Dear First-Class Graduate,
You stood out. When others were juggling survival and mediocrity, you chose rigour. When the weight of life in a dysfunctional academic system pressed down, you pressed harder. You stayed up when others slept. You’ve weathered long nights of study, suffocating classroom conditions, unstable power supply, unrelenting academic pressures, and maybe even ASUU strikes, all to achieve what is academically regarded as the pinnacle of undergraduate success.
You believed the promise: that excellence would open doors. That a first-class degree was a passport to success. But now that you’re on the other side of the ceremonial gown and handshake (or maybe a few thousands or a few millions), you’re discovering what no brochure warned you about, the painful silence that often follows applause.
In today’s Nigeria, first-class is no longer a straight ticket to opportunity. It is now, more than ever, a label that both shines and stings, an accomplishment that impresses and intimidates, opens doors yet occasionally feels like a weight. That’s the paradox of excellence in a country where systems don’t always reward merit. Yet, your distinction matters, and what you do with it now matters even more.Let’s begin here, you are not alone.
In July 2025, Afrobeats star Adekunle Gold took to X, asking Nigerian first-class graduates to post their transcripts. The thread lit up. Young men and women from public universities across Nigeria shared their stories, not just of academic triumph, but of what followed: long, silent months of unemployment, jobs far below qualification, endless waiting rooms, and dreams that now feel distant. Adekunle Gold responded in a way few in power ever have. He credited them with ₦250,000 each, not as charity, but as recognition. A nod. A national salute. A message that someone sees you.
Contrast that with another moment last week, this time orchestrated by TikToker, Peller (who many rumoured not to have completed his secondaryschool education). In a curious social experiment, he invited 20 master’s degree holders to apply for a cameraman position that paid ₦500,000 monthly. He later recealed that two applicants were selected.
But what lingered wasn’t just who got the job, it was what the scenario revealed. Some of the applicants who were present at the interview claimed he only used them to generate views for his social media pages. According to them, no solid interview was conducted. This reveals how the Nigerian job market continues to disrespect academic brilliance. It was satire turned reality. It was comedy carrying the undertone of a country’s intellectual tragedy.
You, the first-class graduate, are the metaphor for so many contradictions in Nigeria. You are the brightest light in a power outage. You are the polished CV in a shredded economy. You are hope in a system that feeds on despair. And yet, you are told to “calm down,” to “be humble,” to “understand the situation of the country.”
But let’s pause and ask: why should brilliance bow? Why must excellence explain itself? This letter isn’t here to romanticise struggle. You already know the hardship , the overqualified rejection emails, the unresponsive applications, the unpaid internships, the endless networking that feels more like begging. You see peers with far less diligence rise through networks, not merit. You’ve felt the betrayal of a system that demanded everything and then gave nothing. You know what it’s like to hold a first-class certificate in one hand and doubt in the other.
But let us also be clear: what you carry is not worthless. That certificate may not pay your rent today, but it holds the story of discipline, endurance, self-respect, and intellectual resilience. It is not the document that makes you special, it is what you became in the process of earning it. The ability to learn under pressure, to think critically, to adapt, to finish, these are not hollow skills. They are your foundation.
Don’t let a broken system define the value of what you’ve built. What Peller’s experiment exposed was not that education is irrelevant but that our economy has failed to evolve alongside it. What Adekunle Gold’s gesture proved is that there is still value in academic excellence, even if it isn’t being amplified by traditional institutions. In this tension lies your reality, a brilliance unrecognised by a nation it should be powering.
Here’s the uncomfortable truth: you may need to unlearn the belief that success is linear. You may need to embrace detours, learn skills your degree didn’t teach, say yes to opportunities that look beneath you, or start again from places you never imagined. You may need to look beyond Nigeria’s borders, not necessarily to leave, but to expand your thinking. Because while the country may be slow to catch up, your mind shouldn’t be.
And yet, hold your head high. That degree is not a mistake. You are not deluded for dreaming. There’s a system that may not see you now, but you must never stop seeing yourself. You are not the exception.
You are the evidence, that in a country overwhelmed with mediocrity, it is still possible to rise through merit. You are the quiet rebellion. You are what they should have invested in, but didn’t. And someday, when Nigeria begins to remember what greatness looks like, it will have to come back to people like you.
Until then, rewrite the rules if you must. Learn outside the classroom. Build. Collaborate. Monetise what you know. Volunteer with purpose. Teach others. Start projects, even if small. Not because any of these things are a magic wand, but because stagnation is the real enemy. Keep moving.
To all first-class graduates reading this: your pain is real. But so is your power. Your struggle is valid. But so is your strength. And when they ask where Nigeria’s brightest minds are hiding, tell them: we are not hiding. We are waiting. We are working. We are surviving. And eventually, we will lead.
Sincerely,
Someone Who Sees You.
