A bird that flies without perching will one day fall from the sky. The dream of education in Nigeria was once a solid rock, but today, it crumbles like sand in the wind. Degrees, once a symbol of honour, are now being reduced to ashes—not just by fire, but by frustration, hunger, and a system that no longer values merit. If education is truly the key, why do so many graduates find themselves locked out of the gates of opportunity?
Across Nigeria, the story is the same. A graduate of Economics, once full of ambition, now pushes a wheelbarrow under the scorching sun to sell water. A First-Class graduate in Microbiology hawks soft drinks on busy streets. An engineer, once filled with dreams of building cities, now a tailor and his best friend from the same department roasts corn by the roadside. And many others, drowning in despair, turn to drinking and smoking till midnight. These are not failures. These are not idlers. These are victims of a country where job opportunities have become commodities—bought, sold, and distributed like political favours.
Within the halls of authority or power, jobs are no longer earned; they are auctioned to the highest bidder. Ministries and government parastatals are flooded with ghost workers—names appear on payrolls, but their desks remain empty. In private companies, the corruption is just as deep. A site manager officially has 50 employees, but only seven actually show up for work. The rest? They exist only on paper, their salaries feeding a system built on deception.
And then there are the powerful few who register 15, 20, even 50 names under government payrolls while millions of graduates roam the streets. A young man, fully qualified, hopeful, and desperate, applies for a job, only to discover the position was filled before the vacancy was even announced. A bright young woman, eager to serve her country, watches as a politician’s nephew—who never sat for an interview—walks in with a signed employment letter. The race is no longer for the best, but for the best-connected.
They told us, “Go to school.” We went. They said, “Graduate with good grades.” We did. They promised, “Hard work pays.” But whose hard work? The hands that truly labour—the graduates sweating in markets, the ones pushing carts, the ones turning their backs on their degrees just to survive—see no reward. Meanwhile, those who never struggled, who never competed, occupy the spaces meant for the deserving.
In Nigeria, a degree can open doors—but only if the holder has the right key: money, influence, or a powerful last name. For those without these keys, the waiting game is endless. They remain at the margins, watching others walk through doors that should have been open to all. How long will the rain fall on only one side of the roof? How long will the children of the poor press their faces against the glass, watching a feast they were never invited to?
Hope is not a crime. Hard work should not be a punishment. Yet in today’s Nigeria, being a graduate often feels like both. Many, tired of waiting, turn to farming, not out of passion, but out of necessity. Others sell sachet water on the streets, using their fluency in English to persuade reluctant customers. Some, unable to cope, disappear into the shadows, their frustration pushing them toward choices they never imagined.
The streets are no longer just filled with unemployed graduates; they are now breeding grounds for desperation. The sharp increase in internet fraud, ritual killings, and blood money practices is not unconnected to the failure of the system. A young man, once hopeful, sits in a dark room with his laptop, crafting deceptive emails to unsuspecting foreigners. Another, tired of rejection letters, listens to whispers about a shortcut—one that involves rituals, sacrifices, and blood. The rise of human organ sales, where young people are lured into selling their kidneys or engaging in heinous acts just to make ends meet, is the symptom of a nation that has lost its way.
A society that neglects its youth is a society that prepares its own destruction. When opportunities are limited, when the gap between the rich and the poor stretches wider each day, when hard work is rewarded with nothing but hunger, people will do whatever it takes to survive. The elders say that when a child is denied food, he will steal it, and when he is caught, he will say, “But you did not feed me.”
The government and private sector must acknowledge that a crisis is at hand. The labour market cannot continue to be a playground for nepotism and bribery. Jobs must be allocated based on competence, not connections. Ministries and agencies should undergo audits to flush out ghost workers and padded payrolls, ensuring that employment reaches those who actually need it. Private companies must be held accountable, ensuring fair labour practices and transparent recruitment processes.
The education system itself must evolve. Universities must move beyond theoretical knowledge and incorporate skill acquisition, entrepreneurship training, and real-world job preparedness. Graduates must be equipped not just to seek jobs, but to create them. The government should provide business grants, mentorship programs, and incentives for small and medium-scale enterprises. The banking sector should offer interest-free loans to young entrepreneurs, allowing them to transform ideas into sustainable businesses.
Religious institutions, too, have a role to play. Instead of only preaching patience, they must advocate for justice, fairness, and economic empowerment. Communities should invest in cooperative societies where young people can pool resources and support one another financially. Social reorientation is necessary to remind people that not all wealth is legitimate and that shortcuts often lead to irreversible consequences.
Those in power pretend not to see. They sit in air-conditioned offices, signing employment letters for those who never attended interviews. They drive past the graduates selling plantain by the roadside without a second glance. But one day, the storm will come. One day, the children of nobodies will become voices that nobody can silence.
The job racketeering, the selling of employment slots, the ghost workers, the inflated payrolls—these are not just bureaucratic failures. They are a ticking bomb. A nation that refuses to reward merit is a nation writing its own downfall. Today, Nigerian graduates are burning their degree certificates in frustration. Tomorrow, what else will they burn? If nothing changes, history will provide the answer.
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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