Self Education: The Education You Never Received In School -By Dr Ogbeiwi Great

The quiet tragedy of modern schooling is not that it fails to teach, but that it teaches too narrowly, too safely, too obediently. Beneath the polished desks and memorised scripts, a deeper hunger is left unattended, the hunger to know beyond permission, to think without a fence. What was offered as education often becomes, in retrospect, a curated corridor, not a vast field. And somewhere along the line, curiosity is softened into compliance. It is often forgotten that some of the most formidable minds in history were not products of rigid classrooms alone. Malcolm X rebuilt himself through prison reading, devouring dictionaries page by page like a man reclaiming stolen breath. Abraham Lincoln was shaped more by candlelight reading than by formal schooling. Knowledge, in their lives, was not delivered, it was hunted.

What schools rarely teach is how to teach oneself. The system is designed to answer questions, not to ignite them. Yet the most dangerous and liberating force in human history has always been the question that refuses silence. In Pedagogy of the Oppressed, it was argued that education must be a practice of freedom, not a banking system where facts are deposited into passive minds. But how often is that freedom truly given?

Self-education begins where the curriculum ends. It is born in the uncomfortable realisation that the world is wider than any syllabus, deeper than any exam. It is in late-night readings that stretch the mind until it trembles, in podcasts that disturb settled thoughts, in arguments that leave one changed. No bell rings to signal its start, no certificate marks its completion. It is a lifelong rebellion.

Consider the stark figures. According to global literacy and learning reports, millions graduate each year, yet a large proportion struggle with critical thinking and problem-solving in real-world contexts. Degrees are held, yet direction is missing. The paradox sits quietly: educated, yet not awakened. As Peter Drucker once noted, “Knowledge has to be improved, challenged, and increased constantly, or it vanishes.” The classroom alone cannot sustain that demand.

History itself whispers this truth. During the Renaissance, knowledge was not confined to institutions; it spilled into streets, workshops, and personal study. Artists dissected corpses to understand anatomy, thinkers challenged the heavens themselves. Learning was raw, self-driven, and often dangerous. Would such transformation have been possible within a rigid curriculum?

In many postcolonial societies, including Nigeria, the inherited education system still mirrors colonial priorities, producing clerks rather than creators, followers rather than thinkers. It is not accidental. Systems of control have always understood that an educated mind can be useful, but a self-educated mind can be unpredictable. And unpredictability unsettles power.

There is also a quieter, more intimate dimension. Self-education is not only about knowledge, it is about identity. It is where a person confronts their ignorance without shame, where they rebuild their worldview piece by piece. In Think and Grow Rich, it was suggested that the mind becomes what it feeds upon. If that is true, then what one chooses to study privately becomes a form of self-creation.

The digital age has made this pursuit both easier and more chaotic. Entire libraries now rest inside a phone. Lectures from Harvard University and other elite institutions can be accessed freely. Yet distraction has multiplied alongside access. The same device that can educate can also sedate. The question is no longer availability, but discipline.

It must also be said that self-education is not romantic ease. It demands a brutal honesty with oneself. There are no grades to chase, no teachers to impress. Only the mirror remains. It is in that mirror that one must ask, what do I truly know? What have I only memorised? What have I avoided learning because it unsettles me?

A proverb from the Yoruba people says, “Ọgbọ́n ju agbára lọ,” wisdom is greater than strength. But wisdom is rarely handed over neatly. It is wrestled from books, from failures, from deliberate seeking. In the silence of personal study, a different kind of strength is forged, one that cannot be easily shaken by propaganda or shallow noise.

So the question lingers, almost hauntingly: what education were you denied, not by malice, but by design? And more importantly, what will you now teach yourself? Because in the end, the most important classroom is the one you build alone, where curiosity is the teacher, discipline is the timetable, and truth, however uncomfortable, is the final exam.