By Joel Arinze
There is an old saying that a teacher’s reward awaits in heaven. But that was never intended to be a government policy. Somehow, Nigeria seems to have adopted it as one.
Across the world, nations that understand how progress truly works invest heavily in those who shape young minds. They recognise that a country’s future is determined by the quality of its classrooms today. Here, however, we have perfected a strange inversion that see us lavish comfort on those who interpret the law while neglecting those who produce the lawyers, the judges, and the citizens who populate our courts.
On June 17, 2026, President Bola Tinubu commissioned ten newly completed residential units for Court of Appeal judges in the Katampe district of Abuja. The very next day, Vice President Kashim Shettima, representing the President, commissioned another ten units for Federal High Court judges at the same location. These are not modest accommodations.
Each is a fully furnished five-bedroom duplex with detached boys’ quarters, set within a dedicated security estate featuring asphalt-paved roads, full electricity supply, water reticulation, centralized backup generators, comprehensive perimeter fencing, and a secured gatehouse. And the rollout does not stop there. On July 7, 2026, the FCT Administration will commission twenty-two units for FCT High Court judges, the highest number yet, all built to the same standard. Groundbreaking ceremonies have also been held for judges of the National Industrial Court and the Code of Conduct Tribunal.
Speaking at the commissioning, President Tinubu, represented by the Attorney General of the Federation, Lateef Fagbemi, described the project as a strategic investment in the rule of law, arguing that providing secure accommodation and conducive living environments for judges was central to ensuring an efficient, independent judiciary. Vice President Shettima echoed the sentiment: “You cannot expect judges to dispense justice without fear or favour when their basic comfort, security and peace of mind are left to chance.”
FCT Minister Nyesom Wike, who has overseen the project, defended it against critics who accused him of land grabbing. He insisted the land had been allocated to a construction company over fifteen years ago but remained undeveloped until the FCT Administration revoked the allocation and transformed it into infrastructure for the judiciary.
On the surface, this appears a commendable gesture for judicial welfare. But beneath the ribbon-cutting and applause lies a troubling question: why does the state find billions for judges but can only find excuses for teachers?
Just weeks before these grand commissioning ceremonies, teachers in the FCT were on strike. On April 20, 2026, primary and secondary school teachers in the Federal Capital Territory downed tools, forcing the closure of public schools across the territory. Their grievances were neither abstract nor frivolous.
They were fighting for the implementation of a 2025 ministerial committee report on their entitlements, the payment of outstanding allowances, and a resolution to the controversial vacancy requirement that had blocked their promotions.
For seven days, classrooms remained empty. The pattern is as predictable as it is shameful: teachers are forced to beg, strike, and suffer before a government that has billions for judicial palaces deigns to remember them.
On April 26, 2026, the union suspended the strike—but only conditionally. What secured the suspension? A pledge from Minister Wike of ₦5 billion monthly, comprising ₦2 billion from the FCT’s Internally Generated Revenue and ₦3 billion from Area Councils’ statutory allocation. The union itself described the suspension as conditional, warning that the industrial action could resume if the agreements were not honoured. No teacher shall be victimised for participating in the strike, the union declared—a telling indicator of the toxic environment teachers operate in.
The disparities between judges and teachers are not merely symbolic; they are systemic and quantifiable. Nigeria’s total public investment in education in 2026 amounts to just 2.14 per cent of the country’s Gross Domestic Product—far below UNESCO’s recommended benchmark of 4 to 6 per cent of GDP for developing countries. For context, South Africa spends 6.7 per cent of GDP on education, Brazil 5.6 per cent, Kenya 4.8 per cent, India 4.1 per cent, and Ghana 3.4 per cent. Nigeria is at the bottom of the developing world on this measure. The federal government’s 2026 education allocation is approximately 6.1 per cent of the national budget—again, far below UNESCO’s recommendation of 15 to 20 per cent.
Meanwhile, the contrast in personal remuneration is equally damning. A Nigerian professor earns an average of $366 monthly—among the lowest-paid in Africa. A South African professor earns more than thirteen times that amount annually—$57,471 compared to Nigeria’s $4,400. Even countries with far smaller economies than Nigeria—Uganda, Kenya, Eswatini, Lesotho, Gabon—pay their professors significantly better. The average experienced secondary school teacher in Nigeria earns approximately ₦491,318 annually according to industry data, while primary school teachers earn even less.
The broader context is even more alarming. According to UNICEF, Nigeria accounts for 15 per cent of out-of-school children worldwide. Approximately 7.6 million girls, many from the northern regions, remain deprived of the opportunity to go to school. These are not just statistics; they are a wake-up call.
The APC has hailed the construction of the judges’ quarters as a strategic investment in the administration of justice and a demonstration of President Tinubu’s commitment to strengthening democratic institutions. But what of the investment in the institutions that produce the lawyers, the judges, the very citizens who populate these courts? The APC praises Wike as a committed and result-oriented leader for executing these projects. Yet, is it not curious that the same minister who can find billions for judicial villas could only offer a conditional pledge of ₦5 billion monthly—spread across several area councils—to settle teachers who had been striking for months?
There is a fundamental question here: what exactly is Nigeria rewarding? The judiciary is a crucial arm of government, and decent accommodation is not an unreasonable expectation. But the magnitude of the contrast matters. Every judge, every doctor, every police officer, every engineer, and even every president once sat in the classroom of a teacher. Yet, those who laid the foundation are left unrewarded, struggling to live with dignity. The state which finds billions for judges can only find excuses for teachers.
Education stakeholders have repeatedly expressed concern over inadequate funding, deteriorating infrastructure, teacher shortages, and declining learning outcomes across the country. UNESCO and other international development agencies have consistently urged governments to increase education financing as a prerequisite for sustainable economic growth and social development. The government’s response? A federal budget that allocates just 6.1 per cent to education while celebrating the commissioning of judges’ quarters as a major achievement.
If Nigeria continues to treat its teachers this way, who will inspire the next generation? Who will build the intellectual foundation on which our future depends? No nation can rise above the quality of its teachers. Until we learn to honour the builders while they are still on earth, not just in heaven, our development will remain an illusion. The contrast could not be starker: palaces for judges, poverty for teachers. The choice Nigeria makes today will determine the nation it becomes tomorrow. I saw the judges’ mansions, and I wept for Nigeria’s teachers.
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