It’s a tempting question, but answering it carelessly would be like mistaking a scalpel for the hand that wields it. Education, in itself, is not the problem; what we do with it is where the story becomes complicated, unsettling, and at times, deeply disturbing.
For a long time, the public has quietly wrestled with a peculiar suspicion about those who pursue medicine, pharmacy, nursing, and other health-related courses. Beneath the admiration lies an uncomfortable thought: could a profession built on healing ever be subtly tempted by the need for illness to exist? The idea sounds cynical, yet it persists. Stories circulate of doctors opening private clinics and inviting clerics to pray, not necessarily for healing alone, but for “successful business,” a phrase that quietly depends on the steady flow of patients. It raises an ethical tension that scholars in medical sociology often describe as the “dual loyalty dilemma,” where professional duty intersects uneasily with personal survival.
It is not for nothing that advertising medical competence directly to vulnerable patients is considered unethical. The principle aligns with what bioethicists like Beauchamp and Childress described in their theory of biomedical ethics, particularly the principles of beneficence and non-maleficence, which demand that care must never be driven by self-interest at the expense of patient welfare. Yet, reality often strays. Even revered clerics are not immune. Across towns and cities, Alfa, babalawo, herbalists, and self-proclaimed men of God loudly advertise their healing powers. Some transform luxury cars into mobile pharmacies, using spectacle as proof of effectiveness. Others display wealth, fine clothes, expensive vehicles, as psychological persuasion, subtly telling the public: “This works.” It is less about spirituality and more about what psychologists call “authority bias,” where people equate visible success with credibility.
This reflection deepened after encountering the physician’s diary titled “No Honour Among Doctors” by Fatima Damagum. Her account does not merely tell a story; it exposes a fracture within a profession many consider sacred.
She begins with Dr Ade, a brilliant cardiothoracic surgeon whose quiet excellence spoke louder than any advertisement. His reputation grew not from noise but from outcomes, patients who survived against the odds. Yet, excellence, in this case, became a liability. Anonymous petitions emerged. Accusations followed, thin on evidence but heavy with implication. A colleague, threatened not by incompetence but by comparison, initiated a chain of events that led to investigation, suspension, and reputational damage.
Sociologists like Robert K. Merton might interpret this through the lens of “strain theory,” where individuals, unable to achieve success through legitimate means, resort to alternative, often unethical strategies. In Dr Ade’s case, the system did not immediately distinguish between truth and malice. By the time he was cleared, the damage had already settled like dust that no apology could fully remove. Meanwhile, the accuser advanced.
The uncomfortable truth emerges sharply: sometimes, the greatest threat within a profession is not external hardship but internal rivalry. What Damagum describes aligns with research in organizational psychology, particularly the concept of “workplace envy,” which scholars like Richard H. Smith have linked to sabotage, misinformation, and reputational attacks. In such environments, ethics become weaponised. Complaints meant to protect patients become tools to destroy colleagues.
This is not unique to medicine. The legal profession carries its own paradox. When a child says they want to study law, the fear is rarely about ignorance but about transformation, what they might become. A lawyer, by training, is equipped to argue, to defend, to reinterpret truth within the bounds of the law. This is not inherently wrong; it reflects what legal theorists like Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. described as the practical nature of law which is less about abstract morality and more about outcomes within a structured system. Yet, in practice, it creates moral ambiguity. A lawyer may know the truth and still be tasked with dismantling it using intellect. That, too, is education at work.
No profession is untouched. Nigerian banks, the judiciary, and academia have all faced moments of reckoning. The “sex-for-grades” scandal, widely exposed by the BBC Africa Eye documentary, revealed that knowledge and status do not automatically produce integrity. The 2018 controversies surrounding the Senior Advocate of Nigeria title raised similar concerns about merit and manipulation. These are not failures of education; they are failures within educated spaces.
Even more troubling are cases that defy expectations entirely like medical professionals accused of misconduct, domestic violence, unethical practices like over-prescription or illegal procedures. These are individuals who have passed through rigorous academic systems, sworn oaths, and earned public trust. Yet, their actions suggest that education alone does not anchor morality.
Outside formal institutions, the pattern repeats itself in different forms. Clerics and traditional healers often display remarkable wealth. As a child, I once accompanied a friend to a Mallam who predicted the arrival of a woman seeking to stop her husband from taking another wife. The “solution” required something as bizarre as a snake’s head. My friend explained that such practices were common, sustained by desperation. In moments of distress, people suspend disbelief. Psychologists refer to this as “crisis-driven compliance” when individuals, overwhelmed by fear or hope, accept even the most irrational solutions.
These realities point to a deeper conclusion supported by educational theorists like Howard Gardner, who argued in his theory of multiple intelligences that cognitive ability alone is insufficient. Similarly, Daniel Goleman popularised the concept of emotional intelligence, emphasizing self-awareness, empathy, and emotional regulation as critical complements to intellectual capacity.
Education, when stripped of emotional intelligence, becomes a powerful but dangerous tool. It sharpens the mind but does not necessarily guide the heart. It can elevate a person’s ability to reason while simultaneously increasing their capacity to justify wrongdoing. This is what some scholars describe as the “moral neutrality of knowledge”, the idea that knowledge amplifies intent rather than defines it.
Without emotional intelligence, professionals can descend lower than those driven by ignorance. The arrogance of knowledge, unchecked, becomes more destructive than the absence of it. It blinds individuals to their own excesses and shields them with the illusion of superiority. At the same time, it leaves them vulnerable, unable to cope with criticism, competition, or failure without resorting to unethical behavior.
This growing disconnect has even begun to erode public trust. Suspicion around vaccines and medical interventions, for instance, is not always rooted in ignorance but in perceived self-interest. When people begin to believe that expertise serves profit before humanity, the entire system stands on fragile ground. So, is education overrated? Not quite. But it is incomplete.
Education without character is like a well-built ship without a compass: impressive, powerful, and dangerously directionless. What truly matters is not just what we know, but how we manage what we know. Emotional strength, ethical grounding, and self-awareness are not optional add-ons; they are the very foundation that gives education its meaning.
If everyone becomes desperate, manipulative, or self-serving despite being educated, then the issue is not that education has failed, but that we have misunderstood it. Its true merit does not lie in certificates or titles, but in the discipline of the mind and the restraint of the self.
Bagudu can be reached via bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or 07034943575.
