By Haroon Aremu
I remembered an article I once wrote, titled “After NYSC, A call for National job Creation and Youth Empowerment”. It was a piece born not from research papers or policy documents, but from lived experience. I wrote it at a time close to the completion of my service to the nation, armed with certificates, skills, energy, and hope, yet utterly directionless.
No roadmap. No safety net. No assurance that the years spent in classrooms, lecture halls, and service camps would translate into something as basic as dignity through work. That article was a lament, yes, but more importantly, it was a warning. Today, that warning has become reality for millions.
In Nigeria, the idea of job security, especially for young people, has become almost mythical. It is spoken of like folklore: something people claim once existed, but which no one can quite prove anymore. Every year, universities, polytechnics, and colleges release fresh graduates into the labour market, and every year the market responds with silence.
The government is often the first to be blamed, and rightly so. A state that cannot productively absorb its youth is sowing the seeds of long-term instability. But even when we turn to the private sector, supposedly the saviour, the door is only slightly ajar, and guarded by impossible conditions like “Five years’ experience,” “Six years’ experience”, and even “Prior industry exposure required.”
The question that screams but is never answered is simple: where does a young graduate get five years of experience without first being given an opportunity? How does one prove competence without access? How does potential survive when every door demands proof that can only come from another locked door?
Government jobs, which should ideally serve as a stabilising force, offer no refuge either. Age limits of 25, 30, and sometimes 35 are rigidly enforced, as though unemployment itself does not age people. What happens to the graduate who has been searching for work for six, seven, or eight years? By the time opportunity finally knocks, they are too old. They are now “too old” to be hired, yet too young to retire. Suspended in limbo.
The harsh truth is this: Nigeria’s population has outgrown its job opportunities. The numbers no longer lie. And in that imbalance, hope is often the first casualty.
Ironically, this is happening in a country that once celebrated progress with the signing of the Not Too Young to Run Bill by the late former President Muhammadu Buhari. That legislation symbolised inclusion, youth participation, and generational renewal.
And to some extent, it has worked; young people are more visible in politics today than ever before. But visibility is not the same as empowerment. Representation without economic opportunity is cosmetic.
Youth may now sit at tables of power, but they are largely absent from the tables of employment. Jobs are still distributed through networks, connections, patronage, or, as many whisper, through outright payments. Merit, in too many cases, has been demoted.
Today, employment in Nigeria often feels like a lottery where knowing someone matters more than knowing something. Or worse, like a spiritual pursuit, where success is attributed to “divine intervention” rather than transparent systems.
Exams are written. Portals are filled. Interviews are attended. Then silence. No feedback. No closure. Just another unanswered email and another year added to one’s age.
Yes, vocational skills are important. Yes, entrepreneurship is valuable. But we must ask difficult questions: what structures has the government put in place to make vocational pathways truly viable?
Our polytechnics, once designed to be hubs of technical and practical excellence, are themselves struggling for relevance, funding, and modernisation. The Ministry of Education must answer why vocational education has been reduced to rhetoric rather than strategy.
Even within the civil service, recent extensions of retirement age, while beneficial to those currently employed, have inadvertently shut the door further on younger Nigerians. If those inside cannot exit, those outside cannot enter. The system becomes a closed loop, recycling the same faces while millions wait endlessly at the gate.
Add to this the persistent rumours sometimes whispered about federal agencies where jobs allegedly come with price tags, and one must ask: what hope is there for the common Nigerian without money, without godfathers, without connections?
Unemployment does not exist in isolation. It feeds insecurity. It fuels crime. This is not abstract advocacy. This is not borrowed outrage. This is me speaking for myself and for countless others like me who are willing, able, and eager to work.
Not all Nigerian youths are lazy. Many want to serve. Many want to build. Many want nothing more than a fair chance to contribute to the nation they call home.
So, Mr President, Bola Ahmed Tinubu, this conversation must reach you. Yes, we acknowledge the complexities of governance. Yes, we recognise the economic challenges you inherited. But youth unemployment cannot remain a footnote in national policy. It is an emergency.
What is the future of NYSC if service only becomes a transition into joblessness? Are we merely increasing the pool of unemployed graduates every year? What systems exist to absorb them? What hope do we offer those who cannot immediately pivot to vocational work, even as we encourage skills acquisition?
The youth are not just important to your government—they are its foundation. Without deliberate, transparent, and inclusive employment policies, frustration will continue to grow. And a nation where its youth feel abandoned is a nation sitting on a ticking clock.
We are not asking for favours. We are asking for an opportunity. We are asking for fairness. We are asking to be seen, heard, and included.
After NYSC, what’s next? Until Nigeria answers that question convincingly, the silence will remain louder than any promise.
Haroon Aremu Abiodun is a Nigerian Writer and can be reached via exponentumera@gmail.com.
