By Ibrahim Happiness.
Every day on Nigerian roads, lives are put at risk not only by reckless driving, but by a transport system that forces heavy-duty trailers and smaller vehicles to share the same lanes and the same dangers. It is a problem visible in plain sight on roads used daily by millions of Nigerians, yet it has never received the urgency it deserves.
Drive from Abuja through Lugbe, Giri and all the way to Gwagwalada, and the evidence is everywhere. Trailers line both sides of the road, some parked, some moving, others broken down in the middle of traffic without warning. Small cars are forced through spaces that should never exist. Motorcycles weave dangerously beside giant wheels. Tricycles take chances next to vehicles many times their size.
And when something goes wrong, when a tyre bursts, brakes fail, or a driver misjudges, it is rarely the trailer that suffers most. It is the smaller vehicles. It is ordinary people simply trying to get to their destinations.
Traffic gridlock along these routes has become routine. Commuters travelling from Abuja to places like Gwagwalada often spend hours trapped in traffic, sometimes late into the night, because trailers block stretches of road, refuse to give way, park carelessly, or are simply too large for the roads they use. Some people sleep in their cars because there is nowhere else to go.
I know this not only through observation, but through painful personal experience that I carry every day in my hand, in my eye, and in my memory.
On June 11, 2023, a rainy Sunday morning, my grandfather and I left home early for church. It was around 7 a.m. The road was slippery, visibility was poor, and like many Nigerian families, we were simply trying to travel safely.
Then everything changed. A trailer was parked in the middle of the road. Whether it had broken down or was abandoned, I cannot say. What I know is that it sat there in the rain without proper warning signs, cones, or visible hazard lights.
A car rammed into us from behind. The impact was sudden and violent. My grandfather lost control, and we were pushed forward into the parked trailer. What followed changed my life permanently.
Glass shattered into my face and tore my eyeball. My hand was badly broken. In the first moments after the crash, I could not see at all. The pain was intense, but the darkness was worse. Not knowing whether my sight would return is something I would not wish on anyone.
The next day, I underwent eye surgery. Even then, my vision did not return immediately. I spent more than three months in hospital undergoing treatment, recovery, and living through uncertainty. My family stood by me emotionally and financially, and I remain grateful to them. Slowly, my sight returned. Today, I do not take that blessing for granted.
My hand became another battle. The damage was so severe that surgeons inserted a metal implant to hold the bones together. That metal remains in my hand today. It still causes pain, limitations, and daily discomfort. But I am alive, and that is what I hold on to.
The trailer driver denied responsibility, claiming the vehicle was moving at the time of the crash. It was not. It was parked in the middle of the road. But denial was easier than accountability, as is too often the case with trailer-related accidents in Nigeria.
That metal in my hand, the surgery on my eye, the months I lost, and the burden my family carried are why I am writing this.
Because my story is not unique. It is one of countless stories that unfold on Nigerian roads every year. Many never make the news. Many families never get justice. Many lives are permanently altered while the system carries on unchanged.
The Lugbe-Gwagwalada road tells this story daily. Like many highways in and around Abuja, it serves workers, students, worshippers, traders, and families. Yet trailers operate there without the structure, discipline, or dedicated space vehicles of that size demand.
The result is chaos so normalised that many people no longer question it. They accept it as the price of travelling in Nigeria. But it should not be.
There is also a serious economic cost. Heavy-duty trailers damage road infrastructure faster than government repair budgets can keep up. Their immense weight, especially when overloaded, destroys road surfaces, creates potholes, and weakens road foundations. Billions of naira are spent annually on repairs, much of it linked to the damage caused by heavy vehicles using roads never designed for such pressure.
Yet the idea of dedicated trailer lanes, properly built, clearly marked, and strictly enforced, remains an afterthought instead of an urgent national priority.
Other countries have addressed this challenge. Many highways around the world provide separate lanes for heavy vehicles because planners understand that vehicles with vastly different sizes, speeds, and stopping distances should not compete for the same space. It is not complicated policy. It is common sense, and it saves lives.
Nigeria must make the same move now. Dedicated trailer lanes would reduce accidents, ease congestion, save commuters valuable time, cut road maintenance costs, and protect lives.
No one should carry metal in their hand for life because a trailer was carelessly parked on a road. No one should spend months in hospital fighting to regain sight because proper traffic systems do not exist.
This is not a luxury demand. It is not unreasonable. It is a practical, life-saving measure whose time has long come. Heavy-duty trailers need their own lanes.
Ibrahim Happiness is a 300-level Strategic Communication student at the University of Abuja and an intern with IMPR. She can be reached at [email protected].
