Former President Shehu Aliyu Shagari used a striking analogy to describe the dilemma of the educated African.
In his acceptance speech for an honorary doctorate conferment at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria, in the 1980s, Shagari likened educated African to a bat.
Bat possesses characteristics associated with birds, yet it is not a bird. It also possesses characteristics of mammals, yet it does not quite fit comfortably among them.
It occupies an uncomfortable space between two worlds. This Shagari analogy still defines the predicament of the educated African. Or let me be more narrow, Nigerian, and narrower, educated Arewa man (and women).
For some of us, Allah has given an amana of knowledge, education, wisdom, professional opportunities, public leadership and the privileges that education confers. These privileges come with responsibilities that are often poorly understood by the very people who possess them.
In northern Nigeria, where literacy remains low, poverty is widespread and mistrust of the yan boko has deepened over the years, the educated person occupies a peculiar social position.
On one hand, the educated are increasingly associated with corruption, political patronage, elitism and the failure of institutions. On the other hand, they remain the principal bridge between ordinary communities and the institutions of the state.
This creates a paradox.
The lawyer in the local unguwa becomes the mediator when neighbours quarrel. The school headteacher becomes the person people call when someone’s child needs help with admission or schooling(my father who retired from service since 2015 to this day receives papers to facilitate school admission, resolve document discrepancies, etc.,). The neighbourhood nurse becomes the unofficial consultant when that wife is in labour. That retured permanent secretary becomes the first person people call when a transformer breaks down, a document is needed or a government office becomes inaccessible. The journalist at the local radio station becomes, in effect, the information officer to verify government policies.
These relationships carry enormous weight.
The ɗan boko is therefore not simply an individual with a university degree. In a low-literacy society, he often becomes an institution in himself.
But this responsibility comes with another burden.
The educated person is also frequently resented by the political class precisely because education gives him the ability to question, analyse, document and challenge as public intellectual who sees things differently. He asks questions. He examines what others accept. He informs the public. He exposes contradictions. He can make the powerful uncomfortable.
And so the educated person can find himself caught between two forms of pressure: the expectations of the community below him and the discomfort of the political establishment above him.
Yet the community does not always reward him for carrying these burdens.
The ɗan boko is expected to conduct himself with exceptional morality. He must be careful about what he says, what he buys, where he goes and how he lives. A level of comfort that would be considered normal elsewhere can sometimes be interpreted as arrogance, extravagance or moral failure. His mistakes are rarely treated as merely personal mistakes; they can become evidence against an entire class.
My father once saw me with a wrist band. It’s harmless men’s fassion. Yet he drew my attention to the contradictions for a Mallam. He said Abdussamad, this is harmless I know, and you are in the age range of thise who wears this. But it has implication. You are expected to be of high moral standards, and thise category of people do bot wear such. The same thing when he found me playing Ludo game.
This produces a peculiar psychological burden.
The educated person is told that education is a privilege, but is rarely allowed to enjoy that privilege without qualification. He is expected to succeed, but not appear too successful. He is expected to help everyone, but cannot help everyone. He is expected to speak for society, but is sometimes distrusted by the very society he seeks to serve.
He is, in Shagari’s analogy, the bat.
Not entirely of one world, and not entirely of the other.
The tragedy is that this condition can eventually produce exhaustion. Some withdraw into private life. Others become cynical. Some assimilate completely into the political and economic elite they once criticised. Others remain trapped in an endless cycle of obligation. Of supporting relatives; of mediating disputes; of solving community problems; of answering calls and carrying responsibilities that were never formally assigned to them.
But perhaps this is precisely where the idea of amana becomes important.
Education should not merely be understood as a pathway to individual mobility. In a society where knowledge is scarce, it creates a moral obligation. The educated person has received something that many around him have not had the opportunity to receive.
The answer, however, cannot be to demand that every ɗan boko sacrifice himself indefinitely for society.
Rather, society must recognise that educated people are human beings, not communal infrastructure.
And the educated themselves must recognise that their privilege imposes obligations beyond personal advancement.
The challenge, therefore, is to transform the position of the yan boko from one of uncomfortable existence between worlds into one of constructive mediation between them: translating knowledge into service, privilege into responsibility, and access into opportunity for others.
This may be the real dilemma of the educated ɗan boko in northern Nigeria.
He belongs to the society he serves, but education has changed the way he sees it.
He benefits from the system, but his conscience may compel him to question it.
He is expected to represent the people, yet sometimes finds himself distrusted by them.
And above all, he carries an amana that is much heavier than the certificate through which he received it.
Abdussamad writes from ancient city of Kano, the London of the Sahara.
