The Nostalgia of “Ten Books” and the ghosts of educational identity
When we were young, the description of someone who read “ten books” (Ó kàwé mẹ́wàá) depicted those who successfully completed their secondary education. Why ten, one may wish to ask when it took us eleven years to complete secondary education then? This colloquialism, rooted in Nigeria’s pre-independence era, reflects a time when education was not merely a ladder to certification but a symbolic rite of passage.

The “ten books” metaphor likely originated from the colonial-era curriculum, where mastery of core subjects—arithmetic, English, geography, and history—was measured in tangible, countable units. Yet, this simplicity masked a deeper truth: education was already drifting from its functional African roots, where learning was inseparable from communal survival.

In pre-colonial Yorubaland, the Ile-Ife bronze-casting guilds trained apprentices for decades, embedding artistry with spiritual and economic value, as much as the drumming guilds, where the offspring learned the trade through functional education. Similarly, the Igbo-Ukwu blacksmiths perfected metallurgy without formal classrooms. These systems prioritised doing over certifying—starkly contrasting today’s obsession with paper qualifications.

The colonial classroom prioritised producing clerks and interpreters to serve the colonial machine, planting the seeds of today’s certification obsession. By the 1970s, this disconnect had widened: a graduate’s value was measured by their certificate’s prestige, not their ability to solve local problems.

A 2023 study by the African Heritage Foundation revealed that 89 per cent of Nigerian parents associate “success” solely with white-collar jobs, perpetuating a cycle where vocational skills are deemed inferior. This mindset, a relic of colonial hierarchies, continues to sabotage functional education.
The 6-3-3 experiment: A bridge half-built
The introduction of the 6-3-3 system in 1982 promised a revolution. Six years of primary education, three in junior secondary and three in senior secondary, aimed to bifurcate students into academic and vocational streams. On paper, it was visionary: students disinclined toward academics could enter technical schools, graduate with employable skills, and progress to polytechnics for diplomas. After industrial training, they might even earn higher diplomas equivalent to university degrees.

Yet, the system’s failure was multifaceted:
Societal Stigma: Technical schools became synonymous with “academic failure.” A 2019 Nigerian Educational Research Institute study found that 78 per cent of parents preferred their children to pursue university degrees over vocational certifications, fearing social ridicule.
Curriculum decay: Technical schools relied on obsolete equipment. A visit to Government Technical College, Ikorodu, in 2022 revealed welding workshops using manuals from the 1980s, with no functional generators to power practical sessions.

Industry disconnect: Polytechnics produce graduates with theoretical knowledge but no hands-on experience. The result? A 2020 survey by the Manufacturers Association of Nigeria (MAN) showed that only 14 per cent of technical graduates meet industry standards.

The 6-3-3 system collapsed not because of poor design but because of a cultural aversion to manual labour and systemic neglect.

Case study: The rise and fall of technical schools in Enugu
In the 1990s, Enugu’s Government Technical College was a hub for training auto mechanics and electricians. Today, its workshops are dilapidated, and enrollment has dropped by 70 per cent. Former principal Mrs. Ngozi Okoro attributes this to “zero funding” and parental pressure to “avoid the shame of technical school.” Meanwhile, Enugu’s thriving Nnewi auto industry imports technicians from Ghana—a stark indictment of systemic failure.

Specialised Universities: Mission drift and the irony of expansion
The establishment of specialised universities—Agriculture in Makurdi and Technology in Akure (among many others)—was meant to anchor education to national development. These institutions were designed to produce agronomists to revolutionise farming or engineers to drive industrialisation. Yet, within a decade, mission creep set in. The University of Technology began offering accounting and business administration degrees, while the University of Agriculture launched mass communication departments.

This dilution was no accident. Underfunding forced these institutions to chase student enrollment for survival. Courses in management and social sciences became cash cows, cheaper to run and more popular among students. The result? A glut of graduates in oversubscribed fields and a dearth of experts in the sectors these universities were created to serve.

For example, the Federal University of Agriculture, Abeokuta (FUNAAB), established in 1988 to advance food security, has more students in its Management Sciences department than in Crop Production. Meanwhile, Nigeria spends $1.5 billion annually on rice imports—a sector its agricultural universities were meant to dominate.

The irony of “specialisation”
The University of Port Harcourt’s Institute of Petroleum Studies, initially designed to train oil sector engineers, now offers MBAs in “Petroleum Management.” Yet, according to the Nigerian Content Development and Monitoring Board (NCDMB), Nigeria still relies on expatriates for 65 per cent of its oilfield technical work. This underscores a tragic irony: institutions created to foster self-reliance now cater to corporate bureaucracy.

Functional vs. non-functional education: A colonial hangover
During my time at the College of Education, a lecturer posed a haunting question: “If all certificates vanished tomorrow, what tangible skills would our graduates possess?” The silence in the room was telling.

Our disdain for indigenous education is ironic. Pre-colonial systems prioritised functionality:
– The Igbo apprenticeship model (Igba Boy) produced entrepreneurs who built thriving trading empires across West Africa.
– The Hausa traditional leatherworks (Kano tannery) sustained regional economies for centuries.
Yet, Western-style schooling became the gold standard, emphasising rote learning and detachment from community needs. We traded blacksmiths for bureaucrats, and now, we have neither.

Reviving indigenous models: The Igba Boy success story
In Onitsha, the Igba Boy system thrives informally. Young apprentices spend five–seven years learning the trade under mentors, after which they receive seed capital to start businesses. A 2021 UNDP report found that 60 per cent of Onitsha’s millionaire traders are products of this system. Contrast this with Nigeria’s formal sector, where 54 per cent of university graduates under 25 are unemployed (NBS, 2023).

The 12-4 policy: Compulsion without clarity
The new 12-4 policy—twelve years of compulsory basic education followed by four years of tertiary education—aims to universalise access. But access to what? By merging academic and vocational tracks into a single “basic education” framework, the policy risks producing a generation of jacks of all trades and masters of none.

Case in Point:
In 2023, Lagos State piloted a unified curriculum for senior secondary schools. Students in technical fields reported spending 80 per cent of their time on general subjects like Civic Education and Computer Science, with minimal workshop exposure. “We learn about engines in class but never touch one,” lamented a student at Igbobi College.

Without clear pathways, students may graduate with neither employable skills nor the critical thinking needed for higher education.
To be continued tomorrow.
Dr Oluwadele is an author, chartered accountant, certified fraud examiner and public policy scholar based in Canada. He can be reached via: [email protected]