My wife came home with a story that struck a deep chord in me. She had visited her younger brother—her family’s lastborn and my little brother-in-law—to tell him his UTME result. He scored 214. A respectable mark, considering the wave of mass failure reported in the news. She greeted him with a warm smile and words of encouragement: “Abba, you did well! You made us proud.” But instead of relief or pride, what she got in return was a burst of frustration.
“You people never believed I was reading,” Abba snapped, visibly agitated. “You wouldn’t let me be—just nagging and doubting all the time.”
His outburst wasn’t just about the exam. It was about pressure. It was about feeling misunderstood. It was the kind of moment that reminds you—children, even the tough-looking ones, carry emotional weights they don’t always know how to express.
Abba’s reaction isn’t an anomaly. It echoes a silent epidemic: the quiet suffering of young minds suffocating under the weight of expectations. In a society where formal education is often seen as the golden road to success, too many children grow up believing that their worth is tied to a score. The message is loud and clear: pass, or perish—figuratively and, tragically, sometimes literally.
Just days ago, the world was rocked by the heartbreaking news of a 19-year-old girl, Faith Opesusi Timileyin, who took her own life after scoring 146 in her UTME. Her story, as told by her father, is haunting. “She scored very high last year. This year, they gave her 146. That was what made her drink rat poison,” he said, his voice laced with sorrow and helplessness.
“If only she had opened up,” he added, “we would have told her there’s still hope.”
But when hope is buried under pressure, children don’t speak. They break.
We’re raising kids in a world where motivation has become militant, where inspiration has mutated into intimidation. The race to the top, fuelled by paper qualifications and societal approval, is creating children who can’t bear to fall, because falling is no longer seen as part of learning but as a fatal flaw.
Too often, we motivate our children without balancing it with emotional education. We push them to dream big but fail to prepare them for the reality that life doesn’t always follow the blueprint. We teach them that top scores equal success, but not that success can come in many forms, and often, through failure too.
I remember, back in secondary school, we were told a story of a boy who, after writing his exams, proudly declared, “Even if God Himself doesn’t approve it, I will get an A.” And he did. The story was meant to inspire us, to drive home the message that hard work always pays off. But looking back now, I see the danger in such absolute confidence. Life, after all, doesn’t operate on guarantees.
We were also fed tales of children with tunnel-vision dreams—those who rejected other university admissions just to chase a spot at UI, UNN, Unilag, or ABU. And while these stories had noble intentions, they often bred a culture of intolerance to deviation. To these young dreamers, any change of plan was a betrayal of purpose.
I’ve seen students shun peers who failed as if failure were a contagious disease. Some would chant mantras like, “Failure is not my portion,” as if divine immunity existed for exams. This mindset, though well-meaning, has a flip side—it denies young people the space to fail, reflect, and grow.
The truth is, life is not a straight road lined with straight As. It’s a winding path, often unpredictable, sometimes cruel. Even in countries where systems function like clockwork, dreams derail. Plans fall apart. And yet, people survive. They adapt. They thrive in unexpected places.
I think back to a scene in Just Wright, a 2010 romantic drama. Leslie Wright, a physical therapist, is helping NBA star Scott McKnight recover from a career-threatening injury. One day, while walking together, they stumble upon kids playing basketball. Scott is impressed, but Leslie gently reminds him that despite their talent, most of those kids will never make it to the NBA. Her words weren’t cynical—they were grounding. They were real. That scene has stayed with me.
Real life requires more than motivation—it demands emotional intelligence. A friend recently told me how his daughter cried endlessly because her UTME score couldn’t get her into her dream course. These moments of despair don’t stem from laziness but from a deeply ingrained belief that anything less than the best is worthless.
And yet, how often do we hear of first-class graduates languishing in unemployment, while their average-scoring peers thrive in business, tech, or trade? Many top graduates find themselves jobless or relying on government employment—the supposed reward for academic excellence—while others carve success from unexpected paths.
We should teach children that while education is vital, it is not the sole ticket to happiness or respect. The Igbo boys and girls making waves in business, the artisans turning talents into fortunes—they all tell another story.
One that isn’t written in GPAs or degree certificates.
Let’s not fanatically sell the dream of Western education as the only road to success. Let’s talk about life’s harsh curveballs: sickness on exam day, a missed bus to the venue, technical glitches. Let’s tell stories of resilience, not just reward. Stories that teach how to bounce back, not just win.
Let’s guide our children to respect effort as much as outcome. To understand that life may not go according to plan—and that’s okay. That emotional strength, empathy, and adaptability are just as important as academic prowess.
We’ve seen students who never failed a single course fall into despair when faced with one real-world setback, like a prolonged ASUU strike, delayed NYSC mobilization, or a failed visa application. And the question remains: should a single detour derail an entire life?
No. We owe our children better. We must tell them stories that balance ambition with awareness, drive with discretion, and dreams with dignity. Only then can we raise not just achievers, but whole, healthy human beings who are prepared not just for school, but for life.
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