FROM DANFO TO DATA: MAPPING THE MOVEMENT OF LAGOS
TEAM MEMBERS AND ORGANIZATIONS THAT WORKED ON MAPPING LAGOS:
OLAMIDE UDOMA-EJORH is executive director of the Lagos Urban Development Initiative (LUDI)
ADEPOSI ADEOGUN, currently a PhD student at MIT
MIRIAM ADENUGA, Project Associate at LUDI during the Danfo Mapping Project
OGHENETEGA ESEDERE, Data Processor for the Danfo Mapping Project
LAGOS URBAN DEVELOPMENT INITIATIVE (LUDI) carried out the mapping in collaboration with WHEREISMYTRANSPORT, THE WORLD BANK, LAGOS METROPOLITAN AREA TRANSPORT AUTHORITY (LAMATA), and academic partners from BROWN UNIVERSITY and the UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT BERKELEY.
OLAMIDE UDOMA-EJORH is executive director of the Lagos Urban Development Initiative (LUDI)
ADEPOSI ADEOGUN, currently a PhD student at MIT
MIRIAM ADENUGA, Project Associate at LUDI during the Danfo Mapping Project
OGHENETEGA ESEDERE, Data Processor for the Danfo Mapping Project
LAGOS URBAN DEVELOPMENT INITIATIVE (LUDI) carried out the mapping in collaboration with WHEREISMYTRANSPORT, THE WORLD BANK, LAGOS METROPOLITAN AREA TRANSPORT AUTHORITY (LAMATA), and academic partners from BROWN UNIVERSITY and the UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT BERKELEY.
Standing at the roadside in Lagos, among clouds of exhaust, the clamor of hawkers, and the hissing of brakes, waiting for a bus isn’t just a daily ritual: it’s a plunge into the uncharted heart of one of the world’s most vibrant informal transit systems. And for most of the city’s residents, it’s not optional. Between 60 and 80% of Lagosians rely on informal minibuses—known locally as danfos—to get where they’re going.
These beat-up yellow buses are at once the backbone of the city’s transit system and a symbol of its organized chaos. But until recently, despite their omnipresence, danfos operated almost entirely off the record—unmapped, unregulated, and largely misunderstood by planners and policymakers.
That changed in 2022 with the Danfo Mapping Project, a groundbreaking effort led by the Lagos Urban Development Initiative (LUDI) and supported by the World Bank, WhereIsMyTransport, and LAMATA (Lagos Metropolitan Area Transport Authority). In partnership with researchers from Brown University and the University of California at Berkeley, the team set out to chart Lagos’s massive informal transport system from the ground up.
“There was no data,” recalls Olamide Udoma-Ejorh, LUDI’s executive director. “And yet, it’s the system Lagos runs on.”
A SYSTEM HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT
Although aging, overcrowded, and often unsafe, danfos are staggeringly effective. They pick up passengers wherever demand exists—whether it’s a major station or a dusty street corner. “I step out from my house,” says Miriam Adenuga, a project associate, “and I find a danfo, a keke, a korope. You don’t have to walk far. It’s accessible and affordable.”
Each of these options plays a unique role in Lagos’s layered transport ecosystem. The danfo—a battered yellow minibus with room for up to 18 passengers—is the most common, careening down main roads and threading through traffic with reckless efficiency. Koropes, slightly smaller and more maneuverable, often cover medium-density routes where demand or road conditions don’t justify a full danfo. Kekes, or keke Napeps, are three-wheeled rickshaws used for short, local trips—often the last stretch from a danfo or korope stop to someone’s doorstep.
Then there’s the formal system—recently expanded with a Bus Rapid Transit (BRT) network and the city’s first metro rail line—which offers more structure, ticketing, and predictability. But its coverage is still limited. In many cases, danfos serve as informal feeders into BRT stations, delivering passengers from inner neighborhoods to formal corridors. In practice, most Lagosians rely on a layered mix of all these modes to get where they’re going.
This accessibility of the danfos comes at a physical cost, The ride is often uncomfortable and chaotic: hot, loud, and unpredictable. Oghenetega Esedere, a data processor on the project, recalls surviving three or four incidents where the bus he was riding actually caught on fire. Yet, he adds, danfos “are the quickest way to get around.”
The team found themselves mapping over 2,500 danfo routes across the city, uncovering a rich and complex transit web. They documented major “super stations,” such as Obalende and Oshodi. They discovered unidirectional and triangular kinds of route structures rarely acknowledged in standard transit planning. Beneath the surface, they also encountered a dense economy of payments and coded interactions with agberos, the street-level enforcers who collect dues and maintain an informal order.
“There’s a [dynamic] code system [for fee collection],” Adeposi Adeogun, now a PhD student at MIT, explains. “It looks informal, but it is structured.”
These beat-up yellow buses are at once the backbone of the city’s transit system and a symbol of its organized chaos. But until recently, despite their omnipresence, danfos operated almost entirely off the record—unmapped, unregulated, and largely misunderstood by planners and policymakers.
That changed in 2022 with the Danfo Mapping Project, a groundbreaking effort led by the Lagos Urban Development Initiative (LUDI) and supported by the World Bank, WhereIsMyTransport, and LAMATA (Lagos Metropolitan Area Transport Authority). In partnership with researchers from Brown University and the University of California at Berkeley, the team set out to chart Lagos’s massive informal transport system from the ground up.
“There was no data,” recalls Olamide Udoma-Ejorh, LUDI’s executive director. “And yet, it’s the system Lagos runs on.”
A SYSTEM HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT
Although aging, overcrowded, and often unsafe, danfos are staggeringly effective. They pick up passengers wherever demand exists—whether it’s a major station or a dusty street corner. “I step out from my house,” says Miriam Adenuga, a project associate, “and I find a danfo, a keke, a korope. You don’t have to walk far. It’s accessible and affordable.”
Each of these options plays a unique role in Lagos’s layered transport ecosystem. The danfo—a battered yellow minibus with room for up to 18 passengers—is the most common, careening down main roads and threading through traffic with reckless efficiency. Koropes, slightly smaller and more maneuverable, often cover medium-density routes where demand or road conditions don’t justify a full danfo. Kekes, or keke Napeps, are three-wheeled rickshaws used for short, local trips—often the last stretch from a danfo or korope stop to someone’s doorstep.
Then there’s the formal system—recently expanded with a Bus Rapid Transit (BRT) network and the city’s first metro rail line—which offers more structure, ticketing, and predictability. But its coverage is still limited. In many cases, danfos serve as informal feeders into BRT stations, delivering passengers from inner neighborhoods to formal corridors. In practice, most Lagosians rely on a layered mix of all these modes to get where they’re going.
This accessibility of the danfos comes at a physical cost, The ride is often uncomfortable and chaotic: hot, loud, and unpredictable. Oghenetega Esedere, a data processor on the project, recalls surviving three or four incidents where the bus he was riding actually caught on fire. Yet, he adds, danfos “are the quickest way to get around.”
The team found themselves mapping over 2,500 danfo routes across the city, uncovering a rich and complex transit web. They documented major “super stations,” such as Obalende and Oshodi. They discovered unidirectional and triangular kinds of route structures rarely acknowledged in standard transit planning. Beneath the surface, they also encountered a dense economy of payments and coded interactions with agberos, the street-level enforcers who collect dues and maintain an informal order.
“There’s a [dynamic] code system [for fee collection],” Adeposi Adeogun, now a PhD student at MIT, explains. “It looks informal, but it is structured.”
FROM MAPPING TO PLANNING
Lagos, Nigeria, is a city of astonishing scale. Perched on the Gulf of Guinea, it sprawls barely two meters above sea level across the mainland and over a constellation of islands, like Lagos Island and Victoria Island, now vibrant economic and cultural hubs. With an estimated population that exceeds 20 million, it is Nigeria’s largest city, as well as one of the fastest-growing metropolises in the world.
The team knew this city needed a map—but not just to know where the danfos go, but to also shift the paradigm of urban planning in Lagos by using data. “The point,” says Olamide, “isn’t just wayfinding. It’s, ‘How can we plan better?’....and use data to make those plans more responsive to the way the city currently operates.”
Lagos’s transit system is fluid and fast changing. Stops come and go, routes shift, and what exists one week may vanish the next. That instability made the work grueling. Some routes were validated and revalidated, only to be proved obsolete days later. “This was hard for institutions like the World Bank to understand,” Olamide explains. “They asked, ‘Why does the data keep changing?’ But that’s just how Lagos works.”
Although GTFS data and maps were submitted to international and local stakeholders, the public still doesn’t have access to this information. LUDI, having been contracted but not made custodians of the data, cannot release it themselves. Still, the project left a lasting impact: it built new internal capacity for data-driven mapping, spurred subsequent projects on pedestrian infrastructure, and sparked a broader conversation about planning with––rather than around––the informal city.
THE FUTURE OF TRANSIT IN LAGOS
Lagos has recently launched formal transit expansions, including a Bus Rapid Transit (BRT) network and a long-awaited metro rail line. But these systems don’t yet reach most Lagosians. “The BRT stations aren’t close by,” Miriam notes. “The danfo is what gets you there.”
The team sees an opportunity for integration. The informal network already reaches every corner of the city. It could serve as the connective tissue linking formal infrastructure with people’s everyday lives—if governments are willing to engage it seriously.
“Rather than contestation between formal and informal,” explains Miriam, “I want to see cohesion.”
And for all its flaws—the noise, the unpredictability, the danger—the danfo provides Lagos’s residents a deeply human space. Onboard, commuters talk, argue, pray, sell goods, and sometimes nap. It’s as much public square as public transit. “It’s a marketplace on wheels,” Adeposi observes. “It’s where Lagos meets itself.”
Thanks to the Danfo Mapping Project, that meeting place is no longer invisible. It’s drawn, described, and—if planners and policymakers are bold enough—ready to be transformed.
Lagos, Nigeria, is a city of astonishing scale. Perched on the Gulf of Guinea, it sprawls barely two meters above sea level across the mainland and over a constellation of islands, like Lagos Island and Victoria Island, now vibrant economic and cultural hubs. With an estimated population that exceeds 20 million, it is Nigeria’s largest city, as well as one of the fastest-growing metropolises in the world.
The team knew this city needed a map—but not just to know where the danfos go, but to also shift the paradigm of urban planning in Lagos by using data. “The point,” says Olamide, “isn’t just wayfinding. It’s, ‘How can we plan better?’....and use data to make those plans more responsive to the way the city currently operates.”
Lagos’s transit system is fluid and fast changing. Stops come and go, routes shift, and what exists one week may vanish the next. That instability made the work grueling. Some routes were validated and revalidated, only to be proved obsolete days later. “This was hard for institutions like the World Bank to understand,” Olamide explains. “They asked, ‘Why does the data keep changing?’ But that’s just how Lagos works.”
Although GTFS data and maps were submitted to international and local stakeholders, the public still doesn’t have access to this information. LUDI, having been contracted but not made custodians of the data, cannot release it themselves. Still, the project left a lasting impact: it built new internal capacity for data-driven mapping, spurred subsequent projects on pedestrian infrastructure, and sparked a broader conversation about planning with––rather than around––the informal city.
THE FUTURE OF TRANSIT IN LAGOS
Lagos has recently launched formal transit expansions, including a Bus Rapid Transit (BRT) network and a long-awaited metro rail line. But these systems don’t yet reach most Lagosians. “The BRT stations aren’t close by,” Miriam notes. “The danfo is what gets you there.”
The team sees an opportunity for integration. The informal network already reaches every corner of the city. It could serve as the connective tissue linking formal infrastructure with people’s everyday lives—if governments are willing to engage it seriously.
“Rather than contestation between formal and informal,” explains Miriam, “I want to see cohesion.”
And for all its flaws—the noise, the unpredictability, the danger—the danfo provides Lagos’s residents a deeply human space. Onboard, commuters talk, argue, pray, sell goods, and sometimes nap. It’s as much public square as public transit. “It’s a marketplace on wheels,” Adeposi observes. “It’s where Lagos meets itself.”
Thanks to the Danfo Mapping Project, that meeting place is no longer invisible. It’s drawn, described, and—if planners and policymakers are bold enough—ready to be transformed.