By Emameh Gabriel
The much touted Edo BEST programme by former governor Godwin Obaseki’s administration stands as a masterclass in political sleight of hand. Thanks to Governor Monday Okpebhole’s recent steps to steer the state back on course, eliminating the superficial initiatives and memorandums of understanding (MOUs) designed by the Obaseki administration, which were perceived as misleading the trusting Edo public. His new measures, spanning various sectors including education, have already begun to make a noticeable impact on the lives of the people of the state over the past few months.
The Edo BEST initiative was aimed at revolutionising the state’s education sector, but a closer examination of the programme’s implementation and outcomes raises concerns about its effectiveness. Touted as the saviour of Edo State’s education system, it was less about building a brighter future and more about constructing a façade of progress while the foundations of the state’s education system crumbled beneath the weight of empty rhetoric. It was a con, a well orchestrated illusion, and the people of Edo State were the unwitting audience, clapping for a magician who had no tricks up his sleeve, only smoke and mirrors.
Critics argue that Edo BEST was more of a public relations stunt than a genuine effort to improve education in Edo State. Despite the programme’s lofty goals, many schools in the state remained in disrepair, with inadequate infrastructure and a shortage of qualified teachers.
Let us begin with the name itself: Edo BEST. The acronym, which stands for Edo Basic Education Sector Transformation, is a linguistic masterpiece of deception. It promises the “best,” but delivers the bare minimum. It is the political equivalent of a fast-food meal packaged to look appetising, but leaving you hungry and unsatisfied. Obaseki, the self-proclaimed architect of this so-called transformation, sold the programme as a revolutionary overhaul of Edo’s education system. But what did it truly achieve? A few flashy headlines, some glossy brochures, and a lot of hot air.
The cornerstone of Edo BEST was its promise to train teachers and equip them with modern tools to deliver quality education. On paper, it sounded noble. In practice, it was a farce. Teachers were herded into training sessions that felt more like indoctrination camps than professional development workshops. They were handed tablets – shiny, new, and utterly useless without the infrastructure to support them. These tablets, which were supposed to be the harbingers of a digital revolution, became nothing more than expensive paperweights in classrooms with no electricity, no internet, and no functional desks. The irony is almost poetic: a programme designed to modernise education was rendered obsolete by the very conditions it failed to address.
And what of the students? The supposed beneficiaries of this grand transformation? They were left to swim in a system that was as broken as it had always been. Classrooms remained overcrowded, textbooks were scarce, and the quality of education continued to decline. Edo BEST was supposed to be a lifeline, but it turned out to be an anchor, dragging the hopes and dreams of Edo’s children deeper into the abyss of mediocrity. Obaseki’s promise of a brighter future was nothing more than a mirage, shimmering in the distance but always out of reach.
But perhaps the most egregious aspect of Edo BEST was its use as a political tool. Obaseki, ever the shrewd politician, wielded the programme like a weapon, using it to bludgeon his opponents and silence his critics. He painted himself as the saviour of Edo’s education system, a visionary leader who had the courage to tackle the state’s most pressing needs. But behind the curtain, Edo BEST was little more than a publicity stunt, a carefully crafted narrative designed to bolster Obaseki’s image while the real issues festered. It was a classic case of style over substance, of form over function.
Let us not forget the financial aspect of this grand deception. Edo BEST was not a cheap endeavour. Millions of naira were poured into the programme, money that could have been used to address the systemic issues plaguing Edo’s education system. Instead, it was squandered on half-baked initiatives and empty gestures. The people of Edo State were told that this was an investment in their future, but in reality, it was a withdrawal from their present. The funds that could have been used to build schools, provide scholarships, and improve infrastructure were instead funneled into a programme that delivered little more than photo ops and press releases.
And what of the long-term impact of Edo BEST? What legacy has it left behind? The answer is simple: none. The programme, like so many of Obaseki’s initiatives, was a flash in the pan, a fleeting moment of excitement that quickly faded into obscurity. The schools that were supposed to be transformed remain in disrepair, the teachers who were supposed to be empowered remain disillusioned, and the students who were supposed to be inspired remain neglected. Edo BEST was not a transformation; it was a betrayal.
In the end, Edo BEST was not about education. It was not about the children of Edo State or their future. It was about Godwin Obaseki and his insatiable hunger for power and prestige. It was about creating the illusion of progress while the real work was left undone. It was about conning the people of Edo State into believing that they were witnessing a revolution, when in reality, they were being sold a bill of goods.
The people of Edo State have been fooled once.
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