In the quiet hours before sunrise, the coastal town of Ilaje in southwestern Nigeria comes alive with the sounds of wooden paddles slicing through calm, dark waters. Fishermen drift silently from shore, their canoes carrying not just nets and hooks, but the hopes of their families. This ritual has continued for generations. But today, the tide carries more than fish—it brings illness, erosion, and uncertainty.
I grew up in Ilaje. I have walked the fragile coastlines barefoot, climbed the wooden stilts of our homes, and watched the Atlantic Ocean dance and roar. I remember when the sea was generous, when the wells gave us sweet water, and when children could swim in the creeks without their skin breaking out in sores. But all that is changing.
Climate change has turned our greatest gift into a growing threat. In Ilaje and nearby coastal settlements like Ayetoro, Awoye, and Ugbonla, the ocean is rising—not just in level, but in power. It’s swallowing land, infiltrating freshwater sources, and eroding the natural defenses that once protected us. More worrying still, it is triggering a quiet health crisis that is pushing already vulnerable communities to the brink.
The Salt Beneath Our Skin
Ask any local health worker and they’ll tell you the same story: skin infections are on the rise. Children return from swimming or fishing with rashes, open sores, and persistent itching. Some develop fungal patches that spread across their backs or behind their knees. Nurses at the community health post in Awoye say they’ve never seen cases like these in such high numbers.
“I treat nearly 20 children a week with skin problems linked to water exposure,” says Nurse Yetunde, who has worked in the area for over a decade. “Some cases don’t respond to basic antifungal creams anymore. We suspect the water is part of the problem.”
She’s right. Saltwater intrusion, a process where rising seas push salt into underground freshwater aquifers, is no longer a theory here—it’s a fact of daily life. Wells that once yielded fresh, drinkable water now taste like brine. Even bathing in it causes irritation. Many residents have resorted to rainwater collection, but erratic rainfall patterns due to climate change make that solution unreliable.
Beyond the skin, the impacts run deeper. Diarrhea, cholera, and typhoid cases have surged in recent years. According to informal reports from health volunteers, children under five are the worst affected. Without access to potable water, women spend hours each day either boiling salty well water or paddling to distant communities in search of clean alternatives. It’s a burden that leaves little time for school, trade, or rest.
A Community Drowning in Silence
In Ayetoro, a once-prosperous spiritual commune founded in the 1940s, climate change is not a future threat—it is a living, encroaching force. The town, built on faith and fortified with communal pride, is now in ruins. More than two-thirds of the original landmass has been lost to the sea. Homes have collapsed, churches have been uprooted, and ancestral graveyards are now under water.
Chief Olayemi, a traditional elder in Ayetoro, speaks with a solemn voice as he watches the waves crash a few feet from his doorstep. “We were promised shoreline protection. We waited. Now, all we have left are stories and sorrow.”
Despite years of government promises and failed shoreline reinforcement projects, there is no functioning sea wall. The few attempts at sand-filling or concrete barriers have been swept away by storm surges. With every storm, the sea takes more than it gives.
Waterborne Wounds and Invisible Data
One of the most pressing challenges is the lack of reliable health data. In Ilaje LGA, there are only a handful of government health centers, most of which lack laboratory facilities, electricity, or trained personnel. Health records are mostly handwritten, if they exist at all. As a result, there is no formal tracking of how climate-related water problems are affecting public health. This absence of data makes it difficult to attract government or international intervention.
“We know the illnesses are linked to the environment,” says Dr. Ejiro Oboh, a public health consultant working on rural WASH (Water, Sanitation and Hygiene) projects. “But there’s little investment in mapping or responding to them. Coastal communities like Ilaje are neglected in the broader national health agenda.”
Dr. Oboh explains that climate change is a health issue, not just an environmental one. Saltwater intrusion contributes to hypertension when ingested long-term. Malnutrition rises when farmlands are flooded and fishing grounds decline. Vector-borne diseases like malaria thrive in stagnant pools left by rising tides. Mental health issues also increase as families watch their homes and livelihoods slowly disappear.
A Feminized Burden
For women, the crisis cuts even deeper. In many Ilaje households, women are the frontline water managers. They wake before dawn to fetch water, care for sick children, and find ways to cook and clean in impossible conditions.
At a gathering of women in the riverine settlement of Orioke-Iwamimo, I listened to stories that echo the same pain.
“My youngest child had severe diarrhea. I boiled water three times, but it didn’t help,” says Mama Tinu, a fish processor. “We spent everything we had on transportation to get to Igbokoda hospital. That’s a two-hour journey by boat.”
Others talked about how salt has damaged their skin, hair, and health over time. “Even bathing gives us wounds now,” says another woman, lifting her wrapper to reveal patchy, darkened skin on her legs. “We don’t have money for creams or treatments. We just endure it.”
The Global Crisis in a Village Mirror
The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) has warned that West Africa is one of the most vulnerable regions to sea-level rise. In Nigeria alone, over 25 million people live in low-lying coastal areas. Yet, national climate resilience plans rarely address the compound threats of health, water, and displacement in one integrated framework.
Ilaje is not an isolated case. From the Niger Delta to the coastlines of Ghana and Sierra Leone, coastal communities are fighting the same invisible war. But while global conversations focus on climate finance and carbon markets, little attention is paid to the communities where rising seas meet rising fevers.
We don’t just need adaptation. We need justice. The people of Ilaje did not cause the climate crisis, yet they bear its most brutal consequences. This injustice is not only environmental—it is ethical and historical.
Seeds of Resistance
Still, we are not helpless. Local initiatives, though underfunded, are emerging. Youth groups are mobilizing to build makeshift rainwater tanks. Churches are turning their pulpits into awareness centers. A group of trained volunteers is now piloting water testing kits in a few villages, trying to map contamination levels and pressure local authorities for support.
Some organizations have installed solar-powered water purifiers, and the community is slowly learning to manage and maintain them. But these efforts need scale, sustainability, and systemic support.
There is also growing interest in using technology—drones for mapping flooded areas, SMS alerts for disease outbreaks, and mobile clinics to serve remote villages. These innovations show promise, but will require partnerships that put local knowledge at the center.
When the Tide Rises
The tide is rising, but so is our voice.
We need policymakers to stop treating Ilaje as an afterthought and start recognizing it as ground zero for climate-linked health disruption. We need targeted climate-health programs, investment in water infrastructure, and shoreline protections that are built to last.
Above all, we need the world to listen—to see in the story of Ilaje a reflection of what happens when climate change is not addressed with urgency. When health systems are ignored. When the poorest are left to fight the hardest battles alone.
In Ilaje, the water rises silently, persistently, like an unwelcome guest with no intention of leaving. But within the community, there is also a tide of resilience. Of women who carry water and stories. Of children who fall ill but continue to play. Of elders who have lost their homes, but not their dignity.
When the tide rises, we rise too.
