In Nigeria, there’s a disturbingly haunting temporariness in the appellative identity of every university that derives its name from its location.
If the current trend holds, they will sooner or later be renamed after a dead or living politician.
The University of Ibadan; the University of Nigeria, Nsukka; the University of Lagos; the University of Calabar; the University of Port Harcourt; the University of Benin; the University of Ilorin; the University of Jos; the University of Uyo; and the federal universities in Lafia, Wukari, Dutse, Gusau, Gashua, Dutsin-Ma, Kashere, Birnin Kebbi, Lokoja, and Otuoke would be wise not to be too cocky in the stability of their onomastic and institutional identities.
I often joke that those of us who graduated from Nigerian universities that were named after cultural or political figures from their very beginning or in the inchoate stages of their existence are the true “first-generation” universities because alma maters are not in danger of a sudden, unwelcome onomastic and institutional rebirth in the image of a dead or living politician.
Seriously, though, we need to have an honest, soul-searching national conversation about the violent disrespect for institutional identity that the abrupt, top-down renaming of well-established universities represents. Renaming a university that already has a strong institutional identity to honour a dead politician is problematic for historical, academic, political, and emotional reasons.
Although people in government may not know this, universities are repositories of tradition, intellectual heritage, and regional identity. It is expected to represent knowledge, critical thinking, and universal values, not the legacy of an individual whose contributions to society may be narrow, contested, or politically motivated.
Take the University of Abuja that has now been arbitrarily renamed Yakubu Gowon University. It’s the first university to be located in our capital. Its old name communicates its locational identity, which is central to its uniqueness. It has been known by that name for more than three decades. Renaming it after a person, however historically significant that person may be, erases the core of its identity, especially after several decades.
The name University of Maiduguri, now renamed Muhammadu Buhari University, connects the institution to a geographic and cultural region. The school even has a catchy slogan that derives from its informal short form that I absolutely love: “If you want to be made, come to UNIMAID.” It’s a powerfully poetic yet irresistibly persuasive marketing slogan. It signalises the message that the university is the laboratory for churning out successful people. Replacing the school’s name with a political name robs it of this unique promotional poetry. It also erases and rewrites its institutional memory.
That’s not the only damage. Renaming well-established universities after politicians also risks turning the universities into political monuments. It suggests that universities are mere tools for political patronage or historical revisionism, not neutral centers of learning and research.
Renaming universities that already have a healthy, time-honored institutional profile also creates branding anarchy. Certificates issued by the universities, research papers written by their faculty and archived in global databases, their international rankings, alumni associations, and legal documents suddenly become inconsistent or outdated. This can hurt global recognition and academic reputation, especially for our first- and second-generation universities that already have decades of international visibility.
That was why the students, staff, and alumni of the University of Lagos resisted the renaming of their school to Moshood Abiola University Lagos with all that they had. Most UNILAG people had no problems with the late MKO Abiola. In fact, I would hazard a guess that most UNILAG people loved (still love) and voted for him on June 12, 1993. But they also cherish and want to protect their institutional identity.
Those are not mutually exclusive sentiments. You can love a political and cultural figure but never want him or her to supplant the identity of the school you love or are associated with.
When the University of Ife was renamed Obafemi Awolowo University in 1987, there was resistance, which wasn’t as successful as the resistance to the renaming of UNILAG was because it was during a military regime. Yet, we all know that Chief Awolowo was and is a widely respected figure at the university who, in fact, founded it and resisted naming it after himself like his counterpart in the North was compelled to do. The students, faculty, and alumni of the university resented the renaming of the former University of Ife (fondly known as Great Ife by its students and alumni) because they felt it was an unsolicited political decision that altered the university’s original vision.
That is why students, lecturers, and graduates of the University of Maiduguri are appealing to President Bola Tinubu to reverse his renaming of their university after the late Muhammadu Buhari. “UNIMAID is more than a name; it is a brand and a beacon of hope in the Northeast,” they said in a statement on July 18.
Like previous resistance to the renaming of universities, this wasn’t about the person of Buhari (although many university lecturers can’t easily forget that he withheld their salaries when they were on strike for several months), but about history, identity, and even emotional attachment to an institutional identity. Buhari’s mother was Kanuri, and he was governor of NorthEast State and later Borno (which includes present-day Yobe State), but the issue transcends him as a person.
Stakeholders of universities, including the host communities, often feel a deep emotional and symbolic attachment to the name of their university. A top-down renaming can come across as insensitive and can ignite deep resentment.
Most well-established universities that changed their names did so within the first few years of their existence. For example, Harvard University wasn’t always known by that name. It was originally known as “New College” or sometimes “the college at New Towne” when it was founded in 1636. It was renamed to Harvard College in 1639, three years later, in honor of John Harvard, a young minister who died of tuberculosis and left his library and half of his estate to the school.
Yale University also underwent a name change in its early history. It was founded in 1701 as the Collegiate School. The name changed to Yale College in 1718 after a significant donation from Elihu Yale, a wealthy merchant and former governor of the British East India Company settlement at Fort St. George in Madras (now Chennai, India). But Oxford, Cambridge and other well-known universities have retained their geographic names from the time of their founding.
Interestingly, Nigeria is different from its neighbours in its oversized fondness for naming and renaming universities after politicians.
For example, the one time that the Republic of Niger renamed a university (from the University of Niamey to Abdou Moumouni University), it was to honour a prominent, consequential academic. Most other public universities bear geographic names.
This is also true of Senegal. Its universities either bear geographic names or are named after intellectuals, but never politicians. The University of Dakar was notably renamed Cheikh Anta Diop University in 1987 after the prominent Senegalese historian, physicist, and anthropologist.
In short, Niger’s and Senegal’s university naming practice emphasises institutional neutrality, professional merit, and geographic inclusion.
But Ghana is witnessing a more contested shift, in which political figures increasingly lend their names to public universities amid criticism about academic independence, reputation, and public trust.
A university’s name is a vessel of history, identity, and collective memory. When we rename well-established universities after political figures, no matter how revered, we disfigure their symbolic architecture and turn them into contested monuments rather than enduring institutions of learning. The integrity of a university should rest on its academic tradition and its connection to place, not on the whims of transient political power.
If we must honour our heroes, let us do so in ways that elevate without erasing, that celebrate without displacing, and that remember without rewriting.
*Farooq Kperogi is a columnist with Saturday Tribune
