Dusty Degrees, Broken Promises: The Nigerian Graduate’s Fight Against Unemployment, and a System That Fails Them

 

 By: The Corper Philosopher 

(A former NYSC member who swapped khaki for a keyboard, documenting the chaos of post-service survival )

Let’s play a game. Close your eyes and imagine Nigeria’s education system as a Nollywood blockbuster. The trailer? A starry-eyed student in a lecture hall, scribbling notes as a lecturer drones about “global opportunities.” The climax?  'Marker day: done and dusted.'  Then graduation/convocation day comes: caps tossed, parents weeping with pride, a future gleaming like freshly minted naira. Now, cut to the real plot twist: our hero (Odogwu), degree in hand, is hawking pure water in Lagos traffic while a senator’s son, who failed JAMB three times, lands a cozy oil company gig.

This isn’t fiction. It’s the tragicomedy millions of Nigerian graduates endure daily, a script where merit is a side character, connections are the lead actors, and survival demands rewriting the entire storyline.  Now, let’s zoom into Mushin, Lagos, where hope wears threadbare slippers and desperation hums louder than generator noise.

Picture this: Uche, 25, wakes up at 5:30 a.m. in his family’s two-room apartment in Mushin, Lagos. The peeling walls are decorated with his “trophies”: a Bachelor’s degree in Political Science from a state university, a dusty NYSC certificate, and a fading “Best Graduating Student” plaque. Uche’s daily routine is a Sisyphean loop three years post-graduation: 50 job applications, 3 cups of garri, 0 responses. His LinkedIn profile screams “open to work,” but his inbox is a graveyard of automated rejections. “Dear Applicant, we regret to inform you…”

Uche’s story isn’t tragic; it’s mundane. He’s one of 1.8 million Nigerian graduates, the National Bureau of Statistics (NBS) says entered the labor market in 2023 alone. No “connections” in Abuja or Lagos Island. No uncle who “knows someone” at Shell. Just Uche, his Android phone, and the soul-crushing weight of a system that promised him prosperity but handed him a participation certificate.

The Aftermath: “I Graduated, Now What?”

For Uche and millions like him, graduation is not a milestone; it’s a trap. His degree, once a golden ticket, is now a punchline. Employers demand “3–5 years of experience” for entry-level roles. Internships? Unpaid. Networking events? ₦5,000 gate fees he can’t afford. Uche’s classmates are either hawking recharge cards, drowning in “side hustle” gigs, or sinking deeper into depression.

The Upgrade Myth: “Learn coding!” his cousin in Canada texts. But Uche’s phone data barely loads YouTube tutorials. A Google certification costs ₦120,000, half his father’s pension. Meanwhile, his friend Tobi, a Philosophy graduate, spent ₦80,000 on a “digital marketing” course last year. Today, Tobi sells data plans on Twitter. “The course taught me to create Facebook ads,” he laughs bitterly, “but who’s buying from a nobody?”

The Skills Paradox: “Why Bother?”

Here’s the kicker: Many graduates, worn down by rejection, stop trying. A 2022 Stears Business survey found that 62% of unemployed Nigerian youths believe “no amount of upskilling” will land them a job. Why? The system is rigged.

Take Funke, a Microbiology graduate in Ibadan. After two years of unemployment, she enrolled in a ₦200,000 “fashion design” program. But her sewing machine broke down, and loans to fix it required collateral, her family’s land papers. “Now I’m back to square one,” she says, “with more debt and the same empty CV.”

The certification trap: Even when they upskill, recognition is scarce. Musa, an Electrical Engineering graduate in Kano, paid ₦350,000 for a solar installation certification. Yet, companies still demand “5 years of grid experience.” “They say my certificate is ‘theoretical,’” he scoffs. “How do I get experience if no one hires me?”

Credit Facilities: “You Need Money to Make Money (But We Won’t Give You Money)”

Uche’s breaking point came last year. He drafted a business plan for a photocopy and printing shop near his university. “Students always need handouts,” he reasoned. But Banks laughed. To access a ₦500,000 loan, he needed ₦1 million collateral, a registered business, and a 24% interest rate. Microfinance apps? A minefield. A friend recommended QuickCredit; Uche borrowed ₦50,000 at 15% monthly interest. Six months later, debt collectors hounded him for ₦95,000.

The AGSMEIS Illusion: The government’s much-touted Agri-Business/Small and Medium Enterprise Investment Scheme (AGSMEIS)? In 2023, the CBN reported that 72% of applicants were rejected due to “incomplete documentation” or opaque criteria. Uche’s neighbor, Chidinma, applied three times. “They asked for tax records,” she says. “Tax records for a business that doesn’t exist yet? How”?

The Blue-Collar Stigma: “My Father Didn’t Starve for Me to become a Mechanic”

Uche’s uncle, a mechanic in Port Harcourt, once offered him an apprenticeship. “In six months, I’ll teach you to fix Toyota engines,” he said. Uche’s father nearly disowned him. “I sold my land to pay your school fees! You’ll wear a suit to work, not overalls!”

This mindset is endemic. A 2023 report by BudgIT revealed that 78% of parents prefer their children to “wait for a white-collar job” over blue-collar work, even if it means years of unemployment. Meanwhile, Nigeria’s tech sector desperately needs HVAC technicians, plumbers, and electricians, roles paying up to ₦250,000 monthly. But graduates like Uche would rather “manage” in a bank’s call center for ₦45,000.

The Cycle of Despair: “No Jobs, No Skills, No Hope”

By year four, Uche’s resilience frays. His younger sister, a secondary school dropout, now earns ₦30,000 weekly braiding hair. His former coursemate, Emeka, drives a keke NAPEP, joking, “My political science degree lines my shoe.” Uche spends nights scrolling through Instagram reels of “Nigeria’s top 10 high-paying remote jobs,” all requiring skills like “blockchain development” or “UI/UX design.”

But Uche is tired. Tired of “grinding.” Tired of motivational speakers yelling, “Learn Excel!” Tired of a society that shames him for his unemployment while denying him the tools to escape it.

A Glimmer of Hope? Not Quite

In 2023, Lagos State launched “Eko Digital Skills,” offering free tech training. Uche applied. The portal crashed. When it reloaded, 10,000 slots were filled. He’s #23,451 on the waitlist.

The Final Irony: “We’re All Uche”

Uche’s story isn’t unique. It’s generational. Someone I often disagree with once said  'Nigeria’s education system produces graduates like a factory produces plastic chairs: massive quantities, fragile frames, easily discarded'. The National Youth Policy (2023) estimates that 65% of Nigeria’s unemployed are under 35. They’re not lazy. They’re stranded in a Bermuda Triangle of expired curricula, predatory loan systems, and a labor market that glorifies paper qualifications over competence.

So, what’s next for Uche? Maybe he’ll migrate illegally through the Sahara or 'japa'. Maybe he’ll join a political thug squad for ₦10,000 per rally. Or maybe, just maybe, he’ll swallow his pride, pick up a wrench, and finally fix something.

But wait...

Nigeria’s education system is a labyrinth of broken promises. With less than 7% of the national budget allocated to education, overcrowded classrooms, and labs filled with relics from the 1980s, students like Uche are set up to fail. Corruption thrives: some lecturers demand bribes for grades (mind you, the Nigerian lecturers are said to be the most poorly paid in the world), some cases of fake professors roaming campuses, and illegal degree mills that sell credentials like street snacks. Outdated curricula teaching MS-DOS to computer science majors or extinct crop varieties to agriculture students leave graduates stranded in a digital age. The polytechnics, meant to be skills incubators in Nigeria, are treated like junkyards. A 2021 Punch investigation found that 90% of polytechnic graduates are barred from applying for “degree-only” roles in banks and multinationals. While 55% of polytechnic lecturers lack industry experience.  For example, in a certain state polytechnic, welding students practice on rusted, 40-year-old equipment. “I’ve never seen an arc welder,” said a final-year student. “We use blowtorches from the Civil War era.”

 The result? A staggering 68% youth unemployment rate, underpaid graduates earning ₦50,000 monthly, and a society that shames blue-collar work while companies import welders and technicians. Uche’s dusty degree, earned through his family’s sacrifices, symbolizes a system that mass-produces certificates but starves minds of practical skills.

Yet, there’s a way out. Nigerian graduates must radically redefine success. Uche’s story doesn’t have to end in despair. Pursue globally recognized certifications (AWS, PMP, Google Analytics) through affordable online platforms like Coursera or Udemy. Embrace vocational training, electricians and HVAC technicians earn up to ₦250,000 monthly in Nigeria’s underserved tech and construction sectors. Leverage government schemes like Lagos’s Eko Digital Skills or Kaduna’s apprenticeship programs and others across the states. For entrepreneurs, explore microfinance cooperatives over predatory lenders. Most critically, shed the stigma around blue-collar work: your dignity isn’t in your job title but in your ability to thrive. The system may be broken, but resilience is a skill no institution can teach. As Uche learns to code on a cracked phone screen or finally picks up his uncle’s wrench, his future and Nigeria’s depend on one truth: competence outlives certificates.