A flicker of hope recently emerged in the national discourse when the Prime Minister, addressing Parliament, declared the government’s intention to extensively invest in promoting pre-primary education. It was a welcome and necessary commitment, one that acknowledges the foundational role education plays in national development. Yet, as the applause faded, a sobering reality set in. For while a strong foundation is indispensable, a house is useless if most people cannot reach the door, let alone climb to the top floors. This investment in the base must be matched by a radical rethinking of the entire educational structure, or we risk building a nation where children’s potential is determined not by their intellect, but by their parents’ wallet.
I say this as a product of that very system. I still remember the crisp, slightly brittle feel of the pages and the distinct, inky smell of the one textbook I shared with my classmate. It was for chemistry, a subject that both fascinated and terrified me. Our teacher, a man of immense patience but limited resources, would draw a complex diagram of an atom on the small, worn-out blackboard, and we would huddle together, two heads bent over a single book, trying to match his chalky artistry with the blurry printed images before us. We didn’t think of it as a hardship then; it was just how school was. That shared textbook, in a strange way, felt like a pact – a silent understanding that we were in this together, this tiring climb towards something better.
That “something better” was the distant, sparkling dream of university. It was a dream nurtured entirely within the walls of Ethiopia’s public education system. The system was far from perfect, often creaking under the weight of its own challenges, but it held a promise. It promised that if you worked hard enough, if you mastered the material in those shared textbooks and listened intently to your overworked teachers, a path would open for you. And for my generation, that promise, however frayed at the edges, was largely kept.
Today, I look at the educational landscape of Ethiopia, and a cold, familiar fear grips me. It is the fear that the ladder I climbed is being pulled up, rung by rung. I am forced to ask a haunting question: if I were a student today, coming from the same background and relying on the same public schools, would I make it to college? The evidence, increasingly, suggests a grim answer.
The recent headlines don’t lie; the top performers in the crucial 12th-grade national exams are overwhelmingly from boarding schools, private institutions, and specialized community schools.
This isn’t just a statistics. It is the sound of a systemic fault line cracking open, a divide that threatens to shatter the dreams of hundreds of thousands.
This divide isn’t merely about school fees. It is a gap that separates two realities. On one side, you have students with access to small class sizes, well-stocked libraries, constant electricity, internet access, and teachers who are not perpetually exhausted from managing classrooms of sixty or seventy students. On the other side, in the public schools where the vast majority of Ethiopian children are educated, you find the echoes of my own experience: overcrowding, a dire shortage of learning materials, and an infrastructure that often seems to be held together by hope and sheer will. The Prime Minister’s investment in pre-primary education is crucial, but what happens to these students after primary school? The question is not just “How many of the general public can afford these elite schools?” That answer is painfully obvious – precious few. The more profound question is, “What does it mean for a nation when the gateway to higher education and future leadership is effectively priced out of reach for most of its citizens?”
The consequences of this quality gap wave out far beyond the schoolyard walls. When we fail to educate a generation properly, we are not just failing individual students; we are failing our future engineers, our doctors, our agricultural scientists, our civil servants. The quality missed in the classroom today translates into bridges that are less safe, patients who receive poorer care, and policies that are less effectively implemented tomorrow. A nation’s intellectual capital is its most vital resource, and we are watching ours become stratified and stunted. We are, in essence, building our future on an unstable foundation, where talent is recognized not by its potential, but by its parents’ ability to pay.
But beyond these macro-economic repercussions, there is a more intimate, more human tragedy unfolding. It is the tragedy of shattered dreams. Imagine the bright, eager student in a rural public school or a crowded city school, who has the same fire and curiosity I once had. For that student, the dream of university is not just a personal ambition; it is a family’s hope, a community’s pride. To have that door slammed shut, not because of a lack of effort or intellect, but because of a systemic disadvantage, is a profound injustice. It tells a young person that their potential is predetermined by their economic background, that their future is not theirs to shape. When you let the dreams of hundreds of thousands shatter, you are not just creating a generation of unemployed youth; you are creating a generation of the disillusioned, and that has long-term socio-economic repercussions that are far more dangerous than any budget deficit.
This is the context that makes the government’s planned investment so critical, yet so incomplete. The government has, without a doubt, invested heavily in expanding access to education. The number of schools built is commendable. But investment is not just about inputs; it is about outcomes. It is time to ask a hard, necessary question: are the returns on the investments in public schools becoming unacceptable? If the ultimate output of the system – students qualified for higher education – is increasingly skewed towards a privileged minority, then the system is failing in its core mission of being an engine of social mobility and national development. We must move from a focus on mere enrollment to a relentless pursuit of quality and equity.
So, how can the government’s welcome investment be leveraged for the greatest impact? Abolishing private schools is not the answer; that would be a regressive step that ignores the real demand for quality. Instead, we need a paradigm shift, a move from seeing the public and private sectors as rivals to viewing them as potential collaborators. This is where the idea of a PublicPrivate Partnership (PPP) model becomes not just attractive, but perhaps essential.
Imagine a scenario where the immense infrastructure and human capital of the public system – the school buildings, the teaching staff, and the vast student body – are strategically complemented by the management expertise, technological integration, and pedagogical innovation of highperforming private schools. This isn’t about privatizing public education. It is rather about infusing it with proven strategies for success.
What could this look like in practice? A well-established private school with a track record of excellence could enter into a management contract for a cluster of public schools. Their role wouldn’t be to replace the existing teachers, but to mentor them, to provide them with ongoing professional development, and to introduce modern classroom management techniques. They could share their curriculum resources and assessment methods. They could help implement a robust system of data-driven decision-making to identify struggling students early and provide targeted support.
The private partner could bring in their operational efficiency to manage school maintenance, ensure textbooks and supplies are procured and distributed effectively, and perhaps even set up computer labs and libraries that are actually functional. The core value of public education – its accessibility and affordability – would remain untouched. The transformation would be in the quality of the education delivered within those familiar walls.
Of course, any PPP model would need a robust regulatory framework to prevent profiteering and ensure accountability. The government’s role would evolve from being the sole, overwhelmed provider to being a sharp-eyed guarantor of standards and equity. The success of the partnership would be measured by one primary metric: the improved performance and widened opportunities for the students in the public schools.
This is more than just a policy proposal; it is a call to build upon the government’s commitment and reaffirm a fundamental belief. It is the belief that the child in a rural village deserves the same shot at a bright future as the child in an urban private school. The system that nurtured me, for all its flaws, held that belief at its core.
We stand at a crossroads, with a renewed government focus on education. We can continue down the current path, where the gap between the haves and have-nots in education widens into a permanent canyon, dooming us to a future of deeper inequality and stalled progress. Or, we can choose a path of innovation and collaboration. We can choose to build a system where the infrastructure of the public sector is empowered by the efficiency of the private sector, creating a rising tide that lifts all boats. We owe it to the next generation to ensure that the ladder of education is not a luxury for the few, but a sturdy, reliable path for the many. We cannot, and must not, let their dreams be a casualty of our inaction. The shared textbook of my youth was a symbol of shared struggle, but it should never have to be a symbol of a foreclosed future.
Befikadu Eba is Founder and Managing Director of Erudite Africa Investments, a former Banker with strong interests in Economics, Private Sector Development, Public Finance and Financial Inclusion. He is reachable at befikadu.eba@eruditeafrica.com.
