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Foyin (23) hoped to graduate from the University of Ibadan (UI) in 2022. Instead, she was trapped for two extra years by the two under President Buhari. Foyin watched as friends at private universities finished their degrees and launched careers, while she waited for Nigeria’s broken academic system to remember she existed.

Now, in the wake of Buhari’s death, she reflects on how his administration’s handling of education unravelled her plans, stunted her dreams and reshaped her aspirations.

This is Foyin’s story as told to Franklyn

Some people discover their passion later in life, but I have always wanted to be a broadcaster for as long as I can remember: I was in the press club in primary school, and when I discovered one of the secondary schools I attended didn’t have a press society, I was among its pioneers. My parents were supportive and enrolled me in a broadcasting training program with Fresh FM, a popular radio station in Ibadan.

I wanted to study Mass Communication and would have preferred the University of Lagos, but my parents were set on the University of Ibadan. The school didn’t offer a Mass Communication program, so I chose English Language and Literature instead.

I stayed focused on my dream and decided to use school as a training ground, joining my faculty press organisation and the Union of Campus Journalists. I had it all planned out: start university at 16, graduate at 20, complete the mandatory National Youth Service Corps (NYSC)  at 21, and in the end, become this dazzling broadcaster.

Then came the nine-month strike of 2021. That strike was very demoralising, but that wasn’t even the start of my demoralisation. The problems began right at admission. The university calendar had already been delayed by .

That strike ended in February 2019, but we didn’t resume until June. Throughout the session, there were strike scares but no stoppages. I wrote my last exams in March 2020 and went home expecting to resume after the holiday, but then came the COVID lockdown. During the lockdown, private universities were already holding online classes, but it was crickets from public schools — including UI — because of the strike.

The whole situation felt so tiring, but I stayed hopeful in a depressing sort of way. Every day, I was glued to the news, waiting to hear they’d called off the strike. That was the year I turned 18, and I felt sad because I measured my achievements by age.

That delay made no sense. I’d had a smooth primary and secondary education and finished secondary at 16, like the typical Nigerian child. But here I was, 18, and I couldn’t say I was in 200 level — I was still stuck in 100 level after almost two years. It’s crazy when I think about it: I paid my acceptance fee in December 2018 and looked forward to starting 100 level. I spent all of 2019 there, and at the beginning of 2020, I was still in 100 level. I finished my 100-level exams in March 2020, but since the new semester hadn’t started, I couldn’t say I was in 200 level when people asked. So I’d been in 100 level for two years. I felt awful.

The strike in December 2020, but UI didn’t resume until two or three months into 2021. It felt strange returning after such a long break—I was a fish out of water. Settling in was tough because first-semester lectures were mostly virtual, and students and lecturers were learning together how to navigate that. Our Zoom classes were constantly interrupted by network problems.

Throughout 2021, we had more strike scares, but it felt like our prayers were working because ASUU didn’t actually strike. I finished my 200-level exams and had just resumed 300-level when they the 2022 strike. I was devastated. I had paid my school fees a few days before the announcement, and I was so pumped for the new session.

I tried to stay hopeful, thinking the strike would only last a few weeks, but we ended up waiting eight months. It was one of the heaviest burdens of my life, especially since I’d just turned 20 and had friends graduating that same year. A friend at a university in Ghana was writing his final exams that April, and I felt stuck all over again. Watching everyone move forward while I stayed in place was demoralising. Education was very important to me, and I had always been a brilliant student. So, seeing it toyed with by ASUU and the federal government was heartbreaking.

I started exploring other options and even discussed leaving UI with my parents. I was terrified of what the future held. If it took from 2018 to 2022 to complete just two sessions, would it take another four years to finish my degree? Would transferring to a private university be better? But the thought of starting over held me back.

I had so much on my mind, but I generally felt exhausted. I just wanted to resume, graduate, and move on. I wasn’t even so interested in academics anymore. But they kept dangling the possibility of resumption in front of us. It was a lot to handle. Starting over isn’t easy. There’s the fear, and then there’s the financial cost. I felt stuck and helpless. But it was the same helplessness that both made me consider leaving and made me stay. I wasn’t emotionally or financially ready to start all over by moving to a private university or studying abroad. It got to the point where I thought, “Let’s see what’s going to happen.” I’d stick around, but if the strike lasted a year, I’d have to brace up and take my future into my own hands. Fortunately, they called off the strike in October, and we resumed.

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I had written a few pieces here and there, but I really got into professional writing in 2022. I had always written from a very young age, but when I got into university, the majority of my classmates were writers, which spurred me to explore different forms: fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and then journalism. By that same year, I was writing for international publications. But I always felt my education gave me leverage, so I never believed that school was any less important because I was making money. What I noticed, though, was that inflation kept rising as Buhari became president, and living conditions worsened. By the time we finally resumed, many students were already working, and extracurricular activities suffered.

Before the 2022 strike, organisations like the Union of Campus Journalists were vital to students. Everyone belonged to something. By the time we resumed, people were too busy juggling school and jobs. As Editor-in-Chief of my faculty press organisation in my final year, I witnessed firsthand the dwindling commitment among members. I, too, was split between lectures and work. I can’t deny that working felt crucial because I was earning and building my career.

I remember crying a number of times in 2022 when I saw my friends graduate. And for you to cry like that, there’s something to unpack there. I won’t say it affected my self-esteem, but it broke me. Emotionally, it broke me. I blamed Buhari and the federal government. Ten years ago, back in 2015, I was just 13, but I remember people saying Buhari would fix everything. They said if he’d won all those previous elections he lost, things would already be better. We were promised good roads, stable electricity, a flourishing economy—and no more ASUU strikes. So yes, I blamed him. I blamed him a lot. By that point, I had stopped expecting anything meaningful from his administration.

When I heard the strike had been called off in 2022, I didn’t believe it at first—there had been so many false alarms. But once it was confirmed, I was worried about two things. First, how was I going to navigate my academics again after eight months away, especially since 300-level was notoriously tough. It had the highest number of courses. Second, I was anxious about how long it would be before another strike, because it didn’t seem like the core issues had been resolved.

In my department, we read a lot of literary texts. We took more literature courses that session, which meant reading more texts than we did during previous sessions. When we returned from the strike, the calendar was rushed, and it was nearly impossible to cover everything. It was hell. And I still had to work. So yeah, that period was just terrible.

I graduated in 2024, but  I didn’t feel excited. It felt like how people say Buhari is dead, but gone too late. I kept thinking, “I should’ve done this two years ago.” By the time I graduated, a friend of mine had already started their master’s. That was the life I wanted for myself. So yeah, I couldn’t feel excited. I was exhausted. I was just like, “You know what? Thanks a lot, UI. I’m done. I’m bowing out now.” That was it.

I can’t call it regret. It’s more a kind of unhappiness that comes from knowing I should’ve hit this milestone much earlier—and if I had, I’d probably be in a different place by now. I feel it every day. I lost interest in my original dream of being a broadcaster, and I’ve been writing ever since. I don’t feel anything about Buhari’s death. I’m indifferent. It just makes me wonder: what’s the point? It’s been two years since he left office, so are we really winning? I’m indifferent, but also a bit angry. He lived to a ripe old age before dying.

There were so many promises tied to his campaign for the presidency. Many people really got into campaigning for Buhari, thinking he’d be Nigeria’s Messiah. They talked about his military rule and the Kick Against Indiscipline policy from his stint as Head of State. There was a lot of talk of corruption under Jonathan, and people felt like Buhari would come in and be a fixer. But it was just a total disappointment. It felt like the presidency was his perfect retirement plan, and he left no impact besides terrible policies.

Speaking of terrible things that happened under Buhari, I broke down several times during the EndSARS protests. The deaths made me lose hope in Nigeria, in the Nigerian dream. That night was turbulent for my family and me. We had people outside who weren’t even protesting, but we were scared for their safety when we heard that people were being shot. Then came the cash scarcity, which hit people I knew hard. People died; some collapsed in bank queues. I remember missing classes a number of times while waiting to get money at banks.

Personally, I feel like Buhari becoming Nigeria’s president stole so much joy from me. I’m angry at how terribly disappointing his tenure was. Nigerians were really hopeful. I didn’t vote for him (I was too young both times, and I never really liked him anyway), but Nigerians pinned their hopes on him, and he dashed them.

I’ve stuck with what I started in 2022—writing. I’ve written for prestigious international publications and have gotten some great writing contracts. In 2024, I won The Republic’s award for Best Business and Economic Writer.

Looking back, I’m glad I dove into writing when I did; it’s been a deeply fulfilling path. I might circle back to broadcasting someday, but right now I just want to keep moving forward as a writer and journalist.

I haven’t done my NYSC yet. Like so many things in Nigeria, it feels like another program built on unnecessary suffering, and I don’t see myself willingly signing up for that. For now, I’m focused on this writing career, especially on stories that preserve cultural memory. I want to keep exploring, to keep growing, and to see where this path takes me.

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