“Tinubu’s claim of “better education and healthcare” is not just deceptive—it is a mockery of the Nigerian people’s resilience. They have endured decades of broken promises, and they will not be placated by propaganda”.
BY EMMAN USMAN SHEHU
In the labyrinth of Nigeria’s post-independence history, few claims are as disingenuous as the assertion that the country today enjoys “better education and healthcare than in 1960.” President Bola Tinubu, a seasoned political operator known for his rhetorical flourish, has leaned heavily into this narrative, most recently in the 65th Independence Anniversary Broadcast, weaving a tale of progress that, while technically defensible in narrow statistical terms, collapses under the weight of scrutiny. This claim, often deployed to paint a picture of advancement under his administration, is not just misleading—it is a deliberate sleight of hand, a piece of propaganda that masks a crisis of governance, systemic decay, and betrayal of the Nigerian people. In a nation of over 200 million, where the dreams of the majority are suffocated by dilapidated schools, crumbling hospitals, and a government seemingly indifferent to their plight, Tinubu’s narrative is not just deceptive—it is an insult to the lived reality of Nigerians.
At first glance, the metrics seem to support Tinubu’s claim. In 1960, when Nigeria gained independence, the country had a single university—the University of Ibadan—and a handful of secondary and technical institutions like Yaba College of Technology. Today, the landscape is dotted with hundreds of tertiary institutions, both public and private, alongside thousands of primary and secondary schools. This numerical expansion is undeniable, a point Tinubu’s administration is quick to trumpet as evidence of progress. But to stop at the numbers is to embrace a half-truth, one that obscures a far grimmer reality.
The state of Nigeria’s education system is nothing short of a national emergency. With over 18 million out-of-school children—one of the highest figures globally—Nigeria is failing an entire generation, particularly in the northern regions where poverty, insecurity, and cultural barriers conspire to keep children, especially girls, out of classrooms. The United Nations estimates that 70% of Nigerian children who attend school are not learning at grade level, a damning indictment of a system that prioritizes quantity over quality. Public schools, particularly at the primary and secondary levels, are often little more than shells—lacking desks, textbooks, clean water, or even roofs in some cases. Teachers, underpaid and demoralized, frequently abandon their posts or resort to strikes, as seen in the perennial disruptions by the Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU). These strikes, often triggered by unpaid salaries or unfulfilled government promises, have turned tertiary institutions into battlegrounds of neglect, where students languish for months, even years, waiting for academic calendars to resume.
Tinubu’s administration, rather than confronting this crisis with urgency, has doubled down on the narrative of “access.” But access to what? Dilapidated classrooms? Illiterate graduates? A university system gutted by brain drain, where Nigeria’s brightest academics flee to Europe, North America, or even neighboring African countries for better opportunities? The irony is stark: in 1960, Nigeria’s lone university was a beacon of excellence, producing graduates who could compete globally. Today, the proliferation of institutions has not translated into quality. Instead, it has birthed a system where degrees are often more symbolic than substantive, where employers lament the unemployability of graduates, and where the elite send their children abroad for education, leaving the public system to rot.
The healthcare sector fares no better under Tinubu’s rose-tinted lens. Life expectancy has indeed risen from a dismal 37 years in 1960 to around 55-56 years today, a statistic the administration is eager to cite. Immunization campaigns and the control of diseases like polio and smallpox have contributed to this uptick, as has the expansion of healthcare facilities. But these gains, while real, are a veneer over a system teetering on collapse. Nigeria’s life expectancy remains one of the lowest in the world, trailing the global average of 73 years and even the Sub-Saharan African average of 62 years. This is not progress—it is a scandal.
The healthcare system is a study in inequity and dysfunction. Rural areas, where the majority of Nigerians live, are served by understaffed, under-equipped clinics that lack basic supplies like syringes or antiseptics. Maternal and child mortality rates remain among the highest globally, with over 800 women dying per 100,000 live births—numbers that reflect a failure to provide even the most basic care. The “japa” phenomenon, a colloquial term for the mass exodus of Nigerian professionals, has decimated the healthcare workforce. The Nigerian Medical Association estimates that over 5,000 doctors have left the country in the past five years, leaving a doctor-to-patient ratio of roughly 1:5,000, far below the World Health Organization’s recommended 1:600. Those who remain often work in private hospitals catering to the elite, leaving public facilities to crumble.
Perhaps the most glaring indictment of Tinubu’s narrative is the reliance of Nigeria’s wealthy and middle class on medical tourism. Billions of dollars are spent annually on treatment abroad, from routine check-ups in Dubai to complex surgeries in India or the UK. This is not a sign of a functional healthcare system but a vote of no confidence in it. Tinubu himself, during his campaign and even as president, has sought medical care abroad, a tacit admission that the system he presides over cannot be trusted to deliver. Yet, his administration has the audacity to claim “better healthcare” than 1960, when Nigeria’s nascent system, though limited, was at least functional relative to its population and resources.
Tinubu’s reliance on this narrative is not an innocent misstep—it is a calculated act of propaganda, a hallmark of his governance style. Since taking office, his administration has faced mounting criticism for its handling of economic reforms, including the removal of fuel subsidies and the floating of the naira, which have plunged millions deeper into poverty. Inflation has soared, food prices have skyrocketed, and insecurity—ranging from banditry to Boko Haram—continues to destabilize the nation. In this context, the claim of “better education and healthcare” serves as a distraction, a way to paper over the cracks of a failing state with the illusion of progress.
This deception is rooted in a s elective reading of history. In 1960, Nigeria was a young nation with a population of roughly 40 million, buoyed by optimism and the promise of oil wealth. Its education and healthcare systems, though limited, were tailored to its needs and backed by a government that, at least initially, prioritized nation-building. Today, with a population exceeding 200 million, the demands on these systems have grown exponentially, but investment has not kept pace. Nigeria’s education budget, at less than 7% of the national budget, falls far short of UNESCO’s recommended 15-20%. Healthcare spending, at roughly 4% of GDP, is similarly below international benchmarks. Corruption, a persistent cancer, siphons off what little is allocated, leaving schools and hospitals in ruin.
Tinubu’s narrative glosses over these realities, focusing instead on the optics of expansion. It is a classic tactic of governance by propaganda: cherry-pick statistics, ignore context, and hope the public is too weary to notice. But Nigerians are not fooled. The daily reality of power outages, unaffordable medical care, and schools that fail to educate speaks louder than any press release from Aso Rock. The administration’s failure to address these systemic issues—through robust funding, anti-corruption measures, or policies to stem brain drain—reveals a deeper truth: Tinubu’s government is more interested in managing perceptions than solving problems.
The Nigerian people deserve better than this mirage of progress. They deserve a government that confronts the crises in education and healthcare with honesty and urgency, not one that hides behind outdated comparisons to 1960. Tinubu, a man who campaigned on the promise of “renewed hope,” must be held accountable for delivering results, not rhetoric. This means prioritizing education and healthcare as national security imperatives, not afterthoughts in a budget riddled with pork-barrel projects. It means tackling corruption head-on, ensuring that funds allocated for schools and hospitals reach their intended destinations. It means creating incentives to retain Nigeria’s brightest minds, rather than watching them flee to greener pastures.
The tragedy of Nigeria is not just the state of its public services but the betrayal of its potential. This is a country rich in human and natural resources, yet shackled by mismanagement and deceit. Tinubu’s claim of “better education and healthcare” is not just deceptive—it is a mockery of the Nigerian people’s resilience. They have endured decades of broken promises, and they will not be placated by propaganda. If Tinubu truly believes in “renewed hope,” he must abandon the tired playbook of half-truths and confront the reality of a nation in crisis. Anything less is not just a failure of leadership—it is a betrayal of a nation’s future.
…Dr Shehu is an Abuja-based writer, activist and educator.
