In Nigerian classrooms, English is not merely a language of instruction; it is a gatekeeper to opportunity, status, and perceived intelligence. Since colonial times, English has occupied a central place in Nigeria’s education system, determining who advances, who excels, and who is left behind. But what happens when the language of learning is not the language of understanding?
Across the country (especially in rural areas), millions of children sit in classrooms taught in a language they barely speak at home. While English remains Nigeria’s official language and the medium for almost all instruction beyond early primary years, the linguistic landscape outside school walls is vastly different. Children speak Yoruba, Igbo, Hausa, Tiv, Efik, and over 500 other indigenous languages. For many, entering school means entering a new linguistic world, one they must quickly master not just to learn, but to survive academically. This linguistic divide is more than a language issue; it is an equity crisis. It raises urgent questions about access, fairness, and how we define intelligence and success in the Nigerian classroom. If we want an inclusive, effective, and truly national education system, we must confront how English, while a unifier on paper, continues to divide in practice.
Nigeria’s use of English in education is rooted in colonial policy. Missionaries and colonial administrators adopted English to standardise governance and education across diverse ethnic groups. Post-independence, Nigeria retained English as its official language, a politically neutral tool in a multilingual nation. Yet decades later, this policy has entrenched inequalities rather than eliminated them.
English now serves as the primary determinant for high-stakes examinations such as WAEC, NECO, and JAMB. A student’s ability to access university education or employment is often tied to their proficiency in English, not necessarily their competence in subject matter. In effect, English operates as both a language and a filter rewarding those with early exposure and punishing others regardless of their intellectual potential.
Studies continue to show that children learn best in the language they understand. Yet, in many Nigerian schools, pupils are introduced to formal education in English from the outset, a language many do not speak fluently at home. This disconnect leads to shallow comprehension, rote memorisation, and surface-level engagement.
According to UNESCO, early childhood education in a child’s first language significantly improves literacy outcomes, retention, and overall academic success. In Nigeria, however, the push for early English proficiency often sidelines this evidence. Children are made to decode complex academic concepts in a foreign tongue, leading to what one educator described as “language-induced failure.” This particularly affects children in rural areas where English exposure is minimal. Many arrive at school already linguistically disadvantaged, and that gap widens as they progress through the system.
The English divide is also socio-economic. In Nigeria’s urban centres, middle- and upper-class families often raise their children speaking English at home or enrol them in private schools with strong English immersion programmes. In contrast, rural children tend to speak local languages at home and attend under-resourced schools where teachers themselves may struggle with fluency. This creates a two-tiered system: one where English-speaking students are seen as “better prepared,” more “polished,” and deserving of advancement, while others are framed as slow or dull not because they lack intelligence, but because they are navigating learning in an unfamiliar language.
Language, in this case, does not just communicate content; it defines perception. Teachers may unconsciously label students who falter in English as unserious or weak, reinforcing exclusion and discouragement.
It’s not just the students. Many teachers across Nigeria also grapple with the expectations of teaching complex subjects in fluent English. In rural schools particularly, teachers often translate concepts from English into the local language in real-time, hoping to bridge comprehension gaps. This code-switching is informal and unsystematic, sometimes leading to confusion and inconsistency. Moreover, teacher training colleges and professional development programmes place more emphasis on English grammar and phonetics than on how to teach bilingually or leverage local languages effectively. This creates a workforce that is pressured to perform in a second language without tools to support language integration in classrooms.
Beyond learning, English functions as cultural capital. In many Nigerian schools, a child who speaks “good English” is automatically perceived as more intelligent or well-bred. Accent becomes a class marker. Fluency becomes a currency. The ability to articulate ideas in ‘Queen’s English’ can earn admiration or suspicion, depending on one’s context. This has wider implications. Students who excel in English tend to dominate class discussions, leadership positions, and debate teams. Those who do not often withdraw, silenced not by intellect but by language. This silencing effect compounds over time, stifling confidence and undermining identity.
The Nigerian National Policy on Education does support mother-tongue instruction in early years, particularly in lower primary school (P1–P3). It recommends that indigenous languages be used for instruction during the foundational years, with English introduced gradually. However, implementation is poor, largely due to inadequate teacher training, lack of local language textbooks, and systemic disregard for the policy.
Some states and civil society organisations have taken bold steps, creating bilingual materials and promoting language inclusion in literacy programmes. For example, the “Reading and Numeracy Activity (RANA)” initiative in northern Nigeria has successfully supported the use of Hausa for early grade literacy, showing measurable improvements in reading outcomes. But such efforts are still the exception, not the norm.
Nigeria must urgently re-examine its language priorities in education. This doesn’t mean abandoning English which remains globally relevant, but it does mean empowering local languages alongside it.
Teacher training must include bilingual teaching strategies. Local language textbooks should be developed and distributed systematically. Most importantly, the education system must stop equating English proficiency with intelligence or worth. Until we do, the classroom will remain divided, not by ability, but by access to a language of power.
Language is never neutral. In Nigeria, English carries weight, politically, economically, and socially. But in our classrooms, that weight is proving too heavy for many young learners to bear. If we want an education system that truly serves all children, rural and urban, rich and poor, English-speaking and not, we must confront the reality that language can be both a bridge and a barrier. The challenge is not whether English should exist in our classrooms, it already does. The real question is: will it continue to divide, or can it be used more wisely, alongside the languages our children already know, to unite us in learning?
