Professor Oloyede asked us to defer congratulations “till, if God wills, this assignment comes to a successful end.” It has. He met JAMB on a stretcher. The surgery held. The patient lived. He is leaving it walking — with a solid balance sheet, with dignity and efficiency, and with the dangerous idea that a Nigerian agency can work… As he steps down on 31 May, the task now falls to the new Registrar/CEO, Professor Segun Aina. He inherits a patient that can walk, and a public that finally believes the doctor. If he keeps the books open and the cameras on, the surgery will not be in vain.
When Professor Ishaq Oloyede was named the tenth registrar and chief executive of JAMB in August 2016, I sent him an unusual text message. He didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he replied to the nation, also in an unusual tone. Ten years later, I understand why. I will come back to this shortly.
My earliest recollection of Oloyede was 45 years ago when I was studying for my A-Levels at the School of Basic Studies, Kwara State College of Technology, Ilorin. “KwaraTech,” as students fondly called it, was the most famous higher institution in the old Kwara State, which included the Okene and Kabba districts in present-day Kogi State.
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It was at KwaraTech that I first heard of Is’haq Oloyede in 1981. That year he became the University of Ilorin’s “star boy” when he bagged a First Class in Islamic Studies at the convocation graced by Nigeria’s first Executive President, Alhaji Shehu Shagari. The feat startled many because the campus gist was that Oloyede, like some of his peers, was at university mainly for Muslim Students’ Society activism. I knew that world well: I was General Secretary of the MSS branch at KwaraTech.
He became a role model and I followed his path as he traversed the academic world, culminating in his 2007 appointment as the first alumnus vice chancellor of his alma mater. He ran Unilorin for five years without a single strike — in a country where the academic calendar was a punchline. I had watched him long enough to know: he combines faith with unimpeachable integrity and ruthless accountability. So when his name was announced for JAMB in August 2016, I didn’t dance excitedly. I didn’t post an “hurray” either.
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I knew JAMB was haemorrhaging and needed a consultant physician to wheel it to the theatre. It was an open secret that “special centres” were franchises owned by some staff and their cronies. JAMB scores had unofficial price tags, with some teachers and parents actively condoning the evil value chain. For nearly a decade up to 2016, the Board remitted a meagre ₦50 million to the national treasury, while billions were likely swallowed by “ten-finger snakes,” as the nation later came to realise. Indeed, many parents had lost every iota of trust in JAMB, even before their wards sat for it. And there were simmering agitations for government to scrap the Board.
Ten years later, I’m breaking that rule. The assignment has been completed, excellently. The operation is successful. The patient is not just alive; it walks. Oloyede made CBT the standard, with CCTV cameras in every exam hall, biometrics of every thumb, and results released in hours. The once ubiquitous “miracle centres” didn’t just close; they became folklore to the Gen Z tribe. He performed clinical surgery on the Board’s finances and blocked the leakages by automating payments that killed off scratch cards.
It was the depth of those challenges that pervaded my mind in 2016 when I sent Oloyede a text offering my sympathies and prayers, rather than the usual congratulations. He replied, but not by SMS, after taking over from Professor Dibu Ojerinde on 8 August, 2016. In his first official speech titled “Let’s do it together: The biggest room in the world,” Oloyede said what few appointees dare to say: “To tell the truth, those who I appreciate most are those who sympathise with me, based on what they know of the enormity of the task, and those who pray for me… You do not congratulate a medical doctor about to perform surgery. It is only after a successful operation that such a person can be congratulated.”
He is not only brutally frank when digging for the truth, he does not give in to sanctimonious flattery by palace courtiers. Hence, he set his own ground rule: “Whether my period here is short, truncated, or long, what is important is to do my bit and leave the stage better than we met it. Therefore, congratulatory messages are better deferred till, if God wills, this assignment comes to a successful end.”
Ten years later, I’m breaking that rule. The assignment has been completed, excellently. The operation is successful. The patient is not just alive; it walks. Oloyede made CBT the standard, with CCTV cameras in every exam hall, biometrics of every thumb, and results released in hours. The once ubiquitous “miracle centres” didn’t just close; they became folklore to the Gen Z tribe. He performed clinical surgery on the Board’s finances and blocked the leakages by automating payments that killed off scratch cards.
Through his ingenious financial re-engineering, JAMB earned revenue and remitted over ₦60 billion to the national treasury in ten years. He walked into Nigeria’s two minefields — religion and region — without the usual boots and emerged unscathed. He fought rumours with records, every week, in the JAMB Bulletin produced by his media team. He came with no godfather to please and no tenure extension to lobby for. That is a freedom most appointees never have. It let him choose the hard, right thing — every time.
Oloyede admitted in 2016 that “the biggest room in the world is the room for improvement.” Of course that room is still open. I recall visiting Mr Oloyede in his office in 2020 to flag the early gaps in CAPS implementation. He was already ahead of it. Right there, he directed his team to issue an official circular and press statement warning institutions against admission racketeering and attempts to sidestep CAPS.
…hearty congratulations, Professor Ishaq Oloyede, on your successful tenure and superlative performance. Now the boy in Oro and the girl in Oron can believe that their brain, not their bribe, will open the university gate. In this country, that is no small thing.
But the house is no longer on fire. Ten years is not paradise: rural candidates still travel to find CBT centres. Some parents still hunt for shortcuts. Some universities still treat CAPS like a mere suggestion. Technology, as the 2025 experience showed, still stumbles.
But here is the difference: We now have a JAMB that admits when it bleeds. A Registrar who publishes his books. A candidate, like Owoeye Daniella Jesudunsin, who is sure her 372/400 was earned, not bought. Professor Oloyede asked us to defer congratulations “till, if God wills, this assignment comes to a successful end.” It has. He met JAMB on a stretcher. The surgery held. The patient lived. He is leaving it walking — with a solid balance sheet, with dignity and efficiency, and with the dangerous idea that a Nigerian agency can work.
As he steps down on 31 May, the task now falls to the new Registrar/CEO, Professor Segun Aina. He inherits a patient that can walk, and a public that finally believes the doctor. If he keeps the books open and the cameras on, the surgery will not be in vain.
So, hearty congratulations, Professor Ishaq Oloyede, on your successful tenure and superlative performance. Now the boy in Oro and the girl in Oron can believe that their brain, not their bribe, will open the university gate. In this country, that is no small thing.
Aliu Akoshile, the publisher/editor-in-chief of NatureNews, writes from Abuja.
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