By Akin Olukiran
One of the most enduring paradoxes of contemporary Nigeria lies not merely in the progressive deterioration of its public institutions, but in the increasing estrangement of the governing elite from the very systems over which they exercise political authority. Perhaps no greater impediment to genuine national renewal exists than a leadership class that has become largely insulated from the consequences of its own policy choices. When those entrusted with stewardship no longer rely upon the institutions they administer, the imperative to reform, strengthen and modernise those institutions is invariably diminished.
This phenomenon is nowhere more evident than in the nation’s educational system. For much of Nigeria’s post-independence history, the university represented one of the Republic’s greatest instruments of social cohesion and meritocratic advancement. It was an intellectual commonwealth in which distinctions of wealth, ethnicity and social pedigree were subordinated to scholarship, discipline and personal industry. Within the lecture theatre, the laboratory and the hostel, the son of a farmer could debate as an equal with the daughter of a governor; the child of a schoolteacher might share accommodation with the offspring of a federal minister. Such interactions fostered not merely academic excellence, but social integration, mutual respect and the formation of relationships that transcended class boundaries and endured throughout professional life.
It is with profound nostalgia that I recall my own years at the University of Ife (now Obafemi Awolowo University) in the early 1980s. Sharing hostel accommodation with the children of governors, federal ministers and other senior public officials was neither exceptional nor newsworthy; it was simply the natural order of things. The university functioned as society’s great leveller, dissolving artificial social barriers and affirming the proposition that intellectual attainment, rather than inherited privilege, ought to determine one’s place within the academic community.
There was, however, another, less frequently acknowledged consequence of that arrangement. Because the political and economic elite had a direct and personal stake in the quality of public tertiary education, governments were compelled to invest meaningfully in its preservation. Lecture theatres, laboratories, libraries, student accommodation and academic staffing were not remote bureaucratic concerns; they were matters that directly affected the families of those exercising political authority. Institutional excellence was therefore sustained not merely by enlightened public policy, but by enlightened self-interest. Those were also the years when Nigerian universities commanded genuine international esteem. Institutions such as the University of Ibadan, Ahmadu Bello University, the University of Nigeria, Nsukka and the University of Ife enjoyed enviable reputations throughout Africa and the wider Commonwealth. It was not uncommon for Nigerians resident in the United Kingdom, the United States and other advanced economies to send their children home for university education, confident that the academic standards compared favourably with many institutions abroad. The notion that a Nigerian degree constituted an object of national pride rather than reluctant compromise was widely accepted.
That confidence has, regrettably, suffered a prolonged erosion. Decades of inconsistent policy formulation, chronic underinvestment, infrastructural atrophy, incessant industrial disputes and administrative inertia have progressively diminished the competitiveness of many public universities. Simultaneously, an educational bifurcation has emerged. The affluent increasingly educate their children in exclusive private institutions or prestigious universities overseas, while the overwhelming majority of Nigerians remain dependent upon chronically under-resourced public institutions. What was once a shared national experience has
gradually evolved into parallel educational universes, separated not by intellectual ability, but by economic circumstance.
The ramifications extend far beyond the confines of academia. Education has always constituted the principal mechanism through which societies facilitate social mobility, cultivate human capital and mitigate inherited inequalities. When children from disparate socio-economic backgrounds cease to learn together, opportunities for cross-class interaction inevitably diminish. Social capital becomes increasingly inherited rather than acquired. Networks of influence become progressively exclusive. Meritocratic advancement is weakened, whilst intergenerational privilege and deprivation become further entrenched. The inevitable consequence is the ossification of social stratification and the gradual erosion of the egalitarian aspirations upon which every successful democracy ultimately depends.
The issue is therefore not simply educational, it is profoundly economic, political and moral. No nation can sustainably aspire to inclusive prosperity when the pathways through which talent is discovered, nurtured and rewarded become increasingly segregated along socio- economic lines. Nor can democratic legitimacy flourish where those responsible for public policy possess little personal incentive to improve the very institutions upon which ordinary citizens depend.
It is against this broader national backdrop that Governor Ademola Adeleke deserves recognition. The recent graduation of his daughter from Adeleke University, Ede, though seemingly a personal family milestone, carries a significance that transcends private celebration. While Adeleke University is undoubtedly a private institution established by the Adeleke family, it nevertheless remains a Nigerian university, contributing to the nation’s intellectual and human capital development. At a time when many within Nigeria’s political establishment instinctively equate educational excellence with foreign certification, Governor Adeleke’s decision reflects an important vote of confidence in Nigerian higher education.
Some may dismiss this as merely symbolic. Yet, history consistently demonstrates that symbols possess immense political power. They shape public expectations, reinforce societal values and frequently precede institutional transformation. Statesmanship has never been measured solely by legislative enactments or executive pronouncements. Equally revealing are the personal choices through which leaders communicate confidence (or the absence of it) in the institutions they administer.
This principle finds compelling affirmation across the world. Singapore’s educational renaissance did not emerge by accident. It was nurtured through deliberate political commitment to institutional excellence. Finland’s internationally acclaimed educational system commands extraordinary public confidence precisely because quality public education is regarded not as a residual option for the disadvantaged, but as the preferred choice for society as a whole. Similarly, the UK government consciously resisted the creation of parallel educational systems that permanently separate the governing elite from the governed, recognising that institutional legitimacy is strengthened when public officials possess both a political and personal stake in the quality of public services.
Nigeria would do well to embrace a similar philosophy. Imagine the transformative consequences if every governor, minister, legislator and senior public office holder consciously entrusted the education of their children to Nigerian universities, wherever appropriate. Overnight, the conversation surrounding tertiary education would acquire an entirely different urgency. Research funding would cease to be an abstract budgetary allocation and become an investment in their own children’s future. Hostel accommodation, laboratory equipment, digital infrastructure, academic remuneration and institutional governance would no longer be statistical entries within appropriation bills but matters of immediate personal concern.
The same reasoning extends beyond education. Public hospitals improve when policymakers willingly seek treatment within them. Public transport becomes more efficient when those responsible for transport policy regularly depend upon it. Public schools flourish when influential citizens have confidence sufficient to entrust their children to them. Institutional excellence rarely emerges where decision-makers possess abundant alternatives to institutional failure.
This is why Governor Adeleke’s example merits commendation. It reflects a principle too often neglected within developing democracies: authentic leadership requires more than governing the people, it requires, wherever reasonably possible, sharing in their institutional experience. Such identification nurtures empathy, reinforces democratic accountability and strengthens public confidence in the institutions upon which national development ultimately depends.
Nigeria’s greatest developmental challenge has never been a deficiency of talent, intelligence or natural resources. Rather, it has been the gradual divergence between those who formulate public policy and those who must live daily with its consequences. No nation can successfully reconstruct institutions from which its own leadership has quietly withdrawn.
History repeatedly reminds us that national transformation seldom begins with dramatic constitutional reforms or sweeping legislative programmes alone. More often, it commences with seemingly modest acts that recalibrate public expectations and redefine the moral obligations of leadership. By choosing to identify with Nigerian higher education rather than instinctively seeking validation beyond our shores, Governor Ademola Adeleke has articulated, without delivering a single policy lecture, a profound democratic truth: public institutions attain greatness only when those entrusted with governing them possess sufficient confidence to become active participants in them.
For the surest measure of a leader’s faith in a nation is not found in speeches delivered from podiums, but in the institutions to which he willingly entrusts the future of his own children.
Akin Olukiran is a social and political analyst and he writes from London. He can be reached on olukiran@yahoo.co.uk