In a country where the value of education is often reduced to campaign promises and recurring budget debates, the recurring crisis of university strikes—particularly those led by the Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASSU)—has become all too familiar. This time, the shutdown has once again left thousands of students across federal universities suspended in limbo. But while public attention rests on these students whose semesters have been brought to a sudden halt, many forget that others of us, in non-striking institutions, also feel the weight of the crisis.
I attend the College of Education Zuba. Our lectures are ongoing, and the campus remains active. On the surface, we are untouched. But are we truly unaffected? The answer, for me, is no. Not at all.
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Is the ASSU Strike Illegal or Simply Ignored?
In the heart of Nigeria’s ongoing education crisis lies a lingering and controversial question: Is the ASSU strike truly illegal, or is it just another plea conveniently ignored?
From the viewpoint of the Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASSU), the answer leans heavily on the side of constitutional rights. The union argues that under Nigeria’s labour laws, every worker—including academic staff—has the lawful right to withdraw their services when agreements are dishonoured or conditions become unbearable.
Yet, the Federal Government has often painted a different picture. Officials have at times branded these strikes as illegal, especially when court orders or legal channels are perceived to have been bypassed. During the 2022 industrial action, for instance, the National Industrial Court ruled that lecturers must return to work. ASSU’s decision to persist in the strike thereafter was swiftly labelled as unlawful by government spokesmen.
This conflict of interpretations reveals a deeper truth: that legality in this context is not just a matter of law, but of power, politics, and perception.
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A Student’s Reflection
Though my own institution—College of Education Zuba—has not been directly affected by the current strike, I cannot help but feel its tremors. As a Nigerian student, I do not see the strike as a distant crisis. I see it as a national wound — one that bleeds silently across every classroom, every chalkboard, and every unread page in the textbook of our future.
We are all connected. The shutdown of one campus delays the dreams of another. It reduces the value of our collective academic timeline and normalizes a culture of uncertainty.
Even as I write this, I’m reminded that my education is not just mine—it is part of a national vision that needs clarity. That vision grows dimmer each time another student’s semester is stolen by a strike, each time a university gate stays locked, and each time our nation forgets that classrooms are more powerful than campaign slogans.
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In Search of Commitment
What Nigerian students need is not just a resumption of lectures, but a resumption of trust. We need leadership that sees education as investment, not expense. We need institutions that prioritize learning over negotiation. And we need unions and governments who can find common ground without dragging students into the crossfire.
Whether one is on strike or not, the truth remains: the health of one part of the education system affects the whole.
So no, I may not be on strike—but like many others, I am not at peace either. And until education in Nigeria is given the dignity it deserves, our silence will continue to echo louder than any protest.
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