By Mojeed Ajibola
I believe I was in JSS 2 at the time. I happened to be one of the best students in Introductory Technology. There was even a warm, almost familial relationship between me and the teacher who handled the subject. Her name escapes me now—quite painful, really—but I remember clearly that other staff members called her Iya Mission, because of her devout Christian values. She didn’t wear earrings, and she stood out for her modesty and principles.
Because I was her favourite student, I became fondly known among staff, especially the female teachers, as Omo Iya Mission—the child of Iya Mission. Her subject was always a strong point for me. I studied it diligently, especially during test and exam periods. In fact, I read it almost every day, fully aware that failure was not an option.
Then came a term when a different teacher took over the subject. I noticed some changes in how questions were set, but I did my best regardless. When our exam scripts were eventually returned, I was shocked. I had scored far below my expectations—30-something out of 60. This was a subject I used to ace effortlessly. I was devastated. I cried—profusely. I had stumbled, and not just slightly. For someone seen as a “giant” in the subject, the fall felt enormous.
My classmates, especially the girls, gathered around me, puzzled and concerned. I couldn’t bring myself to explain. Mayowa, the classmate who distributed the scripts, probably guessed the reason for my tears and quietly informed others. Soon, there were comforting words, soft pats on the head, and attempts to console me. I cringe now remembering how deeply I felt that disappointment. Childish Mojeed!
Later, I learnt that most of my classmates scored even lower than I did. In fact, only one person scored slightly higher. That eased my pain a little.
But here’s the lesson: when giants fall, it’s never light. Giants are held to a higher standard—they embody excellence, and even the slightest misstep becomes magnified.
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That’s the weight I saw yesterday on Emeritus Professor Is-haq Oloyede, the Registrar of JAMB. His emotional reaction was telling. He wasn’t merely reacting to a technical glitch or a clerical error; he was pained that the system he had so masterfully overseen for five years could allow such a slip—one that unfairly impacted students’ scores. As a perfectionist—judging by his track record as Vice-Chancellor of the University of Ilorin and as JAMB Registrar—he must have taken it personally.
In Yoruba culture, we believe that when an elder—a giant—falls, he looks back to find out what caused the fall. I believe that’s what Professor Oloyede is doing now, and rightly so. Mistakes may happen once; repeated errors, however, are foolishness. Professor Oloyede has never been foolish, and I do not believe he ever will be.
Those calling for his resignation over this incident are simply playing to the gallery. They are like those who throw the baby out with the bathwater—those who believe that beheading is the best cure for a headache. Professor Oloyede should remain in office, albeit with heightened caution. Replacing him now does not guarantee error-free leadership. Everyone has flaws.
Let the giant rise again, stronger and wiser.
Mojeed Ajibola writes from the University of Ibadan.
