In Nigeria today, formal education often looks like that old uncle nobody wants to invite to the party — respected in name, but left sitting alone in the corner.
It looks like that old radio in your father’s sitting room — everybody says it’s important, but nobody bothers to tune it properly. Our leaders polish it once in a while, pose beside it for photographs, and then quickly change the station to their favourite music: corruption and empty promises. Yet, the value of formal education remains, even if the people in charge treat it like an afterthought.
In the olden times, education in Nigeria was the crown jewel of ambition. Families would sell everything just to send one child to school, believing that literacy could break the chains of poverty. Today, the story has changed. A mother, seeing her son glued to his laptop, doesn’t ask, “Have you finished your assignment?” Instead, she asks, “You don cash out today?” Welcome to the new Nigeria, where cyber fraud (yahoo-yahoo) is regarded by many as a viable alternative to formal learning.
The irony? Our politicians, who shout on campaign stages about “quality education for every Nigerian child,” are the same people who fly their own children abroad to study in schools where the Wi-Fi is faster than NEPA’s disconnection speed. Back home, the schools they leave behind are often glorified poultry sheds — cracked walls, broken desks, and teachers who are owed so many months of salary that chalk begins to look like luxury.
Yet, during election season, these same leaders suddenly discover the forgotten schools. One will carry a bag of cement on his shoulder, another will kneel down to lay bricks, all for the camera. After the election, the bag of cement disappears faster than our fuel subsidy. But their own children? They are busy graduating abroad with honours, while the children of the masses recite multiplication tables under leaking roofs.
Of course, people are watching. Youths are not blind. When they see that education no longer guarantees wealth or even bread on the table, many begin to say, “School na scam.” Instead of classrooms, some find comfort in “bet9ja” shops, waiting for Chelsea to score two goals in a match — waiting for “Baba Ijebu” to change their destiny. Others embrace prostitution under the modern name of “hookups.” A few turn to barbing, tailoring, or shoe-making — honest skills, no doubt, but often pursued not from passion but from resignation.
And then there are the strikes, the national pastime of our universities. ASUU will cough, and suddenly an entire academic calendar is swallowed, leaving students stranded at home. A four-year course stretches into five or six years, not because of laziness but because the gates of the school were locked by unpaid lecturers. Some trek long distances to schools with no buses, no hostels, and sometimes no lecturers, only to return home with dusty shoes and empty notebooks. Many youths, tired of waiting for lectures that never hold, pass the time with “Igbo” and “cana,” turning street corners into their own classrooms. And for those who eventually manage to graduate, another wahala begins: unemployment. Degree in hand, they roam the streets, CVs stacked higher than Lagos traffic, only to end up taking advice from self-proclaimed motivational speakers like “Geh Geh,” who never saw the inside of a university but somehow has 101 rules for success. The irony is painful: those who endured the broken classrooms are now begging for jobs from those who never even entered one.
But let’s pause and think: is education truly a scam, or have our leaders simply turned it into one with their hypocrisy? After all, the same leaders who mock our public schools with their neglect are the ones who use English grammar to dazzle at international conferences. When they’re addressing Nigerians, it is “my fellow countrymen, we are doing our best.” But when they face foreigners, it suddenly becomes: “We are committed to advancing educational reforms in Africa.” Commitment, indeed — the only reform many of them know is reforming their pockets.
Meanwhile, the youths are looking elsewhere for role models. They listen more to Burna Boy than to their lecturers, quoting Davido’s “we rise by lifting others” while trying to rise by betting slips. Street slogans like “no gree for anybody” and “las las, everybody go dey alright” echo louder than any government policy. The classroom has become a side hustle, while survival is now the main curriculum.
Still, despite the chaos, education remains the surest investment. Yahoo might buy you “Lambo” and iPhones today, but when EFCC comes knocking, even your neighbours will deny knowing you. Hookups might help you afford the luxurious lifestyle of owning wigs and shoes, but tomorrow, you’ll find that dignity is far costlier to replace. Barbing and tailoring, while noble, reach their true potential when boosted by formal learning: business management, innovation, technology. It’s not about abandoning hustles — it’s about elevating them.
Education is not just about certificates. It is about opening doors that crime or shortcuts can never unlock. It is the difference between being trapped in cycles of survival and unhealthy competition, and stepping into circles of influence, value, and positive growth. Yes, the Nigerian system is battered, and yes, our leaders have turned neglect into an Olympic sport. But should that be the reason to abandon knowledge?
Think of it this way: a broken ladder still takes you higher than sitting on the ground. The Nigerian education system may be cracked, but it can still lift us. It only becomes useless if we collectively drop it. After all, as the old Nigerian wisdom goes: “Na small small water dey full bucket.”
As Nigerians, we must challenge the narrative that school is a scam.
We must look beyond the hypocrisy of leaders who treat education like a campaign prop. Instead, let’s see it for what it truly is: the most worthy investment. Every page read, every skill mastered, every lesson learned is a seed planted in the soil of tomorrow. And like palm trees, these seeds may take time, but they will eventually provide shade for generations to come.
At the end of the day, the real scam is not school. The real scam is believing that ignorance can build a nation.
The question, then, is this: if ignorance builds nothing but chaos, can Nigeria truly afford to keep treating education like a side hustle?
*Michael Adedeji Oluwatosin is a Year Four student of English Education at Lagos State University of Education (LASUED), Epe Campus, Nigeria. His academic interests encompass English language and linguistics, literary studies, language education, and contemporary issues in language and society. He is also involved in student leadership and initiatives aimed at promoting academic excellence among students.