By Abdul Mahmud
A few weeks ago, the Joint Admissions and Matriculation Board (JAMB) released the results of its annual Unified Tertiary Matriculation Examination (UTME) which recorded mass failures and sparked national outrage. Entire regions, specifically the South East, and Centres in Lagos State, reported mass failures.7
Parents panicked. Students despaired.
Teachers were confused. For many candidates, the poor results didn’t match the effort they had put into preparation. In some homes, quarrels erupted. In others, silence and tears took over. A few contemplated to take their own lives. In Lagos, Miss Faith Timilehin Opesusi committed suicide for scoring the low mark of 190. The entire country was on edge. The Minister of Education rubbed his hands in glee, while “describing the examination process as meeting international standards and being almost foolproof against malpractice”. The Registrar, Prof Oloyede, basking in self-glory, echoed: “JAMB’s robust and secure processes have set a new benchmark for examinations in Nigeria and affirmed the Board’s commitment to sustaining and improving these standards”.
For weeks, JAMB offered no real explanation for the mass failure. Yet, behind the scenes, the Board knew what had happened. It was not the students who failed. It was JAMB and Oloyede.
JAMB’s internal computer systems failed. A glitch in its software distorted the entire examination process. The Registrar, Professor Ishaq Oloyede, was aware of the problem. He knew the results did not reflect actual performance. But he said nothing while thousands of children suffered the trauma of failure. He said nothing while parents bore the shame of imagined academic failure. He remained silent while dreams were temporarily destroyed.
The truth only came to light because of the work of a private citizen. His name is Alex Onyia. He is not a government official. He is not a regulator. He is not on the JAMB board. He is an IT professional and education enthusiast. But he did what the head of the exam body refused to do. Onyia analysed the results. He noticed a pattern. He used technology to uncover the glitch in JAMB’s system. He made his findings public. Then, JAMB was forced to respond. Only after Onyia’s revelations did Professor Oloyede admit to the failure. He went on national television. He apologised. He shed tears. But his tears rang hollow. They came too late. A citizen had killed herself. The damage had already been done.
What followed next is typical of Nigeria, of Nigeria’s anyhow-ness. Rather than resign, Professor Oloyede continues to stay tight in office. Despite public calls for him to step down. Despite his admission that JAMB’s systems had failed. Despite the emotional and psychological trauma caused to thousands of students. He is simply sitting tight. This refusal to resign, even in the face of obvious failure, is a defining feature of Nigeria’s public service culture.
In 2020, the UK’s exams regulator, Ofqual, faced a similar situation. Algorithmic adjustments to grades during the COVID-19 pandemic caused widespread outrage. Students were downgraded unfairly. Within days, the head of Ofqual, Sally Collier, resigned. She took responsibility. She showed dignity. She respected the trust placed in her office. That is what happens in countries where accountability matters.
In Nigeria, we do the opposite. We cling to office. We treat public service as a lifetime appointment. We see resignation as defeat. We treat failure as a minor inconvenience. In fact, many see resignation as an alien concept. It doesn’t exist in the dictionary of the Nigerian elite. When officials are caught in wrongdoing, they sit tight. When they are exposed for corruption, they sit tight. When their policies fail, they blame others and sit tight. Sometimes, they even get promoted.
This culture of impunity is dangerous. It kills public trust. It weakens institutions. It emboldens more incompetence. When a public official admits to a massive institutional failure but refuses to resign, what message does that send? It tells future officials that actions have no consequences. It tells the public that accountability is optional. It tells victims of failure that their suffering means nothing.
Oloyede’s conduct fits into a larger pattern.
A Minister’s convoy kills a pedestrian. He blames the driver. He sits tight. Another Minister diverts food meant for school pupils. She cries witch-hunt. She sits tight. A director is caught falsifying records. He blames junior staff. He sits tight. No shame. No remorse. No resignations. Our public space is dominated by people who see office as a right, not a privilege. They see it as personal property, not a position of service. And when they fail, they expect applause for merely surviving the storm.
It was not always like this.
In the early years of Nigeria’s independence, resignation from office carried weight. In the First Republic, ministers stepped down when their actions cast doubt on government credibility. There was a sense of honour. A belief that public office requires a moral compass. That compass is now lost. What has taken its place is arrogance. Entitlement. Impunity.
In advanced democracies, the idea of public trust is sacred. Resignation is not a sign of weakness. It is a demonstration of responsibility. It preserves the integrity of institutions. It restores confidence in governance. It allows healing to begin. In Nigeria, by contrast, public servants fight to remain.
Even when their continued presence causes embarrassment to the government. Even when their failures are too glaring to hide. They mobilise ethnic sentiment. They play the religion card.
They frame their refusal to resign as an act of resilience. Meanwhile, the institutions they head crumble.
Oloyede’s tears cannot wash away the betrayal felt by students.
His apology cannot undo the anxiety faced by parents. His tears cannot bring Faith Timilehin Opesusi back to life. His refusal to resign sends a clear message: in Nigeria, no one is ever responsible.
We must challenge this culture. The Nigerian public must demand more. Citizens must insist on accountability.
The media must continue to speak out. Civil society must not go silent. Opposition parties must do more than issue press statements. It is not enough to expose failure. There must be consequences.
Public servants must understand that they serve at the pleasure of the people. When they fail the people, they must leave.
Young people, in particular, must not forget this episode. The students who suffered because of JAMB’s negligence must remember what it felt like.
Their pain must fuel a desire for change. For reform. For a system where justice is swift and accountability is real. The time has come to build a new culture of public service.
A culture that rewards honesty. That punishes negligence. That promotes competence. That makes resignation a noble act, not a shameful one.
Let Professor Oloyede be the last of his kind. Let future public officials know that failure has consequences.
Let them understand that leadership is not a throne, but a trust. When things go wrong, we must expect them to take the honourable path. We must not wait for foreign examples. We must build our own standards. Our own values.
Our own culture of accountability. Nigeria cannot grow with public officials who never leave. We cannot progress if we reward failure with promotion. We cannot heal if our leaders remain unmoved by public pain. It is time to end the era of sitting tight. It is time to raise the bar. This moment must serve as the turning point in which the era of impunity gives way to responsibility. Public office means what it should: service, not survival.
Until then, Nigeria will continue to burn. And those who lit the fire will still be sitting tight. Professor Oloyede, please go. Please go.
