More than just Candidates: A Teacher’s Reflection on Care and the 2025 UTME

Every year, the Joint Admissions and Matriculation Board (JAMB) conducts the Unified Tertiary Matriculation Examination (UTME). And every year, students emerge from it in tears — literal, aching tears. These aren’t just candidates. They are our students. Our responsibility. Our heartbeat.

While JAMB continues to treat them as data points — registration numbers on a spreadsheet — we, their teachers, see more. We see late-night text messages seeking clarity. We see the hunger masked as “I forgot my lunch.” We see effort. Fear. Hope.

To care in education is not to excuse failure — it is to humanise learning. It means recognising that behind every score is a story. And while the system proclaims to reward merit, it too often punishes reality.

The Numbers Don’t Lie, But They Don’t Tell the Whole Truth Either

In 2025, JAMB registered 2,030,862 candidates. Just 882 Computer-Based Test (CBT) centres existed to serve them. That’s over 2,300 students per centre — some of whom must travel 30 to 50 kilometres, often on poor roads, often at dawn.

Let us pause and imagine a 16-year-old from rural Kebbi or Ondo. She rises before 4 a.m., boards an unfamiliar bus alone, skips breakfast, and arrives disoriented at a centre where a single misclick could cost her a year of her life.

But she doesn’t make this journey alone in spirit. Behind her are parents, guardians, and teachers who sacrifice their time, energy, and resources to support her. Some parents take days off work, forfeiting daily wages, to accompany their children to distant CBT centres. They wait patiently outside, often under harsh weather conditions, just to ensure their wards are safe and have someone to return home with. Teachers, too, extend their roles beyond the classroom — organizing transportation, providing moral support, and sometimes even accompanying students to these centres, all in a bid to see them succeed.

Tragically, the 2025 UTME was marred by reports of missing candidates. In April 2025, a candidate was reported missing after leaving for her CBT centre in Lagos. Her disappearance sent shockwaves through the community, highlighting the vulnerabilities students face during this high-stakes period.

The numbers, while impressive, don’t show these sacrifices. They don’t reflect the exhaustion, the missed meals, the financial strains, or the emotional toll on families and educators. And they certainly don’t reveal the pain of trying to thrive in a system that wasn’t built for you.

Is the UTME a Measure of Learning — or a Test of Memory and Luck?

The UTME rewards memorisation and rapid guessing — not understanding. Its questions rarely measure the nuanced thinking expected at tertiary levels. A student who can discuss Things Fall Apart in terms of postcolonial theory may still fail if they can’t memorise when Okonkwo returned from exile.

Where’s the room for creativity? Where’s the challenge to reason, interpret, critique, innovate? Instead, students are coached to scan for keywords, eliminate distractors, and “practice past questions until your fingers bleed.”

This is not learning. This is rehearsal under duress — performance stripped of thought, stripped of meaning. It creates a generation of learners who equate intelligence with speed and success with memorisation. It trains students to survive exams, not to thrive in university or society. We are not assessing their readiness for the real world; we are assessing their ability to play a flawed game by rules they had no hand in writing.

The Digital Divide Is a Silent Killer of Potential

CBT is a 21st-century solution imposed on a 20th-century infrastructure. In some urban schools, students navigate learning management systems like Chrome, Canvas, and Google Classroom with ease. But in many rural and underserved communities, students are still learning to spell “mouse” or have never used a keyboard that functions properly.

The divide is brutal — but more critically, it is not accidental. It is the direct result of years of infrastructural neglect, unfulfilled policy promises, and unequal investment in public education. When CBT became mandatory, what meaningful plans were made to ensure nationwide digital literacy? Where were the functional ICT labs, the backup generators, the internet hubs for schools in Borno, Ebonyi, or Sokoto?

Let us be clear: students are not failing because they lack intelligence. They are being failed by a system that demands digital fluency from those who’ve never touched a functioning computer. Many first encounter a mouse or login portal in the high-pressure environment of the UTME exam hall. Their hands tremble — not from ignorance, but from unfamiliarity. Their scores drop — not because they cannot reason, but because they cannot navigate an interface.

In better-resourced areas, students rehearse CBT with mock exams, digital tutorials, and fast Wi-Fi. In others, they rehearse power outages, missing lab keys, and the hope that the school’s only laptop isn’t already broken.

This is not a gap. This is a chasm. And when that chasm is built into policy, it becomes structural exclusion.

It is unjust to demand digital competence without digital tools. It is not incompetence — it is inequity. And inequity, when it is baked into national systems and masked as meritocracy, becomes systemic violence.

It silences potential. It discourages dreams. It sends a chilling message: “You are only as worthy as your exposure allows.”

And yet, we dare call this a fair assessment?

Systemic Encounters: When the Environment Undermines the Learner

For many students writing the UTME, the examination is not just a mental challenge — it is an emotional battlefield shaped by disorder, distraction, and dysfunction. The test itself might last only two hours, but the experience can feel like a punishment stretched over a morning. And what makes it unbearable is not always the questions, but the conditions.

Many CBT centres in Nigeria fail to meet even the most basic standards of professionalism or respect. Students walk into centres that are noisy, cramped, or poorly ventilated — hot, breathless rooms that feel more like holding cells than exam halls. Before they’ve even begun to answer a single question, their senses are already overwhelmed. The heat presses down. The hum of malfunctioning generators competes with the invigilator’s voice. The air is thick with anxiety and uncertainty.

And then, there are the invigilators themselves. Some do their jobs diligently, but others behave as though the exam is a joke, or worse, a chance to assert power. Students have reported invigilators cracking inappropriate jokes during the test, mocking those who struggle with the interface, or shouting instructions so unclearly that confusion spreads through the room. Others recount being scolded or dismissed for asking for help — even when it is the technology, not the student, that has failed. A candidate midway through her Chemistry paper might raise her hand for assistance when her computer freezes, only to be told brusquely that “you should have studied harder” — as if hard study could protect against software glitches.

Meanwhile, IT personnel, tasked with managing the technical backbone of these exams, move up and down the aisles whispering to one another or resetting systems that crash without warning. Their movement — sometimes frantic, sometimes indifferent — can become a source of distraction itself. Imagine trying to focus on a question about organic chemistry while someone leans over your neighbour’s screen to troubleshoot a malfunction. Your thoughts are interrupted. Your attention is broken. And the clock, unbothered by your setbacks, continues to tick.

Students have also reported computers logging them out unexpectedly, with little to no explanation. Others describe being abruptly moved from one system to another, their progress lost, their composure gone. Some machines freeze after a few questions, forcing students to restart and rush through the rest of the paper, panicked and disoriented. There is no pause button. No adjustment for time lost. No regard for the mental reset that each technical issue demands.

And yet, after all this, the results are still weighed equally — across students who took their exams in well-equipped private centres and those who struggled through chaos in neglected public ones. There is no acknowledgment that the test conditions were uneven. No compensation for the trauma of having your performance derailed by forces entirely outside your control.

This isn’t about student fragility. It is about institutional neglect. Adolescents, particularly those between 15 and 18, are neurologically still developing the ability to regulate emotion and attention under stress. When their environment becomes unstable, it directly impacts their ability to retrieve information and apply reasoning. This is not speculation — it is established science. And yet, we ask these young people to perform perfectly under conditions that would rattle most adults.

What we are witnessing, year after year, is not just an examination. It is a gauntlet, made harder by the environment, made worse by indifference. And when students underperform, the blame is placed squarely on their shoulders — or on their teachers — while the system that created such hostile testing conditions escapes accountability.

If JAMB and the relevant authorities are serious about fair and credible assessment, then reform must begin with the environment. No student should be forced to write an exam in a room that undermines their best effort. No candidate should lose precious minutes because of faulty machines or careless invigilation. And no one should be told, implicitly or explicitly, that their failure was their own fault when the system itself set them up to fall.

Fairness is not just about setting the same questions. It is about ensuring that every candidate has an equal chance to answer them.

Until we get that right, we are not assessing knowledge. We are measuring survival.

Blaming Teachers Ignores Structural Realities

After the 2025 UTME results were released, JAMB quickly turned its criticism toward teachers, attributing the national dip in performance to “poor teaching.” But such a claim sidesteps the real issue: teachers are not working in isolation. They are teaching in under-equipped, underfunded, and underserved schools that struggle daily to provide even the most basic conditions for learning.

Many public secondary schools across Nigeria still lack functional computer labs, even as the UTME has fully transitioned to a Computer-Based Test (CBT) format. There are classrooms without electricity. In some schools, students are taught theoretical computer studies using diagrams on the board, not actual machines. Teachers themselves often lack access to the internet or digital tools for lesson planning. In these conditions, the idea that students can become “CBT-ready” by exam day is simply unrealistic.

The overcrowding is another layer of the challenge. It’s not uncommon to find 60 to 80 students crammed into classrooms designed for far fewer. Desks are worn out or broken. In many cases, students share books — or don’t have any at all. The air is stifling, the noise constant, and yet the teaching goes on.

Still, we teach.

We stay after school hours to offer extra tutorials. We download and print practice materials using our own money. We encourage our students through self-doubt, fatigue, and repeated systemic failure. When the exam date comes, we’re the ones making sure they know where to go, how to prepare, and that they even get there.

What JAMB reduces to “poor teaching” is more often a form of resilience — a determined response to neglect, not a cause of it.

To scapegoat teachers while ignoring chronic underinvestment in infrastructure, outdated learning materials, digital exclusion, and poor school funding is not only dishonest — it is deeply dangerous. It shifts the burden of responsibility from those who design and maintain the system to those who are merely trying to survive it.

Teachers alone cannot bridge the gap between a chalkboard education and a CBT assessment. That gap is not a result of laziness or incompetence. It is the direct consequence of national neglect — the failure to provide the tools necessary for students to succeed in a digital age.

If we are serious about improving educational outcomes, we must begin by investing in the environments where learning actually happens. That means real infrastructure. Real training. Real technology access. And real respect for those who teach.

Until then, blaming teachers for systemic collapse is not just wrong. It is an act of abandonment dressed as accountability.

JAMB Doesn’t Have Students. We Do. And We Care.

JAMB has candidates. But we have students. This is more than a semantic difference — it’s the root of a systemic disconnect in Nigerian education. To JAMB, each young person is a registration number, a data entry in a national database, a script to be marked and sorted. But in our classrooms, these candidates are human beings with dreams, trauma, resilience, and stories that never show up on a CBT result page.

We know them — not just by name, but by need. We know the fatherless boy who wants to become a nurse because his mother is diabetic and can’t afford treatment. We know the girl learning to code on her mother’s borrowed smartphone between chores and blackouts. We know the boy who fainted from hunger during morning assembly, but still came to school for his lessons. These are not anomalies — they are the reality in classrooms across Nigeria.

And because we know them, we care differently. Our work doesn’t stop at delivering syllabus content. We counsel. We listen. We notice when they’re unusually quiet or when the class clown suddenly loses interest. We see through the bravado, the fear, the silence, the exhaustion. We teach them how to study — but also how to hope. How to fail and try again. How to navigate a world that often sees them as statistics, not individuals.

JAMB provides standardised procedures, time slots, and login screens. We provide individualised support, adaptation, and patience. We remind students that intelligence is not limited to a 40-minute multiple-choice test. We know that learning is not linear and that some students bloom later than others. But JAMB doesn’t allow for blooming — only scoring.

This isn’t sentimentality. It’s pedagogy. It’s the science and art of knowing your learners, not just your lesson plans. And it matters. It matters because care is not a distraction from academic excellence — it is foundational to it.

But JAMB’s structure does not allow for care. The Board’s model assumes equality where there is none. It treats all candidates the same — regardless of their backgrounds, exposures, learning difficulties, or access to digital tools. It offers no accommodation for students who are intelligent but digitally excluded. No flexibility for those navigating trauma. No second chances for students who get derailed by conditions out of their control.

A system that ignores difference in the name of standardisation is not neutral — it is violent in its fairness. It crushes individuality in the name of efficiency. And in doing so, it punishes the very students who most need support.

Worse still, the institution most distant from the students — the one that never sees their daily struggles — is also the one with the final word on their future. And when that future is threatened by systemic failures, it is not JAMB that receives the tearful phone call or the look of devastation. We do.

It is we — teachers, mentors, school counsellors — who help them pick up the pieces after a “failure” that was never truly theirs. We are the ones who hear, “I’m not smart enough,” when the truth is they were never given a fair chance to show their intelligence. We are the ones who have to help them believe again.

So no — JAMB doesn’t have students. We do. And we don’t just teach them. We fight for them. We believe in them. We stay when the system walks away because we don’t just prepare students for exams. We prepare them for life. And that, more than any standardized test, is what real education is about.

Questions JAMB Must Answer

Before the next UTME cycle begins, JAMB must confront some difficult but necessary questions — questions that students, parents, and teachers have been asking for years without clear or honest answers:

1. Why are there only 882 accredited CBT centres for over 2 million candidates? How can a nation with such a large student population justify forcing thousands to travel long distances — often across local government lines — to sit for a national exam? What’s the plan to expand access and ease the logistical and financial burdens placed on families every year?

2. What concrete programs exist to train students — especially in public and rural schools — for digital exams? When CBT became mandatory, what support systems were put in place to ensure digital literacy across all regions? Is it ethical to test students with tools they’ve never been taught to use? Where is the investment in closing the digital divide, not just in theory, but in practice?

3. Why is there still no hybrid assessment model — such as a paper-based option — for students who lack digital access or face system failures? Not every student has access to electricity, stable internet, or functioning devices. If JAMB believes in fairness, why not offer flexibility? Shouldn’t assessment accommodate learners’ realities rather than punish them for it?

4. Why are teachers — those closest to the learners — excluded from policy discussions and exam reform? What role have classroom teachers played in shaping UTME policy, format, or review? If JAMB truly wants to understand what students know and can do, why not consult the people who guide their learning every day?

5. How does JAMB evaluate and ensure the quality and fairness of CBT centre environments? What systems are in place to monitor invigilator conduct, technical reliability, and the overall atmosphere of these centres? Are there consequences for centres that fall short? Is there a clear, accessible complaints process for students who experience system failures or mistreatment?

These are not rhetorical questions. They are demands — born from years of frustration, inequity, and silence. Accountability must replace bureaucracy, and partnership must replace blame. JAMB cannot continue to operate as an isolated authority. It must become a listening institution — open to feedback, transparent in operation, and responsive to the needs of the students it claims to serve. Until these questions are answered honestly and addressed concretely, every claim of “standardised fairness” will remain a dangerous illusion.

Conclusion: Reform, Not Scapegoats

A tree with rotten roots cannot blame its leaves for withering. The roots of Nigerian education — curriculum, teacher development, infrastructure, digital access, and assessment models — are decaying. They have been eroded by years of neglect, policy inconsistency, and performative reforms. Until we address these foundational issues, any attempt to assign blame — especially to teachers — will not only be misguided, it will be morally indefensible.

Every year, the UTME reveals more than just test scores. It exposes the cracks in our system, the weight students are forced to carry, and the carelessness of those tasked with shaping their futures. It reveals how we have built an assessment system that rewards familiarity over fairness, compliance over creativity, and survival over learning.

JAMB hurts. But we care.

We care because we see the students behind the scripts. We care because we walk with them through hardship, not just syllabus. We care because we believe education should be about more than sorting and scoring — it should be about raising human beings with confidence, capacity, and character.

And care, in education, is not a soft word. It is a radical act. It means putting student dignity above bureaucratic convenience. It means listening to teachers instead of blaming them. It means confronting the system, not punishing those caught inside it.

The time has come to stop using standardisation as an excuse for indifference. It is time to build a system where care is not just felt — but legislated, resourced, and enforced. A system where equity isn’t aspirational — it’s operational. A system that doesn’t treat failure as a personal flaw, but as a signal that reform is overdue. Our students are not problems to be managed. They are potentials to be cultivated. And the nation that fails to care for its learners will inherit the consequences of their exclusion.

It’s time. Reform the system. Stop scapegoating the people trying to hold it together.