By Olatunbosun Obafemi
In Nigeria, irony often wears the robe of reality. Recently, few stories capture this irony more vividly than that of Musiliu Akinsanya, popularly known as MC Oluomo – the Lagos motor park leader, National Union of Road Transport Workers (NURTW) stalwart, and political influencer.
For decades, he has been regarded as an uneducated man, a figure who rose from the rough and tumble of motor parks to wield significant social and political power. Yet, in sharp contrast, his children are receiving quality education abroad, a privilege denied to many whose parents are far more educated but less connected. This paradox invites reflection on the nature of leadership, privilege, and the value of education in Nigeria.
To be fair, no parent should be faulted for seeking the best for their children. If MC Oluomo has the means, it is only natural that he ensures his children access the kind of education he never had. Indeed, this desire reflects a timeless truth: every parent wishes for their children to surpass them. In this sense, MC Oluomo’s decision is both noble and pragmatic. It is a recognition of the limits of his own trajectory and an attempt to correct that limitation through the lives of his offspring.
However, the broader question is why an individual who has risen to prominence without formal education should find himself in a position to provide what many university professors, civil servants, and skilled professionals cannot afford for their children. The irony is not in MC Oluomo’s paternal instinct, but in the system that made it possible for a man of little formal schooling to become wealthy and politically relevant while the educated elite struggle to make ends meet.
This irony underscores a painful reality in Nigeria: education, once considered the surest path to success, no longer guarantees upward mobility. Graduates flood the labour market with certificates but little hope, while individuals who master the rough politics of survival, power-brokering, and loyalty often live lives of abundance. MC Oluomo is a symbol of this inversion of values. His rise, despite his educational background, challenges the conventional wisdom that “education is the key.” In Nigeria, it sometimes seems that the real key is proximity to power and influence.
Yet, if Oluomo himself sees value in education—enough to send his children abroad—then the lesson is clear: education remains essential, even if the Nigerian system has been undermined. His choice shows he recognizes that while motor park politics opened doors for him, his children will need degrees, especially foreign ones, to command legitimacy and respect in wider circles.
Sadly, this is where the contrast becomes most painful. Back home, countless Nigerian youths battle unimaginable hurdles just to gain admission into higher institutions. Every year, millions of young people sit for the Joint Admissions and Matriculation Board (JAMB) examinations. They endure stress, computer-based errors, systemic corruption, and opaque admission processes. Many sit for the exam multiple times, not because they lack brilliance but because the system frustrates them. Even those who scale this hurdle must survive underfunded universities, endless strikes, dilapidated classrooms, and overcrowded hostels.
And after surviving all these struggles, the reward for many is unemployment. Nigeria’s job market is a graveyard of shattered dreams, where graduates roam the streets with their certificates while the children of the privileged glide seamlessly into opportunities at home and abroad. What greater insult is there than to toil for years, only to find that the “educated illiterate” who never sat for JAMB lives a life of ease while the “first-class graduate” remains jobless?
The hypocrisy in Nigeria’s leadership class is exposed in this way. From politicians to grassroots strongmen, many leaders boast of being “men of the people” while abandoning the public institutions they preside over. They send their children abroad to escape the very decay they allow to persist in Nigerian schools. It is a betrayal of trust, a failure of leadership, and a wound on the nation’s soul.
MC Oluomo’s decision is not in itself the problem—it is the symptom. The real tragedy lies in a country where education has been stripped of its dignity, where students are made to suffer to gain admission, and where graduates remain unemployed while the privileged class uses influence to secure a different future for their children.
If education is truly the foundation of national development, then quality education must not remain the preserve of the rich and powerful. It must be a right, not a privilege. Until Nigeria fixes its broken system, stories like Oluomo’s will continue to mock the dreams of millions who struggle, suffer, and sacrifice in pursuit of a future that never comes.
