I Only Wanted to Se ll Pure Water” – Barakat’s Story Reflects the Harsh Reality of Child Labour in Lagos
Ilebani Titilayo Olamide
When 14-year-old Barakat (Not real name) set out with a basin of sachet water balanced on her head in Ayobo-Ipaja, she hoped to return home with enough sales to buy food for her siblings. Instead, she faced repeated harassment from men who saw her innocence as an opportunity. “I only wanted to sell pure water so that my mummy would not beat me when I get home,” she said quietly, eyes lowered. “But sometimes, when I pass near men, they will call me, touch me, and say things. I am always afraid, but if I don’t sell, we will not eat.”
Her words reveal the painful reality of many children across Lagos forced into street hawking, exposed to danger, yet invisible to systems that should protect them.
A Mother’s Struggle for Survival
Barakat’s mother, popularly called Iya Barakat, is herself a survivor of domestic violence. Widowed and struggling to provide, she says she has no choice but to send her daughter out to hawk.
“Do you think I want her to be in the sun selling?” she asked, frustration mixing with resignation. “But there is no money. If Barakat does not help, who will feed us? Government people only come here during elections; they don’t see how we are suffering.”
Her words reflect the interwoven struggles of poverty, gender-based violence, and lack of economic empowerment that push many women in Lagos suburbs to compromise their daughters’ safety.
The Law vs. Reality
Lagos State laws provide strong protection on paper. The Child Rights Law of Lagos State (2007), in Section 28, clearly prohibits child labour, stating that “no child shall be subjected to any forced or exploitative labour, nor employed to work in any capacity except for light domestic or family chores.”
Furthermore, the Street Trading and Illegal Markets (Prohibition) Law, 2003 criminalises hawking on highways and major streets. Yet, in communities like Ayobo-Ipaja, enforcement is weak, and families, desperate for survival, see no alternative.
According to the Lagos State Ministry of Women Affairs and Poverty Alleviation (WAPA), over 60% of child hawkers in Lagos are girls between ages 9 and 16. Data from the Lagos Bureau of Statistics also shows that street trading contributes significantly to school dropout rates in low-income communities, with Ayobo-Ipaja, Mushin, and Agege listed among high-risk areas.
Voices for Change
Ambassador Motunrayo Mariam Williams-Johnson, convener of the Kami Foundation, described Barakat’s case as “a human rights emergency that Lagos cannot ignore.”
She told our reporter “Street hawking is not just about poverty, it is about the systemic abandonment of girls. Every day, girls like Barakat are exposed to harassment, abuse, and lifelong trauma simply because they are trying to support their families. The Lagos State Government must strengthen enforcement of child rights laws, but beyond that, we need grassroots empowerment for women so that mothers like Iya Barakat have alternatives.”
The foundation has been documenting cases of child labour in Alimosho LGA and says that Ayobo-Ipaja is one of the fastest-growing hotspots of child hawking in Lagos.
A Call to Action
Experts say the solution must go beyond legislation. Stronger enforcement is needed, but so are community-based interventions:
Grassroots awareness campaigns on the dangers of child labour.
Women empowerment initiatives to reduce dependency on child income.
Safe spaces and hotlines for children experiencing harassment.
School support programmes targeting vulnerable families.
As Lagos State positions itself as a “smart city,” stories like Barakat’s question whether development leaves behind the poorest children.
Barakat’s Dream
Despite her daily struggles, Barakat still dreams of becoming a nurse. “I want to help people when they are sick,” she said with a shy smile. “But I don’t know if I will go back to school.” Her dream hangs in the balance, caught between the weight of poverty and the failure of systems meant to protect her. Until real change reaches the streets of Ayobo-Ipaja, girls like Barakat remain trapped in cycles of vulnerability.
