In Lagos, the Oregun by-pass was once an industrial hub, but is now overtaken by churches
BY EMMANUEL ABARA BENSON
On any given weekday back in the 1970s-1980s, the Oregun by-pass in Ikeja would be a beehive of industrial activities. Trucks rumbled in and out of sprawling warehouses, even as the air carried with it the busy clatter of machinery.
Shift workers streamed through factory gates that never seemed to close. Such was life back then when this part of Lagos was the manufacturing heartbeat of Nigeria. But fast forward three decades, and those same wide industrial halls now echo with choir rehearsals on weekdays and charismatic sermons on Sundays.
The transformation of this corridor, from a hive of manufacturing to a landscape dominated by churches, exemplifies the decline of Nigeria’s industrialisation and how a vast majority of the people have adapted to a life of faith without works.
“We Used to Count Trucks, Not Worshippers”
While investigating this story, I met Kola (surname withheld), leaning on a low wall that still bears the faded stencils of a generator showroom that once serviced factories up and down Kudirat Abiola Way.
“I came here as a security guard in 1998,” he says.
“Back then, we used to count trucks… every hour, at least four or five. Parts in, finished goods out. Now, on weekends, we count worshippers.”
He gestures towards a massive hall where a warehouse once stood. “When the factory closed down, we thought the building would rot. Instead, a church took over, renovated it, and gradually transformed it into a mega place of worship. Same walls. New purpose.”
Kola’s memory aligns with a wider pattern: over the past decade, former industrial shells across Lagos (especially the ones around Oregun, Acme Road, and adjoining streets) have been repurposed as churches and event centres.
Local news reporting has chronicled how industrial premises along Kudirat Abiola Way pivoted to religious use as companies stumbled through currency shocks, high energy costs, and volatile supply chains.
On an adjacent plot, a billboard markets a multi-bay warehouse, describing it as “suitable for redevelopment for shopping mall, event centre, and CHURCH.”
This is not an anomaly; broker listings for Oregun show multiple warehouses on this very corridor, an inventory shaped as much by logistics needs as by Lagos’ appetite for large indoor spaces that can be converted quickly.
The Area that Once Employed Many Lagosians
Ngozi, 43, worked for twelve years in a packaging plant near the bypass.
“We had a loudness to our lives,” she says with a half-smile.
“Shift bells, compressors, forklifts reversing, such things… When the naira fell and supplies got crazy, the plant slowed. One day, we were ‘suspending operations’.
A year later, I returned for a meeting about my severance. Just like that, the place where I had hoped to work until I retired was shut down. And what’s funny is that it wasn’t long afterwards before a church rented it and eventually bought it.”
She doesn’t blame the church that took over the building. “They paid salaries to cleaners and security. They bought diesel. They kept the place safe. But for us workers, it was like the future moved in without us.”
Her story exists inside a larger macro shock. Over the years, Nigeria’s manufacturing sector has slowed significantly, especially between 2023 and 2024, with reforms and repeated devaluations igniting an FX storm that left manufacturers scrambling for inputs even as many multinationals exited the market. Some estimates put closures in the hundreds, and several household names either scaled down, restructured, or sold assets.
The Churches Are Not the Problem
Across the road, Pastor “Dayo” rents a portion of a former printing warehouse for his fast-growing congregation. “We didn’t displace industry,” he insists. “Industry left a vacuum. We filled it with community,” he says.
He walks us through the improvised sanctuary, acoustic panels where filing cabinets used to be, and a drum kit where the ink drums sat.
“In Lagos, space is the first miracle,” he says.
“A ready-made hall with parking? You can start a service tomorrow. And our members need hope. And that’s what we provide… a place to breathe and feel connected to the supernatural wonders of God.”
He noted that churches also invest in their surroundings. “We repainted the building, fixed drains, and employed ushers, cleaners, and teachers. We’re not exporting anything. But we are changing lives.”
At a nearby canteen, Baba Tunji, a retired toolmaker, told us he misses the pride of making things.
“I can still draw a gear by hand,” he says, tracing circles on the table.
“Church is good. God is good. But a city must also make things. If everything is all about prayer and faith, then who will build the pulpit?”
A Mirror Held to the Economy
Nigeria’s manufacturing story isn’t a straight line from boom to bust to altar. It’s a cycle. In 2024, capacity utilisation ticked up slightly to 57% (from 55.1% in 2023), even as firms struggled with inflation and FX volatility.
By Q4 2024, the Central Bank’s own gauge of manufacturing capacity utilisation showed a quarterly rise to 61.9%, underscoring just how uneven the recovery can be: better in some quarters, brittle overall.
Heading into 2025, the sector’s contribution to GDP hovered around 9–10% (NBS places it at ~9.6% in early 2025), while real manufacturing GDP grew 1.69% year-on-year in Q1 2025; modest, but growth nonetheless. Purchasing Managers’ data in July showed a composite PMI of 54.0, suggesting expansion and hinting at a tentative thaw in business conditions after the turbulence.
This is the paradox visible on Oregun’s sidewalks: a sector that is simultaneously adapting and shedding skin. A wave of exits by multinationals (asset sales, plant closures, strategic retreats) coexists with localisation plays by those who remain or newly entered, like regional groups betting on Nigeria’s long-term demand while hedging foreign-exchange risks and sourcing inputs at home.
As one recent analysis noted, some manufacturers are substituting imported inputs for locally sourced ones, negotiating naira-denominated supply and re-engineering products for affordability. It’s a survival math that doesn’t need marble lobbies; it needs grit, stable power, and a supply chain that doesn’t vanish with each currency swing.
Oregun By-Pass: A Case of Adaptive Reuse Without A Plan
An urban economist who has advised Lagos authorities on land-use (he asked not to be named) sees Oregun as a case study in “adaptive reuse without a plan”.
“What’s happening along the bypass is a rational response to irrational volatility,” he says.
“Owners need rent. Churches need space. The city needs order. The problem isn’t that churches are renting warehouses; it’s that our industrial policy and urban planning haven’t kept pace.
“If you want production, you must guarantee power, logistics, and zoning clarity. Otherwise, the market will find the tenants who can pay on time—often congregations rather than compressors.”
He pulls up recent macro readings: “PMI above 50 is good news, but it can live alongside empty factories if the cost of capital and energy still crushes margins. The long-term fix is boring: power reforms, port efficiency, credible FX markets, and industrial parks where tenancy rules are enforced. Until then, the loudest sound on a Sunday will not be machines.”
His take maps to the numbers: the economy grew 3.84% y/y in Q4 2024. But translating growth into factory revival requires more than momentum; it needs predictability.
The Way Forward
Above all, the bigger story is about what kind of growth Nigeria wants. Manufacturing at ~9–10% of GDP is not destiny; it’s a policy choice. If capacity can climb, if local inputs can be scaled, if power becomes credible, then the same corridor that now hosts revival meetings could hum again with light industry.
And if the economics tilt that way, some churches will move to purpose-built auditoriums, and warehouses will go back to warehousing.
Indeed, parts of the sector are already experimenting: sourcing locally to dodge FX shocks, redesigning products to cut import content, and partnering with local suppliers.
The recent sale of Guinness Nigeria’s controlling stake to a regional conglomerate betting on localised production is a reminder that exits for some are entry points for others.
