The Minister of Education is deemed indecisive on the reversal of the minimum age requirement set for Tertiary Institution aspirants
The Minister of Education’s reversal (or suspension) of his ban on “underage” university admissions after protests by stakeholders is another instance of this administration making a policy decision it has neither fully reasoned through nor consulted on with stakeholders. By not putting enough thought into executive decisions, leaders capitulate cheaply and their indecisiveness hurts everyone in the long run. Prof. Tahir Mamman was wrong on the ban, wrong to have suspended it, and wrong to have planned a re-introduction.
At the same Joint Admissions and Matriculation Examination policy meeting where the ban was negotiated amidst the rowdiness of dissenting with the minister, the JAMB Registrar, Prof. Ishaq Oloyede, also presented on the issues arising in university admissions. Several Nigerians shared the video through social media, captioning Oloyede’s presentation with the expected doses of scandalisation and sermonisation. People are justifiably shocked by the example of the systemic rot that Oloyede shared regarding a 12-year-old admitted to the university. The story might be eye-opening, but since we do not know enough about the person or their circumstances beyond their graduating at 15, we must treat it as merely anecdotal.
While I do not deny that we have a major problem on our hands, I see a ban as a superficial solution to a complex situation. The real issue here is that the Nigerian education system has become—like most other national infrastructure anyway—unduly privatised. We have a serious situation whereby public education—ideally subsidised with taxes and public funds—has collapsed, leaving parents with the more expensive option of paying—relative to their income—heavily for their children’s education. So terrible is the situation that more parents will rather take their children to the worst private schools—where their facilities are so decrepit that buildings can collapse on their poor children—than consider public schools. Many private schools are not necessarily better but they are at least accessible.
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Right now, schoolchildren are on holiday. Give it a few more months when schools are about to resume, and you will start hearing Nigerian parents on social media agonising over the amount they have to shell out for school fees. From people pleading for assistance through WhatsApp, to church prayers for parents who will be stressed with the payments, you cannot miss the season. The problem of school fees is a major index of the collapse of the public school system. Elsewhere, private schools exist as an alternative, but not in Nigeria. Private schools are now like the generator—the supposed fallback option that has become the mainstay.
By turning education into a cash-and-carry affair, parents (as customers) can demand commensurate value and the providers must demonstrate it by delivering magical results. That is why, if the schools are not handing out “double (or even triple) promotions” to prove to the parents that they are getting value for their hard-earned cash, they are helping the children to cheat in external exams to make it seem they are truly delivering on quality learning. Years ago, I tried to register my child in schools in Ibadan and was stunned by the curriculum of lower classes. It was padded to impress parents with how much schools can stuff into the heads of even little children. Even though I attended a private primary school myself, I do not recall things being so bad.
Educationists tell us that at the early stages, children thrive better with minimal workload, exploration, and lots of play. But it is hard to sell “play-education” to a Nigerian parent who practically must sweat blood before they can pay school fees (many private schools in Nigeria do not even have a proper playground). They want their children to move through the system quickly—and brilliantly—enough to save them money. In an environment where schools have thus become a commodity, the mercantilist ethos will propel a redefinition of education to mean the ability to cram and disgorge textbooks while neglecting the social aspects of education. Unfortunately, no matter how brilliant a child might be, they still need socialisation. Remaining in lockstep with their peers is an integral aspect of knowledge-building. When kids skip classes, they miss this vital part of education and might lack the viral social competencies needed for life success.
In societies with functional public education systems, people try the reverse of what we do in Nigeria. They game the system by giving their children the age advantage. Such parents hold back their children from school enrolment until they are older. Because their system is stable and well-ordered, no one is in a hurry to see their kids graduate. When you think about it, the difference between the person who graduates at 19 and the person who does it at 22 is just three years of employment labour. If you retire at 70, what do you really gain by dedicating 51—instead of 48—years of your life to work? But then, their societies are stable enough for them to be certain the timing will work in their favour.
Nigerian parents who do otherwise are not crazy. By rushing their kids through the system, they are trying to buy time for them. Getting into the university early is hedging against the uncertainties built into the system: the ASUU strikes that will help you fritter away a portion of your life, and the prolonged years of unemployment. If you are lucky, you will still be young enough to take the jobs listed by employers who openly discriminate on account of age.
Yes, there are a few instances when children in stable public system societies go to the university at a young age, but that is when they are geniuses (different from being brilliant). But those are exceptions, and I know because I once tried to get my child to skip a class in the United States. While they readily agreed that the child was advanced for their class, they put up so many administrative barriers to the effort that I gave up. But what they also did was point us in the direction of resources that can help the child avoid the tedium of having to sit in class and learn what they have long mastered. It was even worse when we had to live in Germany. The child who had spent two years of school years of schooling in the US was going to be returned to first grade just because of age! When I protested, they told me that it was still no issue. If a kid is ahead of their class, they can always develop other interests.
And that brings me to another important point that Mamman’s ban will never address: the shrinkage of extra-curricular activities in our school system. In the past, public schools had programmes that occupied our attention and sucked part of our energy. One could learn sports and take part in competitive activities. Those not inclined toward physical activities could become part of debating societies or even learn crafts. Those activities hardly exist anymore. Even spaces where young people can explore and discover new interests hardly exist anymore.
Nigeria has no functional public libraries, no community centres, no public sports facilities, or recreational centres. Except perhaps for religious houses that provide spaces for young people to socialise outside their homes, the options are scant. That leaves book learning as their major recourse, to the disadvantage of other competencies they can acquire at the early formative stages of their lives.
These are the issues staring Mamman in the face, and not the cheap (non-)solution of a ban as if he is a military dictator. He must first come to terms with what has been lost in the Nigerian education enterprise and address them. Otherwise, he might just chase the wind.
