Education is the backbone of any functioning society. It shapes citizens, builds economies, and strengthens democratic institutions. While I cannot speak for every African country, I can confidently say that the relationship between Nigerians and the Nigerian education system is deeply strained.
For many children, the tension begins on the very first day of school. Learning is introduced not with curiosity or inspiration, but with compulsion. Reading is forced. Writing is forced. Compliance is forced. As students progress, the environment often becomes governed by fear rather than intellectual development. Teachers who should serve as mentors and guides sometimes carry canes as instruments of discipline. Lateness earns a beating. Missed assignments attract punishment. Failure to answer questions invites humiliation.
When fear becomes the dominant teaching method, education ceases to be empowering.
Human ability is not uniform. Some students grasp concepts quickly, others require more time and patience. Yet classrooms frequently treat all learners as identical. Those who struggle often endure repeated punishment, reinforcing a damaging self-perception of inadequacy. Over time, school becomes a hostile environment rather than a place of growth.
Many Nigerians from middle- and lower-income backgrounds can recall teachers deliberately directing difficult questions at students known to struggle, not to educate, but to embarrass. Such experiences leave long-term psychological effects. A student repeatedly humiliated begins to internalize failure.
Interestingly, this culture of fear is not universal across all Nigerian schools. Elite private institutions rarely rely on corporal punishment. Students there are encouraged, mentored, and supported differently. This disparity raises an uncomfortable question: why should discipline through fear be reserved primarily for the middle and lower classes?
More than six decades after independence, corporal punishment remains normalized in many classrooms. While government policy may not explicitly endorse abuse, the persistence of whips in schools both public and private demands societal introspection. Why should children be beaten for lateness or unpaid fees, responsibilities often beyond their control? Why is violence tolerated in environments meant to cultivate intellect?
The pattern does not end in secondary school. In some universities, rigid control continues under different forms like dress codes enforced aggressively, arbitrary rules, and limited space for self expression. Instead of nurturing independent thought, the system often prioritizes conformity.
This culture of authority without empathy also appears in Nigeria’s security institutions. The police and military, originally structured during colonial administration, were designed primarily for control. After 65 years of independence, many citizens still experience law enforcement not as protection, but as intimidation. Random stops, harassment, and excessive force have eroded public trust.
When citizens fear the very institutions meant to protect them, the social contract weakens. Public confidence shifts toward alternative voices, sometimes activists or online personalities because institutional trust has diminished.
Nigeria must confront a difficult truth, a society cannot thrive where fear governs both classrooms and public spaces. Education and security should empower citizens, not suppress them.
Dear Reader, Nigerians must begin demanding higher standards. Politicians who campaign solely on road construction are no longer addressing the core issues. Infrastructure matters, but so do institutional reforms in education and security.
For decades, political campaigns in Nigeria have focused heavily on road construction and visible infrastructure, a pattern I examined in detail in “Government and Road Boy politics“. It is 2026, we must move beyond asphalt politics. We must demand learning environments built on dignity and security institutions grounded in accountability.