The Human Costs of Nigeria’s Failing Public School System

Every day, we would trek back to the schoolyard to spend the morning—ignoring the principal’s instruction to stay home. We found a spot that became our regular hangout—a run-down classroom near the extreme end of the school. There were a few abandoned classrooms like this, many of them in the far ends of the school. One time, heavy rain destroyed the roof of a classroom; no one ever came to repair it. The school just moved the students to another classroom. You could always find a spot in a public school in Ibadan to catch fun and waste time, either in a classroom that was falling apart or in the nearby bushes that typically flanked the outer reaches of schoolyards.

One day, when we were hanging out, Jama stood up unprovoked and said, ‘How far, guys? Ẹ jẹ́ká spark’. Lost on what he meant, I looked around for hints on the other guys’ faces. Then I got it. The others were already standing, ready to fight. Apparently, ‘to spark’ meant to throw punches for fun—like a boxing game: You paired with a person and you both exchanged punches to see who could make the most points. It was fun to watch, but terrifying to participate in. Jama took different rounds with Jigor and had the most points. After his round, Young Star paired with Adigun, with Adigun winning their round. Then it came to me. I would have declined, but my fascination by the game overtook my terror. I paired with Adigun. I got to hit him once, he ended up hitting me not less than three times. That was all within a semi-round of about ten minutes that, somehow, I managed to survive.

After sparking, we passed out with fatigue on the ground and fighting morphed into a discussion. Young Star started talking about a new track he was working on and how he would become a superstar. I enjoyed listening to him and we ended up talking about our future plans. I had always wanted to become a lawyer and that was exactly what I told the guys. Many of them cheered ‘La Habibeeh!’, a loose way of calling my name. Then it was Adigun’s turn. I expected him to choose a career like a doctor, engineer, or lawyer. Those were the common choices back then. But, Adigun surprised me when he said he wanted to own a tarmac, in his words, ‘Mo fẹ́ ní támáàkì’. That was the second time that day someone would use a strange word in a conversation. He told us that a tarmac was where buses, cars and bikes load passengers for transportation, like a motor park. Now, you won’t find this definition for tarmac in a standard English dictionary, but that’s how cab drivers use the word. Owning a tarmac is not an easy career path. Even I knew that. You start as a taxi driver, rise through the ranks and someday usurp the incumbent chairman. In Ibadan back then, people died and properties got destroyed whenever anyone tried to own a tarmac. This was 2009, during the days of Tokyo and Eleweomo. I did not think any parent would dream to have their children tow this path. So, I was shocked to learn of Adigun’s choice.

After Adigun, the others took their turns: mechanic, learning a trade and so forth—Jigor wasn’t interested in the topic. I, however, had never felt as out of place as I did that day. There we were, 12- and 13-year-olds, just finished exams and talking about our future and one wanted to own a tarmac, and another wanted to be ‘mechanic’. It seemed to me that most of my mates had no plans to continue with formal education. They had no regard for it.