By Emmanuel Adegbite
On the evening of May 29, 2025, I stepped out of a WAEC English Language examination centre in Gbongan, Osun State, at just past 9:00 p.m. The lateness of the hour was itself a troubling sign. The entire day had unfolded in slow motion—riddled with delays, poor coordination, and avoidable confusion. What should have been a well-structured national examination instead became a test of patience, endurance, and resilience.
Students waited for hours, some arriving as early as mid-morning and sitting idle until evening, unsure when the paper would finally commence. When it eventually did, dusk had set in, and for many, night had already fallen.
In some centres, the absence of power supply meant that students had to write under less-than-ideal conditions. Some used torchlights, while others relied on the faint glow of mobile phones to read comprehension passages and draft their essays. And yet, in the middle of this dysfunction, the students remained astonishingly focused. Their pens moved across the pages with purpose. Despite hunger, fatigue, and environmental discomfort, there was hope in their eyes—hope that their diligence and commitment would be enough to see them through.
They believed, as they had been taught to, that if they did their part, the system would do its own. But when the results were released, it became painfully clear that the system had failed them.
The release of the 2025 West African Senior School Certificate Examination (WASSCE) results on August 5 came with an atmosphere far different from the usual mix of anticipation and nervous excitement. In place of celebration, there was silence. In place of joy, shock.
The English Language result, in particular, triggered an avalanche of disbelief across Osun State. Students who had passed every other subject—some with distinctions—were marked down in English. Candidates with As and Bs in Mathematics, Economics, Government, Chemistry, and other core subjects received scores as low as E8 or F9 in the English Language paper. The pattern was widespread, consistent, and concerning.
The case of one student stood out. A brilliant girl I had followed closely in the months leading up to the examination had scored an impressive 303 in the Unified Tertiary Matriculation Examination (UTME). Her dream was to study Mass Communication at a federal university, and by all metrics, she was on track. She had passed her internal school assessments, excelled in her mock exams, and had never struggled with English in any academic setting.
Her performance in the other WAEC subjects reflected her ability—strong passes, mostly in the A and B range. And yet, her English result showed a D7. With that single grade, her chances of gaining admission into the university became uncertain.
This was not an isolated case. Across the state—from Osogbo to Iwo, Ife to Ikirun, and Ilesa to Ede—the same complaint echoed from teachers, school administrators, parents, and the students themselves. Too many high-performing candidates had been marked down in English, and the consequences were immediate.
For many of these students, English Language is not just another subject; it is the gateway to university education. A credit pass in English is compulsory for virtually all courses. Without it, regardless of how well a student performs in other subjects or in JAMB, university admission becomes impossible.
The anomaly raises serious questions. How does a candidate score over 300 in UTME—a national, computer-based, standardised examination—and yet fail English Language in WAEC? How does a student pass all other subjects but stumble only in one?
The logical explanation is not poor preparation or academic weakness. If anything, these students had demonstrated their academic strength and commitment in multiple credible ways. Rather, what seems evident is that something went wrong in the system itself—either in the marking, grading, or collation processes associated with the English Language paper.
Teachers across the state have struggled to make sense of it. Many English teachers, who had spent months coaching these students, now find themselves under pressure, unable to explain the contradiction between classroom performance and final WAEC grades.
Several school principals have expressed frustration and disbelief. In some schools, candidates who had passed English Language in previous years and returned only to improve their grades were marked down this time, even though their new attempt was no different—if not better—than the previous ones. It is difficult not to conclude that a widespread, systemic error occurred.
Yet perhaps the most disturbing part of this entire episode is the silence that has followed it. WAEC has remained completely mute. There has been no official press release, no explanation, no opportunity for public review or redress.
The Federal Ministry of Education has equally maintained a troubling silence, leaving affected students and their families in the dark. The absence of institutional response has left a vacuum—one filled with anxiety, suspicion, and hopelessness.
This silence is not only unprofessional; it is damaging. In a country where education is one of the few remaining hopes for upward mobility, silence in the face of clear injustice amounts to betrayal.
It tells students that their voices do not matter. It tells parents that their sacrifices can be rendered useless without consequence. And it tells teachers that their work can be undone in a moment, with no one held accountable.
The emotional toll of this failure cannot be overstated. In several schools across Osun State, guidance counselors have begun to report a disturbing rise in mental health challenges among students.
Cases of depression, anxiety, and academic disillusionment are on the rise. Students who once saw education as a path to liberation now see it as a system that betrays even the most deserving. Some have withdrawn socially; others have stopped attending lessons altogether.
The psychological damage of being labelled a failure—when you know you did everything right—is a burden no teenager should be forced to carry.
Beyond the students, there is also the untold suffering of parents. Many families invested heavily in their children’s education. Some borrowed money to pay for WAEC and JAMB registration, while others sold personal belongings to afford textbooks, coaching centres, and examination logistics.
They believed the promise of education. They were willing to suffer today for the hope of a better tomorrow. To now be told—without explanation—that their children have failed the very subject that would unlock their future is not just disappointing; it is crushing.
This year’s WAEC English Language result has done more than expose cracks in the system. It has laid bare the depth of moral negligence that continues to haunt Nigeria’s educational institutions.
It is not just a failure of grading or administration; it is a failure of responsibility, of empathy, and of leadership. A nation that cannot guarantee fairness in something as fundamental as student evaluation has no moral authority to ask its young people to believe in merit.
At this point, the matter is no longer just about poor results. It is about public trust. The integrity of WAEC as a regional examination body is now in question.
The silence from its leadership only reinforces the suspicion that something went terribly wrong—and no one is willing to admit it. If this is allowed to stand, it may well mark the beginning of a deeper distrust in our examination system, one that could have far-reaching consequences.
The urgent need now is for transparency. WAEC must come forward and address the concerns openly. A remarking process should be made accessible to affected candidates, especially those with strong UTME results and excellent performance in other WAEC subjects.
The scripts should be re-evaluated with fairness and professionalism. If an error is found, it should be acknowledged, and the students should be issued corrected results promptly. This is not merely about grades; it is about the future of thousands of young Nigerians.
Furthermore, it is time for a broader conversation about the structure and credibility of our examination bodies. The fact that NECO has not yet released its 2025 results offers a narrow window of hope for some candidates, but it also calls attention to the need for alternatives.
Should NECO be strengthened as a national standard? Should WAEC’s monopoly be reviewed? Should independent audits be mandated after every major exam cycle? These are questions the Ministry of Education must no longer avoid.
At the heart of this crisis are real lives—students whose futures are now uncertain, families whose investments have been called into question, and a generation increasingly disillusioned with the promise of hard work and honesty.
If this is not urgently addressed, we risk creating a generation that no longer trusts the system it was raised to believe in.
The failure of the system this year is not just a temporary setback. For some students, it is a life-altering interruption. For others, it is the beginning of doubt—not just in themselves, but in the nation that promised them a future through education.
We owe it to them to do better. We owe it to ourselves to fix what has broken. Because if we do nothing—if we allow a generation of 303 scorers to be shut out of opportunity by F9s they never earned—we will not only fail them. We will fail this country’s future.
About the Author: Emmanuel Adegbite is a Nigerian copywriter, journalist, and blog writer with a strong background in English Education. He specializes in academic content, theological essays, public commentary, and emotionally rich creative writing, including love stories and poetry. His work combines depth, clarity, and a natural, professional tone.
