In Nigeria, an examination slip no longer just grants entry into an exam hall; it now doubles as access to risky roads, and sometimes, a silent prayer carried between one journey and the next. Passing an exam is no longer about what you know; it is about whether you survive the journey to prove it.”
— Habibat Muhammad Sani, 2026
In 2026, over 2.2 million candidates registered for the UTME, yet Nigeria operates with approximately 924 accredited Computer-Based Test (CBT) centres. The imbalance is stark: too many candidates and too few centres. The result is a system that stretches students across long and often unsafe distances in pursuit of education.
Across the country, candidates preparing for the Unified Tertiary Matriculation Examination (UTME) are routinely posted to centres far from their homes. A student in Kebbi is assigned to Sokoto; another in Abuja is directed to Nasarawa; a candidate in rural Zamfara must travel several hours to reach an examination centre. These situations no longer provoke outrage—they have become normalised. That normalisation is, in itself, deeply troubling.
For many candidates, examination day begins long before dawn. Students wake as early as 4 a.m., not for revision or quiet reflection, but to embark on uncertain journeys. Parents, in turn, become silent participants—calculating transport costs, making anxious phone calls, and waiting for confirmation of safe arrival. The process is as emotionally taxing as it is financially demanding.
There is a troubling irony in expecting teenagers to undertake such journeys for a two-hour examination within their own country. Some candidates arrive a day early, spending nights in motor parks, mosque verandas, or other makeshift spaces. They rely on chance, goodwill, and resilience—factors that should have no place in determining access to education.
This reality is further complicated by Nigeria’s ongoing security challenges. Despite persistent reports of highway abductions and school-related attacks, students are still required to travel long distances, often through insecure routes, to sit for examinations. During these periods, the risks do not disappear; they are merely overlooked.
Upon arrival, many candidates encounter another layer of difficulty: unfamiliar digital testing environments. While some students are accustomed to computer-based testing, others—particularly those from under-resourced public schools—face significant disadvantages. Many schools lack functional computer laboratories, stable electricity, or reliable internet access. For these students, the examination is not only a test of knowledge but also of digital adaptation under pressure.
In Nigeria today, writing an examination has evolved beyond the simple act of sitting in a hall to answer questions. It has become a test of distance, endurance, and, increasingly, survival. The transition to computer-based testing has contributed to reducing examination malpractice, but it has also exposed and, in some cases, widened existing inequalities. The divide is no longer solely academic; it is infrastructural. Students from well-equipped schools often have a clear advantage over equally capable peers with limited exposure to digital tools.
With the West African Examinations Council (WAEC) also moving towards digital examination formats, concerns are growing. While the shift reflects global trends, its implementation within Nigeria’s uneven educational landscape raises critical questions about readiness and inclusivity.
Beyond the logistical and infrastructural challenges lies the financial burden. For many families, the cost of examinations extends far beyond registration fees. Transportation, feeding, accommodation, and unforeseen changes in examination centres all contribute to rising expenses. For households already under economic strain, these costs can become prohibitive, effectively excluding some students from participating.
As a result, some candidates will miss their examinations entirely. Others will abandon their aspirations—not due to lack of ability, but because access failed them. Yet, when results are eventually released, performance will be assessed without consideration of these disparities. Scores will be compared, rankings assigned, and success attributed to merit, with little acknowledgement of the unequal conditions under which candidates competed.
This raises a fundamental question: what exactly is being measured—knowledge, or access?
An education system that places significant barriers between students and opportunity cannot credibly claim fairness. Addressing these challenges does not require complex policy innovations. It requires practical, deliberate action: expanding the number of CBT centres, equipping schools with functional digital infrastructure, assigning examination centres with consideration for geographic proximity, and integrating security planning into examination logistics.
Nigeria does not lack intelligent or capable students. What it lacks is a system that meets them halfway. Until access to examinations becomes safe, equitable, and reasonably convenient, the credibility of the system remains in question.
If Nigeria is to retain its identity as the “Giant of Africa,” it must begin to reflect that status in how it treats its young people. A nation’s future should not be built on systems that force its students to navigate unnecessary risks simply to prove their worth.