I have admired you from a distance for quite some time. Your passion for teaching and the energy you bring into the classroom are impossible to ignore. At Ezemu Girls, Ubulu-Uku, the impact of your work is evident in the young minds you inspire, children who now think boldly and dream ambitiously because a teacher believed in them. Within the educational landscape, especially across the primary and secondary sub-sectors, your name rings with reverence among the new school: Teacher Chike.
It was, therefore, with great concern that I learned about your predicament during the recent verification exercise conducted by the Delta State Government. In the video you shared on Facebook, you narrated how your age became a point of contention when it reached your turn to be screened. You explained that you were asked to support your claims with school credentials, documents currently in Abuja, or swear an affidavit. You spoke with frustration, calling on the Governor to intervene, maintaining your refusal to swear to what you describe as a “forced age,” and even suggesting that you might quit the job to which you have already sacrificed so much, including leaving Abuja, where you earned far more, to serve in a community school.
Your pain is understandable. Nobody wants to feel doubted after committing their life and passion to public service. And as someone who appreciates the often-uncelebrated labour of teachers, I empathise deeply with the emotional weight of your experience.
However, I also believe that taking your grievances to social media may not have been the most effective or efficient route to securing justice. Why? Because within the framework of this verification exercise, you were not alone. Many others, for varying reasons, were also asked to clarify seeming discrepancies in their ages or certificates. And you know as well as I do that for years, the system had decayed to the point where basic records were unreliable, and age manipulation, however uncomfortable to discuss, was far from uncommon. When the government finally initiated a cleanup, many of us sighed in relief, hopeful that the process would free up space for younger, qualified citizens waiting for an opportunity to serve.
I know civil servants who went through similar challenges. Some had their ages queried and were instructed to provide supporting documents. Many travelled long distances to retrieve their records. Others could not provide proof because such records simply did not exist. Yet, the majority complied without resorting to public confrontation, not because their experiences were easier, but because they chose to follow the established channels for redress.
This is where, my brother, I feel your approach might have missed a step. Before going to social media, it was expected, indeed encouraged, that you explored the institutional channels designed to address such concerns as a civil servant. You have the Civil Service Commission, chaired by Lady Roseline Amioku. You have the Office of the Head of Service, led by Dr (Mrs) Mininim Oseji. You have the Permanent Secretary in the Commission and even the Commissioner for your Ministry. These are people whose doors, at least for genuine cases, are not closed. They exist precisely so that grievances like yours can be addressed swiftly and fairly.
You argued that the age benchmark of 12 for completing primary school is flawed and that some children finish by 10. That may be true in rare cases. But the benchmark was not set to punish teachers like you or journalists like me; it was implemented to curb decades-long abuse, where individuals already in their 70s repeatedly forged documents to remain in service, blocking the chances of others and straining the system.
The verification exercise itself is not the enemy. It is a necessary but uncomfortable step toward restoring sanity, transparency, and credibility in the civil service.
Still, I do not dismiss your feelings. I understand your frustration. I acknowledge your sacrifices. And I agree that no committed civil servant should feel pushed to the point of despair. You are an asset to the system, not a liability to be discarded.
This is why I join you, within the boundaries of civil service rules, to appeal for a more compassionate approach to handling such cases. I strongly recommend that the verification committee establish a Redress Desk (if they have not done so yet): a dedicated avenue where civil servants with genuine concerns can seek clarification, appeal decisions, or request a review without fear or humiliation.
Such a desk would not only prevent cases like yours from escalating unnecessarily, but it would also strengthen confidence in the process and ensure that the government’s good intentions under the MORE Agenda are not overshadowed by isolated complaints.
Because, truthfully, as things stand, there is no systemic injustice. But when grievances, especially those amplified on social media, echo repeatedly without structured resolution, they risk creating the perception of injustice, even when fairness is the underlying goal.
Teacher Chike, you are valued. Your service matters. Your voice deserves to be heard, but through the channels that guarantee not only empathy but genuine resolution. Do not quit. Do not give up. You are needed, now more than ever, by the children who look up to you and by a system that still relies on sincere educators like you to rebuild public trust.
Let us work towards solutions that protect both integrity and humanity. That is the balance our civil service must strive for. And that is the balance your case calls attention to.
