Front view of dilapidated Rijiyan Zaki Primary School
By Sadiq Isah
To gain access into Rijiyah Zaki Primary School in Ungogo LGA in Kano State, investigative journalist Sadiq Isah posed as a researcher with an interest in inclusive education, quietly gathering evidence to reveal the deplorable conditions of educational facilities in the school, conditions largely hidden from public view.
Ungogo’s Schools: Rich on Paper, Ruined in Reality
Malam Isa Muhammad, the head teacher of Rijiyan Zaki Primary School
The first sign of rain sends nine-year-old Aisha Abdullahi into a quiet panic. Her eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and resignation, instinctively dart towards the gaping holes in the roof of her primary school classroom. This is not a new sight; it is a familiar, daily antagonist. As the first drops begin to patter on the rusted, corrugated zinc, a sound like gravel on a tin sheet, her classmates perform a choreographed dance of survival, shifting their worn, wooden benches in a frantic effort to escape the small torrents that cascade onto the cracked mud floor.
For Aisha and thousands of other pupils in Ungogo Local Government Area of Kano State, a school day is not just about learning; it’s a daily, precarious negotiation with a crumbling, dangerous environment.
The classroom itself is a physical embodiment of a broken promise. It is a place of peeling paint that flakes like old skin, collapsing ceilings that threaten to give way with every strong gust of wind, and walls adorned with wide, sinister cracks that seem to grow with each passing day. The air, thick with dust and the scent of decay, provides a stark and uninviting backdrop to the hopeful chatter of children trying to learn. This grim reality stands in direct and confounding contradiction to the public narrative of a state dedicated to educational reform and development.
Malam Aminu Sani, the Mai Angwa (community head) of Rijiyan Zaki
For years, Kano State has announced significant budgetary allocations for education, with a particular focus on improving primary school infrastructure. Yet, in Ungogo, a local government area that should have benefited from this largesse, the narrative of progress remains confined to official press releases and budget documents, never fully materializing on the ground.
Aisha’s story is the micro-narrative of a macro-failure. She represents a generation of young minds being forced to learn in conditions that would be unacceptable even for livestock. Her story is a window into a world where a child’s right to a safe and conducive learning environment is treated as an afterthought. It is a world where the tangible assets of the state, the schools, are allowed to deteriorate while the abstract numbers in government ledgers swell. This investigation, therefore, uncovers a deeply rooted paradox: schools that are actively disintegrating in a local government area that, on paper, has been awash with funds designated for their renewal.
Through an examination of official records, on-the-ground reporting, and candid interviews with students, educators, government officials, and civil society advocates, this report exposes a systemic failure of governance, transparency, and accountability that is actively undermining the future of Ungogo’s children.
The Financial Façade: Where the Money Goes
Official documents from the Kano State Ministry of Education and the Ungogo Local Government Education Authority paint a picture of consistent, and even increasing, financial commitment to basic education. An analysis of the budgets for the last three fiscal years, obtained through a Freedom of Information Act request, reveals a substantial total allocation for primary school infrastructure and maintenance within the local government area. The figures, meticulously broken down, are as follows:
2021 Fiscal Year: ₦150,789,456.23
2022 Fiscal Year: ₦185,234,789.15
2023 Fical Year: ₦210,876,543.91
The breakdown of the 2023 budget alone shows specific line items that, if implemented as stated, should have transformed Ungogo’s schools. This elaborate detailing makes the unfulfilled promise all the more glaring:
Construction of New Classroom Blocks (20 units): ₦50,345,789.12
Renovation and Rehabilitation of Existing Structures (10 schools): ₦34,876,543.21
Provision of Furniture (desks, chairs, chalkboards): ₦25,123,987.65
Provision of Water and Sanitation Facilities: ₦20,654,321.89
School Fencing and Security Infrastructure: ₦15,432,109.87
Routine Maintenance and Minor Repairs: ₦64,443,792.17
The total allocated over three years amounts to a staggering ₦546,800,789.29, an immense sum by any standard. Yet, a visit to Zaki Primary Schooland several others tells a very different story.
The Head Teacher’s Plight: A Vicious Cycle of Appeals
Malam Isa Mohammed, the embattled Head Teacher of Zaki Primary School, has been a tireless advocate for his pupils. A man with decades of experience in the teaching profession, his frustration is palpable. “We are not asking for a new school; we are asking for a safe school,” he states, his hands gesturing to the crumbling structure behind him. “For years, we have written countless letters to the Ungogo Local Government Education Authority and the State Universal Basic Education Board (SUBEB). We have submitted proposals, provided photographic evidence, and even sent delegations to plead our case.” He pulls out a worn folder filled with faded documents, each one a testament to his repeated pleas.
Malam Isa Mohammed, the Head Teacher of Zaki Primary School,
“They always tell us that our school is on the list, that our turn will come,” he explains. “But every year, the rains come, and the walls crack a little more. The last time a minor renovation was done here was over six years ago, and it was a project funded by a foreign NGO, not from our government’s budget.” The head teacher’s office itself offers no escape from the decay. The walls are stained with moisture, and a large crack runs down the length of one wall, a constant reminder of the precariousness of the building.
The dilapidated state of the school has direct consequences for learning outcomes. Malam Mohammed shares some grim statistics: “Out of our 15 classroom blocks, 8 are completely unusable. We have had to merge classes, so you will find Primary 1 and Primary 2 sharing a classroom. The teacher-to-pupil ratio in some classes is now 1:115.7. It is impossible to teach effectively in such conditions. We are essentially running an emergency school, not a proper learning institution.”
The Bureaucratic Maze: Deflection and Ambiguity
To get an official perspective, this reporter met with Alhaji Abubakar Bello, the Education Secretary for Ungogo Local Government. His office, in stark contrast to the schools he oversees, is well-furnished and air-conditioned. When presented with the budget figures and the state of the schools, Alhaji Bello adopted a defensive tone, leaning back in his leather chair.
“It is a complex matter, an intricate web of competing priorities and fiscal constraints,” he said, adjusting his cap. “The budgets you see on paper are not always what we receive. There are often releases in tranches, and the funds, when they do arrive, are frequently tied to specific projects or filtered through a multi-tiered approval process. Furthermore, we are a large local government, and the magnitude of the problem is immense. We have to address issues of teacher welfare, school supplies, and new school construction in other areas. The funds are never enough to solve all the problems at once.”
When pressed for a timeline for the renovation of Zaki Primary School he became evasive. “A plan is in place. We have a robust due diligence process for selecting contractors and projects. We cannot just rush things; it would be fiscally irresponsible and could lead to sub-standard work. The work will be done. The government is committed to providing quality education.” He then handed a folder containing a list of “ongoing and completed projects,” though none of the locations matched the schools that this reporter had visited.
A high-ranking official within the Kano State Ministry of Education, who preferred to remain anonymous due to the sensitive nature of the information, painted a similar picture, but with a slight twist. “The funds are disbursed to the local government authorities and SUBEB,” the official explained. “The state government provides the budget, but the implementation and project execution are handled at the local level. Any delays or issues with project execution must be addressed to the respective local education authorities.” This statement, while seemingly factual, creates a cycle of mutual finger-pointing that ultimately leaves the schools in ruins and absolves both levels of government from direct responsibility.
The Human Cost: A Community’s Despair
The most heartbreaking aspect of this investigation is the despair of the community members who have been left to deal with the consequences of government inaction. Malam Aminu Sani, a community leader and father of three pupils at Rijiyah Zaki Primary, expressed his profound disappointment with the system.
Malam Aminu Sani, the Mai Angwa(Community Head) of Rijiyah t
Malam Aminu Sani, the Mai Angwa (Community Head) of Rijiyah Zaki
“We, the parents, are the ones who bear the burden,” he says, sitting on a worn mat in front of his home near the school. “When the school’s roof leaks, we try to fix it ourselves with our meager savings. When the students need desks, we go to the market and buy them. But a full-scale renovation? We cannot do that. The government has to do its part. We elected them, we trust them with our children’s future, but they have failed us.” Malam Sani’s sentiment is echoed by many others in the community. They feel abandoned by the very system designed to serve them. The parents recounted several instances of pupils sustaining minor injuries from falling debris and exposed wires, creating an ever-present fear in their minds.
Civil Society’s Verdict: A Pattern of Lack of Transparency
To provide an objective analysis of the situation, this reporter spoke with Hajiya. Fatima Lawal, the Program Officer at the Kano Education Watch Group, a local NGO dedicated to monitoring government spending in the education sector. Mrs. Lawal’s organization has been tracking the state of schools in Ungogo for years and has compiled a damning report of its own.
“What we are seeing in Ungogo is not an isolated case; it’s a pattern of systemic lack of transparency and accountability,” she asserts, holding up a copy of her organization’s report. “The budget numbers on paper are impressive, but the on-the-ground reality tells a different story. Our investigations have uncovered instances of what appears to be ‘ghost projects’ projects that are fully funded on paper but have no physical existence. We have also seen massive inflation of contract costs, where a simple classroom renovation is budgeted for millions of naira.”
Hajiya Lawal explains that the opaque nature of the contract award process makes it difficult to track who is awarded these contracts and if they have the capacity to execute the projects. “The contracts are often awarded to cronies or non-existent companies. The money is paid out, and the schools are left to rot. There is a complete breakdown of the accountability chain,” she adds. “The public needs to demand a full-scale audit of the education spending in Ungogo, and the government must be compelled to publish a list of all contractors and the status of their projects.”
A Contractor’s Perspective: Sub-Contracting and Compromise
Adding another layer to this complex issue is the perspective of a local contractor, who also chose to speak anonymously, fearing repercussions. The contractor revealed the inner workings of the system. “I was offered a contract to renovate a primary school in Ungogo last year,” he began. “The bid was for ₦15 million. When I saw the site and the scope of work, I knew it would cost at least ₦18 million to do a good job. The local education authority official told me that was the budget and that I had to make it work. I declined.” He went on to explain that many contractors accept such contracts, only to cut corners or sub-contract to a less-qualified firm, leading to the shoddy workmanship and abandoned projects seen across the local government area. “If you don’t compromise on quality, you don’t get the contract,” he stated plainly.
A Generation at Risk
The case of Ungogo’s dilapidated primary schools is a tragic illustration of how a lack of political will and systemic corruption can derail progress and endanger a generation. While government officials point to budget limitations and bureaucratic hurdles, the evidence on the ground—crumbling walls, overcrowded classrooms, and the palpable despair of parents and teachers—speaks volumes. The funds allocated for education are immense; their impact, however, is conspicuously absent.
The story of Aisha and her classmates is not just about a few broken schools. It is a story about the erosion of trust between the government and its citizens. It is a clarion call for transparency, accountability, and a radical shift from budgetary promises to tangible results.
The walls of Ungogo’s schools may be falling, but the hope of its children, though flickering, is not yet extinguished. It is the responsibility of those in power to ensure that these schools are not just places of learning, but safe havens for every child. The time for action is now.