In 2013, Kola* wrote UTME for the first time. The plan was to study Computer Science at the University of Benin, one of Nigeria’s foremost universities. Unfortunately, he didn’t meet the cut-off mark for the course.

Every year, millions of Nigerian students sit for the exam organised by the Joint Admission and Matriculation Board (JAMB) as a prerequisite for applying to any Nigerian tertiary institution. Kola had two choices: try his luck with another university or wait until the following year to rewrite the exam.

 “I couldn’t stay at home for an entire year,” he says.

He and his parents eventually found a seemingly perfect alternative. They decided that he would attend Igbinedion University in Okada, a town in Edo State, 51 kilometres from Benin.

“I didn’t even know the school existed before I wrote UTME, but it was a good alternative.”

Changing his university of choice from a federal university to a private university wasn’t a decision he took lightly. For starters, there was the tuition to consider. The average fees at University of Benin was ₦42,000 ($108) per session.  At Igbinedion, he would have to pay  ₦800,000 ($2,000). One thing was sure though. He wouldn’t have to worry about the crippling strikes Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU) and other staff unions embarked on every session.

What he didn’t know at the time was that there was something else he would have to worry about.

He was going back to his hostel after writing an exam in the second semester of his first year when he overheard a group of students talking about sourcing for money to give a lecturer.

 “I was not bothered when I heard this. It wasn’t my problem. But I got to the hostel and more students were talking about it.”  

His curiosity got the better of him, prompting him to ask someone what the fuss was about. He got his answer: lecturers in his university were demanding money from students before they passed them. 

They called it “sorting.”

In several universities across the country, students and lecturers are in a symbiotic relationship of exchanging money for marks. More often than not, it happens at the prodding of the lecturer. While it is common and, maybe, not surprising to see this phenomenon play out at public universities, it is strange to see it happen at private universities like Igbinedion University where lecturers are relatively well-paid, aren’t owed salaries and have higher standards to follow. But if Kola’s story is anything to go by, this happens there too.

You either pay up or risk failing a course

Bianca*, a graduate of Ambrose Alli University, a public university at Ekpoma, also in Edo State, was certain that she wouldn’t pay money to any lecturer before she made good grades. She had known about this practice before she started at the school. Her sister had gone to the university and used to talk about it with their dad. At Ambrose Alli University, they called it “blocking.”

Bianca was so comfortable in her certainty that when a classmate advised her to block a course in her first year, she brushed it off. 

“I always felt that it was for students who didn’t study and wanted to pass courses by any means necessary.” 

She got an F in two courses in her first semester at the university. And instinctively, she realised that she had read the situation wrong. She got the message loud and clear.

“From that moment, anytime I heard that there was an opportunity to block a course, I went for it.”

Like Bianca, Kola was also indifferent about it until he failed a course he thought he should have passed in his second year. The truth stared at them — they had to play ball if they wanted to graduate with their mates. 

How does it work?

Richard*, a postgraduate student at Kogi State university — the same school where he got his undergraduate degree —  told me that the lecturers didn’t outrightly demand money from students. Instead, they relied on other students, whom they had relationships with, to do their dirty jobs for them. 

This is the same mode of operation in Igbinedion University and Ambrose Alli University according to Kola and Bianca respectively: to maintain plausible deniability, the lecturers don’t handle the transactions directly. 

 “The deals are usually brokered by the class reps. They ask you to meet them if you’re not sure how you would perform in an exam, so you can ‘work’ it,” Bianca says.

She added that students, especially female students try to steer clear of the lecturers for fear of being propositioned.

Students who can’t pay in cash are expected to pay in kind. For female students, the lecturer may expect sexual favours in return for grades. Male students, on the other hand,  are tasked with buying gifts or rendering some form of service to the lecturer. 

After the payment stage, the lecturers gather the students into their offices and give them fresh answer sheets to rewrite the exam. Only that this time, they’re allowed to use their study materials to answer the questions.

Lecturers at Ambrose Alli University don’t always go through this trouble, especially when they’re dealing with 100 and 200 level students. They simply upgrade their marks. So, a  potential D will change to an A, a B or a C, depending on how much the student paid. 

“Starting from 300 level, the lecturers can’t stamp grades on scripts indiscriminately anymore because there are external examiners who go through scripts to ensure transparency,” Bianca explains. 

The deal is usually upheld, but I wondered what would happen if a lecturer collects money from a student but doesn’t hold up to his or her end of the deal. Bianca and Kola don’t think this ever happens. However,  Richard said that any lecturer who attempts this is making himself a target of violent attacks from disgruntled students.

“If a student pays a lecturer and he reneges on his promise, all bets are off. Chances are that the lecturer will be attacked.”

Sorting is not cheap

 At Ambrose Alli University, students pay between ₦5,000 and ₦20,000 to sort courses. 

“For a 2-unit course, you pay ₦10,000 for an A, ₦8,000 for a B and ₦5,000 for a C.” For 4 and unit courses, you could pay as high as ₦20,000,” Bianca breaks it down.

The minimum wage in Nigeria is currently ₦30,000 (about $77), which doesn’t cut it for a lot of people. Numbers from the National Bureau of Statistics suggest that about 40% (representing 82.9 million Nigerians) live in poverty. Yet, Nigerian lecturers don’t care that most students aren’t working and many of them struggle to get by.

Things are even more interesting at Igbinedion University. The lecturers rely on their own discretion to set a price tag, although the student’s relationship with them plays a role here. 

“The average price to sort a course is between ₦15,000 and ₦40,000. But nothing less than ₦15,000. Students pay up to ₦90,000 (300% the minimum wage) to sort courses in a semester,” Kola reveals. 

The grade a student also gets depends on their relationship with the lecturer. Usually, they settle on a B or a C. A student who sorts his or her course shouldn’t expect an A.

Students at Kogi State University pay the least amount of money to sort their courses. Richard said that the highest sum of money he ever heard anyone pay a lecturer was ₦4,000. The standard charge rests between ₦1,000 and ₦1,500. 

“Most of the students at KSU simply cannot afford to pay huge sums of money. Even when I wrote final year projects for some of my classmates, it was a struggle before I got someone who agreed to pay me ₦17,000. I could have gotten up to ₦40,000 at another university.”

You may wonder how the students afford to pay the lecturers, considering that students register several courses every semester. Bianca’s dad knew about the arrangement and sent money to her every semester. 

“My dad usually sent me about  ₦60,000 every semester to take care of this thing.”

Kola had to handle it himself for the most part. 

“I dipped into my savings to pay lecturers. It wasn’t until I got to 300 level that I told my parents about it. It was hard to convince them that it was just the way things were.”

Richard didn’t partake in sorting, at least not in the conventional sense. He built relationships with the lecturers and leveraged them to get out of paying money. 

“I try to get the lecturer’s attention by asking them questions in class. Sometimes, I visit them at their offices and try to see how I can help them. I made sure to never ask them for favours. Basically, I developed mentor-mentee relationships with them.”

“Everyone knows it happens but no one cares”

Actions have consequences. The authorities responsible for sanctioning the lecturers for their offences are the university management boards. Kola, Bianca and Richard said that if the management knew about the practice, they did nothing about it. One could argue that the management of these schools are not on top of the situation because the students, who are directly affected, keep quiet about it. But it’s more complicated than it seems. Students are scared of reporting to the authorities for fear of retribution. They cannot know which members of the academic staff to trust.

“From the vice-chancellor to the porter, everyone seems to be corrupt.  I don’t think that there’s a lecturer that hasn’t tampered with marks. All of them are guilty. Everyone in management used to be lecturers too,” Richard quips. 

He noted, with sadness, that students have also contributed to the precarious situation. 

“From my experience, the proportion of students who are willing to pay money to sort their courses are far greater than those who aren’t.”

This suggests that students also drive the demand and supply model of this practice. Here’s the thing — students want to pass their courses and want to get the highest grade possible. However, not everyone wants to put in the work. Conveniently, there’s another option they could explore: they part with some money and they pass. These kinds of students will not require a lot of convincing before they embrace grade sorting. In fact, they actively seek it out.

The Aftermath 

Bianca, Kola and Richard are out of school, but they are still reeling from the experience. 

“I hated giving those fuckers my money,” Bianca fumes. “Even though my dad sent about ₦500,000 in total throughout my stay at the school, I used about ₦130,000 to sort my courses. 

Interestingly, Bianca isn’t even sure of the grade she graduated with. 

“My statement of result states that I graduated with a 2.1. But I found my name under the 2.2 category in the convocation list. At the moment, I’m not sure of what I actually graduated with.”

While she might not know her final grade yet, she knows how much the whole experience affected her self-confidence and attitude towards learning. 

“It really fucked with me. At a point, I didn’t see the point of going to classes. But I studied for courses I knew that I didn’t have to block.”

Kola is also demoralised by the sheer insanity of paying to pass courses, especially in a university where he had to pay about  ₦800,000 as tuition every year to remain a student.

“My attitude towards learning took a beating the more I paid to pass courses. The enthusiasm totally fizzled out. If you asked me to mention something useful I gained from the university, I would be at a loss for words.”

Richard is determined to not let the situation haunt him for the rest of his life. He wants to be a part of the system and fight the rot from inside. 

“I want to be a lecturer. I want to bring my own principles and weird ideas to life. I’m not saying that I will be able to stop grade sorting in its entirety, but my students will know me as the lecturer that doesn’t partake in it.”

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Editor’s note: Names have been changed to protect the identity of the subjects.

Students in their penultimate year of uni — the year before final year — are constantly treated like the middle children in a Nigerian family. If this is you, this post will make you feel seen.

1. When you wake up one day and find out that at least three years have passed and you haven’t done anything fun

What happened to all the glorious plans I made?

2. When you realise that first class is not happening and the 2.1 or 2.2 is even shaking 

Get thee behind me, Satan.

3. When you plan to make a last-ditch attempt to boost your CGPA but you see your courses for the session 

This is very hopeless.

4. When your eyes open and you start to wonder if you should have gone for another course

Because what is this life?

5. When people start asking you if you know what you want to do after school

I don’t even know what I will wear to class tomorrow. Don’t stress me, please.

6. And your parents start giving you the signs that they will soon leave you to your fate

Asking questions like: “When will you graduate again?” This is actually the start of the end.

7. When your lecturers start talking about final year project 

Why didn’t you think to start this complicated thing from 100-level?

8. When your school sends you out to do IT and expect you to find your placement yourself

All this stress for an idea that isn’t mine

One year ago, we left Nigeria for an 80-day adventure across West Africa. Something is coming. Unshared stories. New perspectives. Limited series. 10 episodes.

We live in a world that is dominated by phones and other gadgets. For students, there are a plethora of apps designed to solve different problems and make learning easier than it used to be. Notepads and other studying/organisation apps are lit, but there is a lot more to create. We’ve done the difficult job of making a list of apps every student could actually use if they existed.

1. Freeze

This app will simply allow you to freeze time. Now, you won’t have to obsess about the stack of assignments you haven’t gotten around to doing. Just stop time and procrastinate for however long you need.

2. Porter Alert

Hostel porters are the bane of every student’s existence. Wouldn’t it be great if there was an app to warn you whenever they are within a 50-metre radius of your room? This would give you enough time to get squatters out of your room, hide your electric stove and other contraband, and ensure that you’re not in the middle of breaking any rule.

3. Landlord Observer

It would be unfair if students who live in off-campus accommodations don’t have something to help them deal with their problematic landlords too, and possibly evade them.

4. It’s Your Turn

You definitely need this one if you have roommates. Why? There are chores to do around the room or apartment, and nobody wants to do them. And this is usually the start of most of the arguments that break out. Now, what if there was an app that could decide whose turn it is to cook or take the trash out? Wouldn’t everyone be happier for it?

5. I Have A Thing!

Are you really bad at coming up with excuses to get out of hanging out with your friends or anyone else? Such situations require you to think of the perfect lie in a split second. I mean, there’s only so much “I’m busy” or “I have to do something” can do.  An app that can generate the perfect, most believable excuses cannot come fast enough. 

6. My Lecturer’s Schedule

Don’t you just hate it when you go to an early morning lecture and the lecturer decides not to show up? Granted, this doesn’t happen all the time. However, the point is that every student could use an app that can predict with almost 100% certainty the chances of a lecturer showing up to class. 

7. Wardrobe Assistant

I don’t know how much of a problem this is, but deciding what to wear to class can be incredibly difficult sometimes. What if there was an app built to suggest an outfit of the day from your closet? Think about all the time you will be saving. 

8. What’s My Route?

Sometimes, there are people you don’t want to run into on your way to class. With an app like this, you will be able to track the location of the people you want to avoid, and plot a different route to your class. This app will prevent a lot of awkward encounters. Get to work, science. 

Many of us thought we couldn’t get out of university fast enough. There was a new life to live and hell lots of money to make. How’s that working out now? Anyway, we asked 5 Nigerian graduates about what they miss about university, and this is what they said.

Ola, University of Ibadan

University was a rollercoaster ride. Every day had its series of gabs-gbos, and I guess in the heat of the moment, I couldn’t wait to graduate. Now that actual adulting has started, I’ve realised how important it is to be careful with what you wish for.

Man, I miss a lot of things about that school. On top of the list is the woman who did my laundry — God bless her. Paying for laundry wasn’t anything I worried about because her charges were incredibly low. But now, I can’t even give my clothes out to the dry cleaner without adding the expense to my monthly budget. It’s the ghetto.

Muwafaq, Nasarrawa State University

I was that guy on campus. I was everywhere and part of everything — academics, sports, socials, and politics. It was obvious that I was going to miss university even before I left. I’d accomplished so much, and leaving everything didn’t feel like a fair deal.

However, one thing I quickly realised after I graduated was that everything I thought I had didn’t mean a lot outside. So, it was a race to start over and build something new, but I like to think I’m not doing poorly at it.

Lauretta, Ecole Proffessionelle Specializé La Université La Cité, Cotonou

I miss the freedom I had in uni. Making decisions was a breeze because the stakes were lower. All I had to worry about was making sure I didn’t get kicked out of school. I miss that. I could party all weekend and sleep in on Monday morning, skipping classes for the day, and nobody would bat an eyelid. I can’t afford to be a little irresponsible anymore, and it sucks.

Seyi, University of Lagos

My uni was many things, but it wasn’t boring. This is cliche but I wish I could go back. The four years were some of the best of my adult life. It’s weird that I miss living in a hostel so bad. But that’s probably because I don’t talk to my friends like I used to anymore. It’s hard to get a hold of ourselves and hangout these days. It’s a good year if we meet up to three times.

Nnenna, Federal University of Technology, Minna

The only thing I was responsible for in uni was my grades. That was the best deal I’ve ever had. I didn’t think so at the time, but a few years later, I would give anything to go back: attend lectures and write exams, and I won’t complain about a thing. I made a lot of memories in that school, and I hate that they’re just memories now — nothing but a reminder of the life I used to live.

You should read this: 5 Nigerian Graduates Share Their First Job Hunting Experience

University of Ibadan is the first university and one of the most popular universities in Nigeria. This post is for everyone who studied or is currently studying at the university.

1. University of Ibadan students, when the National Universities Commission and Times Higher Education release their rankings

First and the best!

2. When the Union Bank ATM by the senate building swallows your card

Na me fuck up.

3. When Indy and Zik boys see girls passing their hostels 

Especially D-block boys in Zik and C-block boys in Indy.

4. When you find out that you only need to know the last line of the school anthem

“For a mind that knows is a mind that’s free” is the only line that matters, tbh.

5. When you meet a linguistic student who hasn’t learned the school anthem 

Has uncle Demola stopped teaching Lin 141?

6. When the session is about to end and the school hasn’t gone on strike 

This doesn’t feel right.

7. How returning students look at male freshers making evening rounds at Queens, Idia, and Awo halls

Been there, done that. And you should know that it won’t work out

8. What the study area inside catholic church compound looks like when there is no light in school

The struggle.

9. What Faculty of Tech and Faculty of Agric look like at night

Free and relatively fast Wifi will never go out of demand

10. Klazz restaurant at Tedder hall and queues

What’s that cheesy slogan again — come to Klazz before you go to class?

11. What Zik boys swear they look like during their Common Pot 

The beans sometimes slap, though.

12. Heritage Park during the day VS Heritage Park at night 

We love a multifaceted location.

Take these quizzes before you go:

Which Nigerian University Are You?

Which Nigerian University Should You Have Attended?

Students in Nigerian universities have stories to tell, but hardly anyone to tell them to. For our new weekly series, Aluta and Chill, we are putting the spotlight on these students and their various campus experiences.

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This week’s Aluta and Chill is about how unsafe Nigerian campuses can be. From the student who was stuck in an abusive relationship to the student who witnessed female students being drugged at a party, these stories are chilling.

Boma, Female, University of Port Harcourt 

I met this guy in my first month at school. He was older than me by 8 years and was in the penultimate year of his medical degree. I didn’t mind the age difference. I thought it was cool, and that it would be good for me.

It was not. He was an abuser who didn’t waste an opportunity to hurt me. At first, it was only verbal assaults. Then he started to hit me. He promised to stop, and I believed him. However, he physically abused me again and again. 

I was scared every time I was with him. He was unpredictable and could go off on me anytime. I started praying for the session to end, so he could leave the school and me. 

It took me 23 months before I found the courage to leave him. I know I should have left earlier, but I thought he needed me. Even after I walked away from the relationship, I was reeling. I suffered from PTSD for some time. The sight of boys triggered me, even if I knew them. I decided to get help and started seeing a psychologist. The sessions helped, and now, I feel like I’m beginning to remember who I was before I met him. 

Lola, Female, University of Lagos 

This happened at one of the freshers’ parties when I was in 100 level. The plan was to chill there for a while before I returned to my hostel. I didn’t even mingle with anyone — I stood in a spot and watched everything that was going on.

I saw some of the older students slipping something into the drinks of female students. It was stealthy done, but I caught it. I wasn’t sure what I saw until the girls were being led away. It didn’t seem like they were in control of themselves.

I wanted to do something, but I was so scared about what would happen to me if I did. I’d heard stories about girls being drugged at parties, but to see it up-close paralysed me. 

The scene put me off totally, and I knew I had to leave immediately. It worried me so much, but I tried to sleep it off. If I doubted what I saw, it cleared when I heard a couple of students in my hostel talking about it the following day. 

Chisom, Female, University of Nigeria 

Sometime in my second year, I went out to get dinner. The queue at the restaurant was long, and when I returned to my hostel, the gate had been locked. I beckoned to the porter on duty to open the gate, but she ignored me. She thought I was being rude. So there I was, on a street that was almost empty, alone and scared. It didn’t help that there was a noise coming from an area close to where I was. They fought a lot in that place, and I feared that anything could happen in a moment. I became frantic and knocked more loudly, but nobody opened the gate.

A car pulled up beside me. Initially, I thought it was one of the security officers on patrol and felt some relief. But it was just a male student. I also thought he wanted to help me beg the porter, but he had other ideas. He gave me a speech about how a fight had broken out and how it was headed in my direction. I was borderline anxious now.

This guy asked me to follow him — he didn’t even say where — so he could keep me safe. I thanked him for the offer and explained that I was safer in front of my hostel. However, he kept coaxing me to come with him. He seemed desperate, and that worried me. He was even gently pulling me in the direction of his car. I was scared that he might force me into the car, but at the same time, I didn’t want him to leave.

Luckily, one of the people who lived in the hostel saw what was going on and alerted the porter. The lady eventually opened the gate, and when I looked back to thank the guy, he’d disappeared. 

Timothy, Male, University of Calabar

It was 2017. Cultism was at an all-time high on campus. A church member from home came to write the university’s post-UTME, and I had to pick him up so he could spend the night with me. On our way to my hostel, we were accosted by another student. I recognised him as one of the dreaded cultists on campus. Let’s call him A.

The boy I was with wore a cap that had a touch of red, and that was why A stopped us. I tried to calm him down, explaining that the kid wasn’t a student and was only in school to write an examination. I knew we might be in trouble when one of the university security officers passed and he and A hailed each other. The man knew it was a hostage situation and went on his way. Eventually, I managed to calm A down, and he let us go. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the security guy and what he did.

And oh, by the way, A is late now. He was shot dead in his final year.

Oliver, University of Benin

I was returning to school from a trip to Warri, and I got back late to Osasogie — a community close to the school. The Keke operators had closed for the day, so I had to walk to my hostel. Everything was great for a minute until two guys appeared from the darkness and flashed a gun at me. My survival instincts went on an overdrive. I didn’t think much. I kicked the guy closest to me, and I ran. To my horror, they followed. 

Unfortunately, my glasses fell off, and I crashed into the ground. In no time, they caught up with me again. Everything was a blur from that moment. They stabbed me a couple of times. When they were done, they took everything I had on me. I managed to get myself to my hostel, and I was rushed to the health centre. I spent two days there. 

Are you currently studying in Nigeria or elsewhere and have a story to share about your life in school? Please take a minute to fill this form and we will reach out to you ASAP.

Can’t get enough Aluta and Chill? Check back every Thursday at 9 AM for a new episode. Find other stories in the series here.