The Artisans of Igun — Brass Casters and the Secrets They Pass Down
Edwin Ogie Library is a dynamic platform for education, focused on fostering mindful communication and building positive relationships by eliminating linguistic errors. Our mission is to enhance connections through thoughtful language, emotional regulation, and self-awareness, providing educational resources that inspire personal growth. We aim to promote well-being, peace, and meaningful connections, offering a space for individuals committed to refining their communication skills.
This is a fictional story inspired by real patterns we see across Nigerian exam seasons. Names and places are changed — but the choices, pressures, and consequences are painfully familiar.
Read time: ~7 minutes · Tags: exams, integrity, students, parents
“A shortcut won’t change your future — it will only change how prepared you are to live it.”
Chinedu sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the surfaced light of his phone. Past questions, shared as blurry photos in the group chat, flashed on the screen. His mother had called earlier to remind him that the whole family had invested in this exam season — bus fares, a borrowed laptop, tutors who worked late. "We can't waste this," she said. "This is your chance."
He was good — smart enough that a teacher once called him "the quiet calculator" — but he had missed classes while juggling a part-time job. In the past months his practice scores were patchy. When a schoolmate mentioned a "special centre" where results were "arranged" for a fee, it sounded less like a crime and more like insurance.
So, the evening before the SSCE external exam, with his heart thudding, he folded a tiny scrap of paper and slipped it into his pocket. The promise of a pass felt like oxygen — necessary. The cost felt small: a few thousand naira and a favour done to a well-placed invigilator.
On the exam morning the centre hummed with nerves. Chinedu sat, hands clammy, reached for the scrap and told himself it was only for reassurance. Someone else in the row tapped their phone. The invigilator, an older teacher he recognised, walked past with a nod that took payment without a receipt. The test began.
He used the note. Twice. He answered quickly. He left the hall feeling like a winner and like someone who had betrayed himself at the same time. That evening the family toasted with small cups of palm wine. "We told you so," his uncle said, clapping him on the back, while Chinedu smiled and tasted the sourness under the sweetness.
A week later a public announcement named the centre, the invigilator, and a list of affected candidates. Drills at the exam board had flagged irregular answer patterns; camera footage showed unauthorised items in pockets. Chinedu’s result was cancelled. He learned of the cancellation the way everyone learns bad news nowadays — a forwarded message, and then a call from his school principal.
He felt humiliation first, then anger that landed equally on himself and on the adults who'd asked him to take a "supportive risk." The family who had celebrated now talked of the lost money and the lost time. His tutor said little; the proud silence of disappointment wrapped their house. Worst of all: the internal knowledge that he had not earned the certificate he thought he had bought.
In the months that followed, scholarship opportunities evaporated, a university offer was postponed, and invitations to join a technical apprenticeship were withdrawn. The cost was not only the exam — it was trust, options, and the quiet erosion of confidence.
After a long, raw conversation with his mother, Chinedu decided to retake the exam the honest way. He apologised to his teacher, told the truth to a mentor at a local youth centre, and started a disciplined plan: short daily study blocks, deliberate practice on past papers, and small jobs that didn't eat into study time.
It wasn't dramatic. There were no sudden grants or a movie montage. There was steady, stubborn work. A year later, he sat the exam again. This time his results were real. He didn't top his class, but what he gained was far greater: a durable confidence that came from knowing he had earned what he had.
Later, when asked why he told his story, he said: "I want others to know that the quick fix only fixes nothing. It steals your chance to grow." He volunteered at the youth centre to tutor other students and spoke in small parent meetings about what pressure had pushed him toward.
Use honest practice to build skill and confidence. Start here:
Key takeaway: Cheating may look like a shortcut, but it steals preparedness, trust and future opportunity. The harder path — disciplined study and honest support — pays back with durable confidence and real opportunity.
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