By Israel Adebiyi
I had tried, for months, to keep this subject at arm’s length. After all, The Nation’s Pulse has, by tradition, stuck its gaze on the big picture of national polity. But last week, my colleague, Joseph Kanjo, the ever-blunt Ijaw man, reminded me with his usual candour: “Israel, forget it. This matter has swum into national waters. You’ve got to discuss it on air.” And so here we are.
From Lagos to Abuja, Port Harcourt to Benin, in every major Nigerian city, there exists a tribe of middlemen who have turned the simple act of finding a home into a nightmare theatre of deceit, extortion, and despair. They call themselves “agents.” But tenants, with good reason, now call them Shylocks.
Nigeria is living through one of its most pressing social problems, a housing deficit of over 20 million units. As urbanisation outpaces construction, the scramble for shelter has grown more desperate. The result? An inflated rental market where landlords demand one, sometimes two years’ rent upfront, and tenants are left calculating survival in instalments.
In this scarcity, agents found their goldmine. They became gatekeepers, the ones you must pass through before seeing the landlord, the ones who “hold the keys.” And, like Shakespeare’s Shylock demanding his pound of flesh, they squeeze tenants until every drop of naira is bled dry.
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Take Chinyere, a young nurse in Abuja, who shared her ordeal with me. After months of searching, an agent finally led her to a one-bedroom apartment in Kubwa. The rent was ₦600,000. By itself, already steep. But then came the add-ons: 10% agency fee, 10% agreement fee, inspection fee, caution fee, and a mysterious ‘legal’ fee. By the time she finished calculating, her total outlay stood at ₦850,000 – nearly ₦250,000 more than the agreed rent. “When I asked what the ‘legal’ fee was for,” she said, “the agent laughed and said, ‘Madam, that one na normal. No legal o.”
Or consider Osatohamwen, a factory worker in Benin, who parted with ₦50,000 as “inspection and commitment” fee just to secure a viewing. The agent vanished, phone switched off, house nowhere to be found. Such stories abound, whispered in frustration and traded in bitterness by Nigerians across class divides.
What deepens the irony is that many of these agents take you to houses even they themselves would not live in. Dilapidated structures with cracked walls, leaking roofs, toilets that smell of neglect, and kitchens that could host cockroaches for dinner. Yet, they pitch them with salesmanship worthy of a Broadway stage: “Madam, this one na hot cake. If you no pay today, tomorrow e go don go.”
It is the cruelest part of the deception, dressing up misery as opportunity, knowing full well that desperation will silence protest.
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The tragedy is not just that tenants are extorted. It is that housing, one of life’s most basic needs, has become a gamble. Instead of safety and stability, many Nigerians now associate house-hunting with anxiety, loss, and betrayal. Families uprooted because a landlord suddenly doubled rent. Students stranded because an agent promised a “self-contained” that turned out to be a room with shared facilities. Newlyweds spending their honeymoon nights on relatives’ sofas because the house they paid for was given to someone else with “better money.”
The bigger shame is that Nigeria’s regulators look the other way. The housing sector remains one of the most unregulated spaces in our economy. No clear codes for agents. No enforceable penalties for fraud. No safeguards for tenants. In the vacuum, chaos reigns and the Shylocks thrive.
The comparison is sobering: in developed countries, property agents are licensed, their fees capped, and their conduct regulated. Here, anyone with a key ring and a contact on WhatsApp can become an “agent.” And Nigerians, desperate for shelter, must play along.
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Let’s be clear: agents are not the disease; they are the symptom. The disease is a deep housing crisis that leaves millions without roofs, and those with roofs perpetually at risk of eviction. The cost of cement rises, urban planning is chaotic, mortgages are inaccessible, and public housing is virtually non-existent. In such a system, desperation breeds exploitation, and agents merely mirror the larger dysfunction of the state.
But it need not be so. Shelter is not a luxury. It is a right. And like food and water, it must be treated as such. Nigeria must wake up to the urgency of reforming its housing sector by building more affordable homes, regulating agents, and protecting tenants from predatory practices.
Until then, the Nigerian tenant remains trapped between the landlord’s demands and the agent’s extortion, forever paying pounds of flesh in a market where survival is traded for profit.
So, when next you hear the phrase “house hunting,” don’t imagine a hopeful family searching for a new home. Picture, instead, a weary Nigerian, pockets drained, dignity bruised, whispering under their breath: What’s up with Shylock house agents?