In just fifty-six days, Lagos politics has been shaken by a grim and unsettling pattern. Four female politicians, all members of the ruling All Progressives Congress (APC), have died in rapid succession, barely weeks after assuming office. Their sudden and successive deaths are not only shocking but deeply troubling, raising questions about the toll of politics on women and the unspoken challenges they face in Nigeria’s political arena.
The tragedies began soon after the July 27, 2025, inauguration of newly elected local government chairmen, vice chairmen, and councillors across the state. Barely had the celebratory drums gone silent when news of loss struck.
On August 13, Oluwakemi Rufai, councillor representing Ward C in Ibeju-Lekki, died just seventeen days after taking her oath of office. Merely five days later, on August 18, Zainab Shotayo, councillor for Ward C in Odiolowo-Ojuwoye LCDA and Chief Whip, passed away, only twenty-two days into her tenure.
The shocks kept coming. On September 20, Princess Oluremi Nutayi Ajose, Vice Chairman of Badagry West LCDA, was reported dead, fifty-five days after inauguration. The very next day, September 21, Basirat Oluwakemi Mayabikan, councillor for Ward F in Shomolu, also died, just fifty-six days into her new role.
Four women, four officeholders, four lives cut short in less than two months. For many observers, this string of deaths is not something that can be dismissed as mere coincidence. It has become a pattern that demands urgent reflection and interrogation. Why has this happened to the female leaders in particular? Why now, just when Lagos APC had begun to celebrate what appeared to be progress in gender inclusion in politics?
Politics has never been an easy space for women in Nigeria. Those who venture into the political arena face far greater hurdles than their male counterparts. They navigate patriarchal structures that often relegate them to symbolic roles, balance public duties with private family responsibilities, and fight for visibility in a system that historically sidelines them.
To suddenly see four women cut down in quick succession risks sending a chilling message to aspiring female politicians: that the political space is unsafe for them, and that the price of leadership might be their very lives.
Beyond the gender question lies the undeniable reality that political office in Nigeria comes with extraordinary pressures.
The weight of expectations from constituents, party leaders, and family is enormous. Campaigns drain energy and resources, while the burden of public office leaves little room for rest or recovery.
For women, who are often denied adequate support systems, this weight is doubled. The question, then, is whether the stress and strain of political life may have played a role in these tragedies, or whether other deeper issues, including structural neglect of health and wellness, have been overlooked.
There is also the concern about healthcare. Were these women adequately cared for before and after the campaigns? Did they have access to regular medical evaluations? Nigeria’s healthcare system is already under strain, and politicians, especially those at the grassroots level, are not immune to its failings. Add to this the possibility of intimidation, toxic political culture, or unhealthy rivalries, and the picture grows even more complex. Without proper answers, speculation thrives, and fear takes hold.
For the Lagos APC, this moment cannot be brushed aside as an act of fate. These women were not only politicians; they were community leaders, role models, and symbols of slow but steady progress for women in public service. Their deaths are not just personal tragedies for their families; they are political losses for the party and social setbacks for the larger struggle for gender inclusion.
The party must do more than mourn. It must commission transparent investigations into these deaths, reassure female members of their safety, and begin to take the health and wellbeing of officeholders more seriously. There is a need for wellness and counselling programmes, fairer workloads, and a system that ensures women are not overtasked without support. To remain silent or prayerful alone is to risk discouraging the very women who have dared to enter the political space against the odds.
It is tempting to say that death happens and to leave matters at that. But when four women leaders die within two months of taking office, silence is no longer an option. The question must be asked: what price are women paying to serve? And even more urgently: how can that price be reduced so that politics is not a death sentence for those who step into leadership?
Lagos mourns four women who should have been building legacies, not having their lives cut short. Their silence now echoes across the state, and unless we take these tragedies as a warning, the echo may linger far longer than we can bear.
