The noise of policy rooms here in Nigeria has often drowned out the quiet but old intelligence that was already alive in the markets, since the primordial eras. If one listens closely to the rustle of Ankara and the measured murmur of bargaining voices, a revelation would begin to rise with almost unsettling clarity, because long before ministries drafted memos and long before economists built their models on borrowed theories, an entire fabric economic civilisation had already been designed, tested, and sustained by women whose names rarely entered official archives.
Their decisions shaped demand, dictated distribution, and determined survival. Thence, the Nigerian fabric market did not merely stand as a place of trade but as a living archive of a female-led economy that has endured colonial disruption, military rule, structural adjustment shocks, and the restless tides of globalisation. One is then compelled to ask with honest urgency, how a system so resilient became routinely ignored? Or why has a nation that prides itself on enterprise refused to learn from the very hands that kept its markets breathing when formal institutions faltered.
When you walk through markets in Ibadan, Kano, Onitsha, or Lagos, you are not just seeing commerce but a choreography of competence, a silent system of credit, trust, and tactical thinking that has been perfected across generations. And as proverbial saying states: “The ruin of a nation begins in the homes of its people”; in Nigeria the strength of the nation was quietly preserved in the stalls of its women, and that paradox deserves more than passing mention, it demands reflection that is deep, deliberate, and perhaps a little uncomfortable.
It has been documented by historians such as Bolanle Awe that pre-colonial Yoruba markets were structured spaces where women exercised both participation and dominance, and this was not incidental but institutional, because titles such as Iyaloja were not ornamental but administrative, carrying authority over pricing, dispute resolution, and supply coordination. And when colonial administrators arrived, they encountered a system that already functioned with a degree of sophistication that rivalled their own trading posts. Yet instead of studying and strengthening it, they often undermined it through policies that privileged male intermediaries and foreign firms.
Here lies the first lesson that continues to be ignored: economic systems rooted in indigenous knowledge are not inferior simply because they are informal; informality in this context was not chaos but coded order – a disciplined decentralisation that allowed flexibility and resilience.
I’m reminded of the insight of The Wealth of Nations where it was written that division of labour increases productivity. Indeed, what unfolded in Nigerian fabric markets went beyond division of labour into division of trust, where each trader knew her supplier, her customer, her credit network, and her risk exposure with a precision that no spreadsheet could fully capture. So, while policymakers today chase digital solutions and imported frameworks, the original algorithm of Nigerian commerce had already been written in human relationships, and it worked, endured, and is still working despite neglect.
The fabric market, particularly in cities like Ibadan and Lagos, evolved into a complex supply chain long before the phrase became fashionable in business schools as women coordinated imports from Europe and later Asia, managed wholesale distribution, controlled retail pricing, and extended microcredit to buyers who would otherwise be excluded from formal banking systems. Interestingly, this was achieved without collateral in the conventional sense but with reputation as currency; default was not merely a financial failure but a social rupture. Hence discipline was enforced with communal consequence.
It is worth noting that even during the economic turbulence of the 1980s under the Structural Adjustment Programme, when inflation surged and the naira weakened dramatically, it was these same women who adjusted pricing strategies in real time, diversified sourcing routes, and maintained market liquidity when formal sectors were gasping. It was through them that one saw what economists often described as resilience.
These older women in the fabrics industry acted, adapted, and advanced, and yet their methods remain largely undocumented in policy frameworks which raise a troubling question: how can a nation claim to pursue economic reform while ignoring one of its most successful indigenous systems of wealth distribution and risk management? Is it not a quiet form of intellectual negligence to overlook evidence that has been visible for centuries simply because it does not wear the attire of formal theory?
There is also a deeper cultural lesson embedded in this history. This is because the authority of women in fabric markets was not granted reluctantly but recognised structurally. Of course, this challenges the often repeated narrative that African economies have always been male-dominated, because in reality, sectors such as textiles, food distribution, and petty trade were arenas where women not only participated but led, and this leadership was intergenerational, with knowledge transferred through observation, apprenticeship, and lived experience rather than formal schooling.
Here, I recall a line from Things Fall Apart where it was observed that “a man who pays respect to the great paves the way for his own greatness”. Perhaps Nigeria has failed to pay sufficient respect to the greatness of its market women, because if it had done so, their models would have been studied, codified, and integrated into national economic planning, rather than treated as peripheral or informal. The consequence of this neglect is visible today in the persistent disconnect between policy design and market reality, where decisions made in Abuja often fail to align with the lived economics of everyday Nigerians. This disconnect is not merely administrative but epistemic; a failure to recognise where knowledge truly resides. Until that recognition is made, reforms will continue to float above reality rather than transform it.
If one is to extract practical lessons, they are neither obscure nor difficult to articulate. They require humility to accept, because the first is that decentralised systems, when anchored in trust and accountability, can outperform rigid centralised structures. The second is that access to credit must be relational as well as institutional, because financial inclusion cannot be achieved through banks alone. Millions operate within social economies that value trust over paperwork. The third is that women’s economic leadership is not a matter of future aspiration but historical fact, and policies that treat it as emerging rather than established are already outdated.
To surmise: there is the lesson of adaptability in this because the fabric market survived colonial disruption, currency devaluation, and global competition not by resisting change but by absorbing it, reshaping it, and redistributing its impact across networks. One wonders quietly if these lessons were taken seriously – whether Nigeria would still have struggled with the same structural inefficiencies that have persisted for decades. Or, build a hybrid model that blends indigenous intelligence with modern innovation in a way that is both authentic and effective.
After all, the answers are not hidden; they are simply unheeded, and the market women, with their measured voices and meticulous methods, continue to trade, teach, and testify without waiting for recognition. Perhaps the most profound lesson of all is that true systems do not collapse when ignored, but nations that ignore them may quietly weaken in ways that statistics alone cannot fully reveal.
•Oladeni is the CEO of House of Moh Fabrics, Lagos.