It began, as many things now do, with a hashtag: #FeesMustFallNaija. But the anger behind the viral slogan wasn’t digital—it was very real. In early May, students from several Nigerian universities took to the streets, protesting a dramatic hike in tuition fees that many say threatens to make higher education a privilege of the rich. The demonstrations, spanning states like Lagos, Ogun, and Kaduna, are not just about money. They’re about survival, dignity, and the soul of Nigeria’s future.
The spark was a series of tuition increases at public universities, in some cases up to 300%, announced with little consultation and even less explanation. The University of Lagos (UNILAG), for instance, raised fees for some courses from around ₦20,000 to over ₦190,000 per session—more than eight times the minimum monthly wage in a country where over 60% of the population lives in multidimensional poverty.
Students responded with fury. They chanted in lecture halls, marched across campuses, and blocked major roads. In some instances, security forces cracked down, dispersing peaceful gatherings with tear gas. The Nigerian government, in typical fashion, issued statements promising dialogue while framing the protests as “disruptive.” But the message from students was unmistakable: You cannot fix a broken education system by pricing out the poor.
At the heart of the crisis is a long-festering contradiction. Nigeria’s Constitution promises access to education, yet public universities have been chronically underfunded for decades. Lecturers routinely go on strike—most recently for eight months in 2022—citing unpaid wages, decaying infrastructure, and lack of investment. When classes do resume, students often return to overcrowded lecture halls, leaking hostels, and libraries that haven’t been updated since the Cold War.
To fix this, the government insists it must share the burden with students and their families. “Cost-sharing is inevitable,” said a spokesperson for the Ministry of Education. “We cannot run a sustainable university system on subsidies alone.” The argument has surface appeal, especially in a country battling inflation, currency depreciation, and high debt repayments. But for many Nigerians, the claim rings hollow.
The students, after all, are not objecting to reform—they’re objecting to being sacrificed. Most public university students in Nigeria come from low- and middle-income households. Many parents already struggle to afford transportation, feeding, and basic living expenses. A sharp tuition spike threatens to lock out an entire generation of students who scraped their way into university against all odds.
This is not just a student problem. It is a national economic emergency in the making. Nigeria, Africa’s most populous country, is staring down a demographic tidal wave: over 60% of its population is under 25. Yet youth unemployment is above 40%, and a staggering number of young people are out of school, out of work, or stuck in low-wage informal jobs. An affordable, functional public university system isn’t a luxury—it’s the only fire escape from national stagnation.
The fee hikes also come at a time when Nigeria’s elite quietly send their children to expensive private universities or overseas institutions. Many of those in power were themselves beneficiaries of a time when public education was nearly free. Their silence, or worse, their condescension, on the current crisis feels like betrayal.
Meanwhile, the government has rolled out a student loan scheme, touted as a solution to affordability. But the plan has been met with skepticism. Critics say the eligibility requirements are too narrow, interest rates too high, and administration too opaque. “We don’t want debt,” said Adaeze, a 200-level student at the University of Benin. “We want investment. We want the right to learn without mortgaging our future.”
There is a bigger picture here. Across Africa, from Kenya to South Africa, tuition hikes have sparked protests and triggered debates over the role of the state in ensuring educational equity. In a continent where the youth population is exploding, failing to invest in accessible education isn’t just a policy error—it’s a path to permanent instability.
What the protests in Nigeria reveal is not only a collapsing education system but a growing generation gap in trust, values, and opportunity. The students are not just fighting for lower fees. They are fighting for a country where intelligence and ambition still count for something, where your father’s bank account doesn’t determine your place in the classroom.
The anger in Nigeria’s universities is a symptom of a deeper anxiety: that a country with so much potential may abandon its future before it ever gets started.
If President Bola Tinubu’s government wants to avoid a national education implosion, it must listen—and fast. Education reform is not about cutting subsidies. It’s about prioritizing what matters most. And right now, there is no clearer warning sign than the rising chants from the dormitories, the lecture halls, and the streets: We’re tired of being left behind.
