There’s a painful truth in that old, controversial saying: “If you want to hide anything from a black man, put it in a book.” The irony is that Africans do read — but only when it’s a textbook, and only when there’s an exam.
We love to cram. We cram to pass. We cram to graduate. We cram to be called Doctor, Professor, Engineer, Specialist Consultant-in-Charge of Nothing. We live for the cap and gown. We chase the certificate like it’s a golden ticket to the promised land. But where has it taken us, really?
Africa is overflowing with certificates, but not solutions. We have professors of agriculture who can’t grow tomatoes in their own backyard. We have PhDs in entrepreneurship who’ve never sold anything but ideas in the classroom — and even those ideas are outdated. We have graduates who can write 10 pages on “The Importance of Industrialisation in Sub-Saharan Africa” but don’t know how to create a simple invoice or market a product on WhatsApp.
I was listening to DJ Ollah 7’s podcast — probably the best podcast in the country right now — featuring the ever-provocative and brilliant Bishop Joshua Maponga. He said something that hit me deep in the chest:
“The whole professor of engineering in Zimbabwe cannot produce a kambudzi — a simple button phone.”
Imagine that. A whole professor — with degrees longer than a kombi queue in Mbare — can’t make a Nokia 3310. The same university where he teaches still has a manual gate. No automation. No innovation. In 2025, some lecturers are still using chalk and blackboards at a University of Science and Technology. Meanwhile, in other parts of the world, 7-year-olds are building robots and 3D-printing houses.
The problem is systemic. The curriculum we use in most African universities was never designed to create creators. It was designed to train Africans to be good employees. Obedient workers. Loyal clerks. Diligent assistants. The coloniser never wanted you to own a factory — they wanted you to work in theirs.
Now, we’re in a mess. We’ve got too many accidental entrepreneurs.
People who were trained to be accountants, but now sell peanut butter because there are no jobs.
People who studied tourism but now sell clothes at Mupedzanhamo.
People with MBAs who don’t understand customer service or social media.
And guess what? The universities are still offering the same old theories. At one university, the Dean of the School of Business and Entrepreneurship — I kid you not — has never run a tuckshop. But he’s teaching kids how to run empires.
Here’s my advice: stop reading to pass. Start reading to apply.
Start reading books written by people who’ve done the thing you want to do.
You want to start a business? Don’t just study “Business Studies”
You want to grow your social media? Don’t pray for followers — read about content strategy.
You want financial freedom? Read what millionaires are writing, not just what textbook theorists are quoting.
If you’re not reading books that challenge you, inspire you, or stretch your thinking — then you’re just reading for decoration.
In Africa, we worship memory — not creativity. We celebrate the guy who remembers the most in an exam, not the guy who creates a new solution. The kid who can recite Newton’s Third Law is top of the class, but the one who builds gadgets at home is “not serious.”
We glorify those who remember and mock those who create.
Africa doesn’t need more certificates.
Africa needs solutions.
Africa doesn’t need more classrooms.
It needs labs, workshops, co-working spaces, and tech hubs.
We need an education system built by doers, not just speakers. A curriculum written by builders, entrepreneurs, farmers, innovators, and vendors who’ve felt the heat of the real market.
Let’s stop laughing at the guy selling tomatoes by the street and start learning from him. He knows more about pricing, supply chain, and customer engagement than many graduates.
If you want to change your life, read a book.
If you want to build a business, read a book.
If you want to change Africa, write a new syllabus. One that works. One that frees us from the chains of colonial memory.
And remember:
If you want to hide something from a black man, put it in a book.
Unless… he decides to read it not to pass — but to rise.
