, where they are constantly grappling with the perennial crisis of sanitation neglect.

The numbers are staggering. Nigeria is home to one of the world’s largest populations still practicing open defecation, second only to India, according to the World Bank (Kashiwase, 2019). Despite a decade of sanitation campaigns, approximately 48 million Nigerians still defecate in the open, with women and children bearing the brunt of the health and safety consequences, according to UNICEF (2021) and WHO (2023) reports.

Nigeria loses an estimated $1.3 billion annually to sanitation-related illnesses, according to the World Health Organisation (WHO) report in 2023.

This is not merely about toilets. It’s about the political will to protect the vulnerable, the foresight to invest in low-cost public goods, and the discipline to sustain local solutions beyond the headlines of pilot programs.

A recent study I conducted on this topic at the Clinton School of Public Service, USA, shows that open defecation is driven by more than just poverty. It is rooted in the intersection of housing deficits, cultural norms, weak institutions, and economic inequality.

Multi-generational households, informal settlements with insecure land rights, and decaying infrastructure all combine to make private toilet ownership a luxury. Add to this a legacy of neglected public toilets, and you get a new norm, where going in the bush feels safer than using a latrine. And when cholera breaks out, it is not just a health statistic; it is the economic collapse of households who must divert income to treat preventable diseases.

 “Most rural communities in Nigeria have deep cultural roots, and the consequences of poor sanitation spill over into schools, markets, and religious spaces.”

If this were just a rural problem, policymakers might get away with ignoring it. Most rural communities in Nigeria have deep cultural roots, and the consequences of poor sanitation spill over into schools, markets, and religious spaces.

Public health workers I interviewed told stories of children missing classes due to waterborne diseases, traders losing days of income to illness, and entire neighbourhoods exposed to cholera because waste from a nearby bush seeped into their water source. This is not a fringe issue; it is at the heart of national development.

What’s more frustrating is that we already know what works. Community-led sanitation models like CLTS (Community-Led Total Sanitation), which have succeeded in Ghana, can be replicated in many of our rural communities.

Programmes that empower local champions, integrate hygiene education into schools and mosques, and create peer-driven accountability mechanisms have consistently proven more sustainable than top-down infrastructure dumps. Yet these models are routinely starved of funding, sidelined by politics, or replaced with flashy but unsustainable projects.

Nigeria does not lack strategy papers or sanitation targets. What it lacks is follow-through. Infrastructure without maintenance is wasted capital. Public toilets without community buy-in are abandoned ruins. Enforcement without education breeds resentment.

This is why the next phase of sanitation policy must be rooted in behavioural change, local governance, and durable financing. Build toilets, yes, but also train schoolchildren as hygiene ambassadors. Subsidise latrine construction but only for designs that communities helped create. Work with religious leaders to preach dignity through cleanliness, and not just during cholera outbreaks.

This also shows that sanitation cannot be separated from broader issues of inequality and governance. Wealthier neighbourhoods have the means to build toilets but often resist collective efforts like CLTS, seeing public sanitation as something “for the poor.” This class divide must be tackled head-on.

Public health is not a luxury; it’s a shared responsibility. Government should incentivise sanitation not just as a matter of charity, but as an economic multiplier. Every naira spent on sanitation returns multiple times in saved healthcare costs, increased school attendance, and boosted productivity.

Ending open defecation is not a photo op. It’s not a slogan. It’s a political and economic necessity. As Nigeria races toward its Sustainable Development Goals and a more inclusive growth agenda, it must realise that the path to national prosperity starts not just in boardrooms and ministries but in the simple dignity of a clean toilet. The failure to act is not just a moral failing. It’s a policy choice with a price tag we can no longer afford. Bottom of Form.

Olugbenga Olaoye is a seasoned professional with extensive experience in the oil and gas industry. He is a PhD candidate specialising in energy economics and holds a Master’s degree in Public Service from the Clinton School of Public Service, USA. He writes from Fort Worth, Texas.