What Are Our Universities Producing? By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman 

There was a time in Nigeria when education was not merely a pathway to employment but a cultural badge of intellectual distinction. The University of Ibadan in the 1960s did not simply produce graduates; it produced thinkers. Today, however, a quiet but consequential shift has occurred. The Nigerian educational system appears to be producing more certificates than competence, more graduates than thinkers, and more qualifications than knowledge. This raises a difficult but necessary question: what exactly are we learning?

To interrogate this question meaningfully, one must begin with the most honest indicator of national priorities which is budgetary allocation. Education funding is not just a fiscal decision; it is a philosophical statement about what a country values. In Nigeria, that statement has been consistently ambiguous. In the 2025 federal budget, education received roughly 7 percent of total allocation, a figure far below the 15–20 percent benchmark recommended by UNESCO. This is not an anomaly but a pattern. Historical data shows that between 1960 and 2023, Nigeria’s average allocation to education hovered around 5.94 percent, significantly below global standards.

Even more revealing is the comparative picture. Between 1999 and 2021, countries such as Ghana, Kenya, and Senegal consistently outperformed Nigeria in educational investment, with Ghana allocating over 24 percent on average, and Kenya exceeding 21 percent. These figures are not just statistical contrasts; they are explanatory variables. They help explain why Nigeria, despite being Africa’s most populous nation, struggles to produce globally competitive graduates at scale.

Paradoxically, Nigeria’s education budget has increased significantly in absolute terms. From ₦602 billion in 2019 to about ₦1.59 trillion in 2024, government spending on education has nearly tripled. Yet, outcomes have remained largely stagnant. Classrooms remain overcrowded, infrastructure is inadequate, and teacher quality is inconsistent. The problem, therefore, is not merely how much is spent, but how it is spent. A large portion of the budget is consumed by recurrent expenditure like salaries and administrative costs, leaving minimal investment in research, infrastructure, and innovation.

This funding structure has profound implications for universities, which are supposed to serve as engines of knowledge production and innovation. Nigeria currently has over 200 universities, spanning federal, state, and private ownership. On paper, this expansion suggests progress. In reality, it reflects a quantitative response to demand without a corresponding qualitative framework. The proliferation of universities has not translated into global competitiveness. Rankings consistently show Nigerian universities trailing behind their African counterparts, with limited presence in global top-tier listings.

The issue here is not merely about rankings, but about what rankings represent. Globally competitive universities are evaluated based on research output, citation impact, faculty quality, international collaboration, and graduate employability. Nigerian universities struggle in these areas, largely due to underfunding and systemic inefficiencies. Research funding, for instance, accounts for less than 1 percent of Nigeria’s GDP, a figure that severely constrains innovation.

What, then, is expected of universities in a global context? At their core, universities are not degree-awarding factories; they are knowledge ecosystems. Institutions like the University of Cape Town in South Africa or the University of Nairobi in Kenya have increasingly aligned their curricula with global standards, emphasizing research, critical thinking, and interdisciplinary learning. Nigeria’s universities, by contrast, often remain trapped in outdated curricular models that prioritize rote memorization over analytical reasoning.

This pedagogical gap is perhaps the most critical dimension of the certification-versus-education debate. In many Nigerian classrooms, success is measured by the ability to reproduce information rather than to interrogate it. Students are trained to pass examinations, not to solve problems. The result is a generation of graduates who possess certificates but lack the competencies required in a global knowledge economy.

To understand the gravity of this issue, one must consider the expectations placed on graduates in today’s world. The 21st-century workforce demands more than subject-specific knowledge. It requires critical thinking, digital literacy, adaptability, collaboration, and innovation. Employers are increasingly interested in what graduates can do, not just what they know. In this context, a certificate becomes merely an entry point, not a guarantee of competence.

Nigeria’s educational system, however, often operates on an outdated assumption—that possession of a degree equates to employability. This assumption is increasingly untenable. With a literacy rate estimated between 62 and 70 percent and significant disparities in educational quality, the system produces graduates who are often ill-equipped for global competition. The consequence is a widening gap between education and employment, a gap that manifests in high graduate unemployment and underemployment rates.

A comparative look at other African nations further underscores this point. Countries like Tunisia and South Africa allocate approximately 20 percent of their budgets to education and have invested heavily in curriculum reform and teacher training. Botswana and Namibia emphasize continuous teacher development and critical thinking skills, while Mauritius has integrated technology into its educational framework. These countries are not without challenges, but they demonstrate a deliberate alignment between educational policy and global standards.

Nigeria’s challenge is not simply that it lags behind; it is that it has not clearly defined what it aims to achieve with its educational system. Is the goal to produce graduates in large numbers, or to produce globally competitive individuals? The current trajectory suggests the former. The emphasis on expanding access to higher education, while commendable, has not been matched by a commitment to quality assurance.

This disparity between access and quality is at the heart of the certification dilemma. The more universities are established without adequate funding and oversight, the more diluted the value of the degree becomes. A certificate, in this context, risks becoming a symbol of attendance rather than achievement.

Yet, it would be overly simplistic to attribute all responsibility to government policy. The culture of learning itself must also be interrogated. In many instances, students approach education as a transactional process—attend lectures, pass exams, obtain a certificate. Intellectual curiosity, independent research, and critical inquiry are often secondary considerations. This cultural orientation is both a product of the system and a contributor to its perpetuation.

The role of educators is equally significant. Teacher quality remains a critical determinant of educational outcomes. In Nigeria, only a small percentage of teachers are considered highly trained, and the teacher-student ratio remains high, particularly in public institutions. Without substantial investment in teacher training and professional development, any attempt at systemic reform is likely to be superficial.

Infrastructure also plays a crucial role. A university without functional laboratories, libraries, and digital resources cannot effectively compete in a global knowledge economy. Yet, many Nigerian institutions operate with facilities that are decades behind contemporary standards. This infrastructural deficit is not merely a logistical issue; it is a constraint on intellectual development.

The global standard for universities today extends beyond teaching to include research and community impact. Universities are expected to generate knowledge that addresses societal challenges. In this regard, Nigeria’s universities face a dual challenge: limited funding and limited integration with industry. The absence of strong university-industry linkages means that research often remains theoretical, with little practical application.

This disconnect further reinforces the certification culture. When education is not linked to real-world outcomes, it becomes an abstract exercise. Students learn to pass exams, not to solve problems. Graduates enter the workforce with theoretical knowledge but limited practical skills, creating a mismatch between supply and demand.

To move beyond certification, Nigeria must undertake a fundamental rethinking of its educational philosophy. This requires not only increased funding but also strategic investment. Resources must be directed toward infrastructure, research, teacher training, and curriculum reform. Universities must be granted greater autonomy to innovate, while also being held accountable for outcomes.

Equally important is the need to redefine success within the educational system. Success should not be measured solely by graduation rates or the number of degrees awarded, but by the quality of graduates produced. Are they capable of critical thinking? Can they adapt to new challenges? Are they equipped to contribute meaningfully to society?

Until those questions are answered with honesty and urgency, the certificates will continue to accumulate, but the knowledge they are meant to represent will remain elusive.

Blood in Jos Again? By Boniface Ihiasota

The latest killings in Jos are not an isolated tragedy; they are part of a long, painful continuum of violence in Nigeria’s Middle Belt. From afar, many in the diaspora watch with a mix of grief, frustration and weary familiarity. The March 29, 2026 attack in Jos North, which left at least 28 people dead, underscores a recurring failure to break the cycle of bloodshed that has defined the region for decades.

Historically, Plateau State sits at the fault line of Nigeria’s ethno-religious crises. The region has witnessed repeated clashes rooted in disputes over land, grazing rights, and identity politics, often between predominantly Muslim Fulani herders and largely Christian farming communities. These issues have erupted into mass killings over the years, including the Christmas Eve attacks of December 2023 that claimed about 200 lives across several communities. The persistence of such violence reflects deeper structural issues—weak security response, climate-induced resource competition, and unresolved grievances.

The immediate victims of the March 29 attack were ordinary Nigerians—families caught in a nighttime assault by gunmen who reportedly stormed communities and opened fire indiscriminately. Residents and local accounts put the death toll at over 20, while officials later confirmed at least 28 fatalities. Behind the numbers are human stories: parents, children, and breadwinners whose lives were abruptly cut short. One of the most haunting images to emerge was that of a grieving mother clutching her dead son, a symbol of the personal devastation behind national statistics.

Reactions from within Nigeria were swift but divided. The Plateau State Government imposed emergency measures, including curfews, in an attempt to contain further violence. Community leaders and groups condemned the killings as senseless and called for justice, while also urging residents to remain calm. Yet, as has often been the case, these responses appeared reactive rather than preventive—coming after lives had already been lost.

President Bola Tinubu condemned the attacks on March 31, describing them as “barbaric” and vowing that perpetrators would be brought to justice. His administration also promised to strengthen security operations and improve intelligence gathering. However, such assurances have become a familiar refrain in Nigeria’s security discourse, often repeated after each tragedy with limited visible change on the ground.

Although Tinubu’s visit to Jos on Thursday, April 3, 2026, was intended as a gesture of solidarity with victims and their families. During the visit, he met with affected residents, offered condolences, and pledged measures such as the deployment of surveillance technology to curb future attacks. Yet the visit itself became a subject of controversy. Due to logistical constraints, the President addressed victims at the airport rather than visiting affected communities directly, a decision that drew criticism from many Nigerians who viewed it as detached from the reality on the ground.

The backlash was immediate and amplified across social and political spaces. Critics argued that the delay in response and the nature of the visit reflected a lack of urgency and empathy. Opposition voices accused the government of reacting only after public outrage, while others questioned whether symbolic visits could substitute for concrete security reforms. The controversy highlighted a broader trust deficit between citizens and the state, particularly on issues of security.

Perhaps most troubling was the fact that violence did not abate after the presidential visit. Within 24 hours, fresh attacks were reported in parts of Plateau State, including Riyom and Bassa local government areas, resulting in additional deaths and injuries. For many observers, this grim development reinforced the perception that official responses have yet to translate into real protection for vulnerable communities.

From the diaspora, the Jos killings evoke not only sorrow but also a sense of urgency. They raise difficult questions about governance, accountability, and the value placed on human life. While condolences and condemnations are necessary, they are insufficient without sustained action. The recurring nature of these attacks suggests that Nigeria’s security challenges are deeply systemic, requiring more than episodic interventions.

Ultimately, the tragedy in Jos is a reminder that behind every headline are lives interrupted and futures erased. For Nigerians at home and abroad, the hope remains that this latest loss will serve as a turning point—one that compels decisive action to end a cycle of violence that has endured for far too long.

Understanding South Africa’s Xenophobic Violence, by Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman 

There is a tendency to explain xenophobic violence in South Africa as a spontaneous eruption of anger by frustrated citizens. That explanation is convenient, but it is incomplete. What has unfolded repeatedly across Johannesburg, Durban, Pretoria and other urban centres over the past three decades is not random. It is patterned, predictable, and rooted in deeper structural contradictions within South Africa’s post-apartheid society. To understand it fully is to confront an uncomfortable reality: xenophobia in South Africa is as much about internal failure as it is about external scapegoating, and as much about forgotten history.

Since the formal end of apartheid in 1994, South Africa has occupied a paradoxical position on the continent. It is Africa’s most industrialised economy, yet one of its most unequal societies. It is a democracy born out of global solidarity, yet one that has struggled to extend that same spirit to fellow Africans. These contradictions form the backdrop against which xenophobic violence has evolved.

The early years of democracy created powerful expectations. South Africa was imagined as a land of opportunity, and for many Africans, it became exactly that. Migrants from Nigeria, Zimbabwe, Mozambique, Somalia, Ethiopia and beyond moved into the country in search of economic advancement and stability. Nigerians, in particular, established themselves in commerce, education, entertainment and professional services, becoming one of the most visible African communities in the country.

South Africa’s structural inequality remained largely intact after apartheid. By the late 1990s, unemployment had become entrenched, especially among the youth. Informal settlements expanded, service delivery lagged, and frustration grew. In this environment, the presence of foreign nationals—many of whom operated small businesses in townships and informal markets—became a focal point for resentment.

The first major signal that this resentment could turn violent came in May 2008. What began as localised misunderstandings in Alexandra township near Johannesburg quickly escalated into nationwide attacks. Over the course of weeks, violence spread to multiple provinces, leaving at least 60 people dead and displacing tens of thousands. Shops owned by foreign nationals were looted, homes were destroyed, and entire communities were forced to flee. The victims were overwhelmingly African migrants, reflecting that the violence was not about race in the traditional South African sense, but about nationality and belonging.

The 2008 attacks were widely condemned, both domestically and internationally. The government responded with security deployments and humanitarian assistance, but the underlying causes were not resolved. Instead, the violence established a template that would be repeated in subsequent years.

In April 2015, xenophobic attacks erupted again, beginning in Durban and spreading to other parts of KwaZulu-Natal and Gauteng provinces. At least seven people were killed, and thousands were displaced. The violence followed controversial remarks attributed to Zulu King Goodwill Zwelithini, who was reported to have suggested that foreigners should leave South Africa. Regardless of the intended meaning, the statement resonated with existing anti-immigrant sentiment and contributed to the escalation.

By 2017, the pattern had become more targeted. Nigerian-owned businesses in Pretoria and Johannesburg were attacked, with shops looted and properties destroyed. Nigerians, already burdened by negative stereotypes linking them to crime, found themselves increasingly singled out. These stereotypes, often amplified by social media and sensational reporting, created a climate in which collective punishment was normalised.

The 2019 wave of violence marked another turning point. Attacks in Johannesburg and surrounding areas led to deaths, widespread looting, and renewed diplomatic rifts. The scale and intensity of the violence prompted strong reactions from affected countries, particularly Nigeria. The Nigerian government recalled its High Commissioner from Pretoria and boycotted the World Economic Forum on Africa in Cape Town. There were also retaliatory incidents in Nigeria, where South African-owned businesses were targeted by angry youths.

Behind these episodic eruptions lies a consistent pattern of human and economic loss. Over the years, hundreds of people have been killed, thousands displaced, and billions of naira worth of property destroyed. Nigerian victims alone have suffered disproportionately, with over a hundred deaths recorded within a short span between 2016 and 2018. These figures are not merely statistics; they represent lives disrupted, families broken, and dreams deferred.

Yet, to focus solely on the violence without examining its historical context is to miss a critical dimension of the story. South Africa’s liberation from apartheid was not achieved in isolation. It was the product of sustained international and continental support, in which Nigeria played a leading role.

From the 1960s through the early 1990s, Nigeria positioned itself as a central actor in the anti-apartheid struggle. It provided financial assistance to liberation movements such as the African National Congress, hosted South African exiles, and funded scholarships for thousands of students who could not pursue education at home due to apartheid restrictions. These efforts were not incidental; they were embedded in Nigeria’s foreign policy, which prioritised African liberation and unity.

The country’s commitment extended beyond financial support. In 1976, following the Soweto uprising, Nigeria intensified its diplomatic campaign against apartheid. By 1979, it had nationalised British Petroleum assets in protest against Western engagement with the apartheid regime. Nigeria also played a significant role at the United Nations, advocating for sanctions and contributing to the global isolation that eventually forced the apartheid government to negotiate.

These actions came at a cost. Nigeria sacrificed economic opportunities and diplomatic relationships in pursuit of a broader African cause. The expectation was not repayment, but recognition of a shared destiny. When Nelson Mandela was released in 1990 and later elected president in 1994, that expectation seemed justified.

However, the post-apartheid reality has complicated that narrative. Xenophobic violence has raised difficult questions about the durability of African solidarity. It has exposed the limits of historical memory in shaping contemporary behaviour.

To understand why xenophobia persists, one must examine the structural drivers within South Africa. Economic inequality remains central. The country consistently ranks among the most unequal in the world, with a Gini coefficient that reflects deep disparities in wealth and opportunity. Unemployment rates, particularly among young people, remain high. In such conditions, competition for resources becomes intense, and migrants are often perceived as competitors.

This perception is reinforced by political rhetoric. In times of economic stress, blaming foreigners can be politically expedient. It shifts attention away from governance failures and redirects public anger toward a vulnerable group. Over time, this narrative becomes entrenched, shaping public attitudes and legitimising hostility.

Law enforcement challenges further exacerbate the problem. While the South African government has condemned xenophobic violence and, at times, deployed security forces to restore order, the prosecution of perpetrators has been inconsistent. The result is a cycle of violence followed by temporary calm, without meaningful prosecution. This pattern creates a sense of impunity, encouraging future attacks.

There is also a psychological dimension that cannot be ignored. The transition from apartheid to democracy did not automatically resolve issues of identity and belonging. During apartheid, the struggle against a common oppressor created a sense of unity among black South Africans. In the post-apartheid era, that unifying force has dissipated, leaving space for new forms of exclusion.

Foreign Africans, despite their shared history, have been positioned as outsiders. The term “makwerekwere,” often used derogatorily to describe African migrants, reflects this sense of otherness. It is a linguistic marker of exclusion, one that reinforces the idea that not all Africans are equal within the African space.

For Nigerians, the challenge is compounded by perception. While many Nigerians in South Africa are law-abiding entrepreneurs, professionals and students, a minority involved in criminal activities has shaped public perception disproportionately. This perception has been amplified by media narratives and online discourse, creating a stereotype that is both persistent and damaging.

The result is a community that is simultaneously visible and vulnerable. Nigerian businesses are often among the first targets during xenophobic attacks, and Nigerian nationals frequently bear the brunt of violence. This dynamic reiterates the intersection of economic competition, social perception, and political narrative.

The implications extend beyond South Africa. Xenophobic violence has strained diplomatic relations, particularly between Nigeria and South Africa. These two countries are not just regional powers; they are central to the continent’s economic and political future. This issue between them have ripple effects across Africa, affecting trade, investment, and regional cooperation.

At a broader level, xenophobia challenges the very idea of Pan-Africanism. It raises fundamental questions about the feasibility of continental integration in the face of internal divisions. Initiatives such as the African Continental Free Trade Area depend on the free movement of people, goods, and services. Xenophobic violence undermines these goals, creating barriers where there should be bridges.

Addressing this crisis requires more than condemnation. It demands a comprehensive approach that tackles both immediate triggers and underlying causes. Economic reforms must prioritise inclusion, ensuring that growth translates into opportunities for all residents. Political leaders must exercise restraint in their rhetoric, avoiding narratives that scapegoat migrants.

Law enforcement must be strengthened to ensure proper prosecution. Without consequences, violence will continue to recur. At the same time, there is a need for sustained public education—an effort to reconnect South Africans with their own history and the role that other African nations played in their liberation.

For Nigeria, the response must be measured but firm. Protecting its citizens abroad is a fundamental responsibility, but so is maintaining diplomatic engagement. The relationship between Nigeria and South Africa remains too important to be defined by periodic crises.

In the final analysis, understanding South Africa’s xenophobic violence requires a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths. It is not enough to attribute the problem to ignorance or anger. It is a product of structural inequality, political dynamics, and historical amnesia.

The tragedy lies not only in the violence itself, but in what it represents: a breakdown of the solidarity that once defined Africa’s struggle for freedom. If that solidarity is to be restored, it will require more than memory. It will require action, leadership, and a renewed commitment to the idea that Africa’s future is shared.

Until then, xenophobic violence will remain a recurring wound—one that continues to undermine both South Africa’s promise and Africa’s collective aspiration.