Amid the daily aquatic struggles of #Makoko Waterfront, where canoes serve as roads and fishing has long eclipsed formal schooling, Whanyinna Floating Primary School once stood as an unlikely symbol of hope.

Founded in 2009, the school emerged not from government policy or donor largesse, but from community conviction — a belief that children born on water still deserved education, dignity, and a future.

For sixteen years, Whanyinna offered that chance.

Accessible only by navigating polluted waterways and operating with scarce resources, the school was sustained by volunteer teachers and community support. In a neighbourhood where survival often takes precedence over schooling, Whanyinna quietly educated more than 300 children, many of whom would otherwise never have entered a classroom.

The school’s founder, Noah Shemede, was born and raised in Makoko. Witnessing how illiteracy perpetuated generational poverty, he chose education as an act of resistance. Whanyinna became his answer — not just a school, but a sanctuary where children learned to read, dream, and believe they mattered.

That sanctuary is now gone.

In the ongoing demolition exercise in Makoko, Whanyinna School was pulled down. The destruction has triggered grief, anger, and deep reflection within the community and among those who built and sustained the project.

Emmanuel Ainembabazi Oke, one of the school’s long-standing champions, captured the collective heartbreak in a moving reflection:

“Today, my heart broke in a way words can barely carry. Watching Whanyinna being destroyed is something I never imagined. A place we started in 2009 out of love, conviction, and belief is now rubble.”

He recounts sixteen years of borrowed desks, donated books, chalk-stained hands, volunteer labour, and stubborn hope — years of choosing community over comfort.

“What was destroyed,” he notes, “was not just a structure, but a place of safety. A place where children discovered they were smart, capable, and worthy.”

The pain runs deeper because Whanyinna was never merely a building. It represented opportunity in a community often excluded from planning tables and policy conversations. Its demolition raises an uncomfortable but necessary question: What does development mean when it erases classrooms before offering alternatives?

Makoko’s story is not new. Across urban Nigeria, informal communities are frequently displaced in the name of renewal, yet social infrastructure — schools, clinics, shelters — is rarely replaced with the same urgency as roads and estates. In such contexts, “progress” becomes a hollow word, measured in concrete rather than human outcomes.

Yet even in loss, Whanyinna’s legacy endures.

“You cannot demolish the confidence a child gained when they read their first sentence,” Oke reflects. “You cannot bulldoze the future of a girl who discovered her worth. What we built there is permanent.”

Today, Whanyinna is mourned — not only as a fallen school, but as a reminder of what grassroots action can achieve where formal systems fail. Tomorrow, its story will continue to challenge policymakers, urban planners, and citizens to rethink development through the lens of justice and inclusion.

Buildings may fall.
Legacies do not.

As long as children still need education, dignity, and hope, the spirit of Whanyinna will remain afloat — even when the classroom is gone.[s][/s]