By Dave Agboola
When I was in JSS3, I remember borrowing my cousin’s old English and Mathematics textbooks. We patched torn pages with masking tape and shared notes because buying new books was simply impossible. That experience shaped how I see education—not as a luxury, but as a lifeline. I’m sure most of my school peers back then had same experience.
Decades later, many families still face the same struggle, only worse. A single senior secondary textbook in Nigeria costs between ₦4,000 and ₦10,000, and a full set for major subjects can reach ₦25,000–₦50,000 per child every year. Junior secondary books aren’t much cheaper, often ₦4,000–N5,000 each. Same goes for other classes. For parents with two or three children, these costs are crushing. Education, which should be the great equalizer, has instead become a financial burden that deepens inequality.
This is why the Federal Government’s recent decision to ban unnecessary graduation ceremonies for non-terminal classes and enforce reusable textbooks that last 4–6 years is a game-changer. It means siblings can share books, families won’t have to buy new editions every year, and schools can focus on teaching—not pageantry. For once, policy is tackling the everyday realities of parents rather than the optics of prestige.
Beyond affordability, reusable textbooks also promote sustainability. Every year, thousands of new books are printed, often with only minor changes in content. This cycle not only drains parents’ pockets but also wastes paper and resources. By encouraging textbooks that last 4–6 years, Nigeria is not just easing financial burdens—it is also reducing unnecessary consumption and protecting the environment. Education reform, in this sense, becomes both an economic and ecological victory.
Equally important, this policy can help bridge inequality in classrooms. Too often, children from wealthier families arrive with brand-new editions, while others struggle with outdated or incomplete materials. Standardised, reusable textbooks level the playing field, ensuring that every child—regardless of background—has access to the same quality of learning. When students study from the same pages, the focus shifts from who can afford more to who can learn better, and that is the true spirit of education.
Of course, some schools and publishers will resist. Graduation ceremonies and annual textbook changes have become big business. For private schools, elaborate ceremonies are a way to showcase prestige; for publishers, yearly textbook revisions are a steady revenue stream. But if the government enforces this policy well—through inspections, penalties, and public awareness—it will save families millions and restore education’s true purpose.
Parents have a role to play too. Speak up at PTA meetings. Ask your child’s school how they plan to comply. Share books among families and encourage others to do the same. This reform will only succeed if parents demand it and hold schools accountable. The government can set the rules, but communities must insist on their enforcement.
For me, this feels personal. It reminds me of those borrowed books that carried me through school. If Nigeria gets this right, children won’t have to choose between learning and their parents’ wallets. Education should open doors, not empty pockets. And if the reform is truly enforced, the sound of turning textbook pages—not the cost of buying them—will define our children’s future.
Let’s put learning before luxury—and make sure this policy works for every child.
—Dave is the Chief Press Secretary to the Speaker, Lagos State House of Assembly
