The Misunderstood Economics of Igba Ọsọ Ahịa

Igba Ọsọ Ahịa

Photo Illustration by Ukandi Atsu / THE REPUBLIC.

THE MINISTRY of business x the economy

The Misunderstood Economics of Igba Ọsọ Ahịa

Igba Ọsọ Ahịa is not just another middleman scheme, but a social business practice deeply rooted in Igbo society that integrates regional traders for the purpose of facilitating entrepreneurialism and financial independence.
Igba Ọsọ Ahịa

Photo Illustration by Ukandi Atsu / THE REPUBLIC.

THE MINISTRY of business x the economy

The Misunderstood Economics of Igba Ọsọ Ahịa

Igba Ọsọ Ahịa is not just another middleman scheme, but a social business practice deeply rooted in Igbo society that integrates regional traders for the purpose of facilitating entrepreneurialism and financial independence.

On a typical morning in Aba’s Ariaria Market, the voice of Mrs Chiamaka Ukaegbulam calling out to potential customers rings aloud, ‘Ezigbo nwoke, bịa zụta m ahịa, enwere m attache mara mma nke ukwuu.’ (Good man, come and buy from me… I have very nice hair extensions). Under the scorching morning sun, and even amid the deafening noise, with bodies pressing against you, her voice still floats over the chaos. ‘Nwoke oma. Nwoke ọcha, bịa zụta m ahịa.’ (Handsome man, fair man, come and buy from me.)

In 2012, Ukaegbulam quit her job helping her brother cook and distribute food for passengers at the domestic terminal of Murtala Muhammed Airport in Lagos. Then she moved to Aba, one of southeast Nigeria’s main commercial hubs. ‘We’d wake up as early as 4 a.m. to cook and package food, which we’d sell until around 10 p.m. at Lagos Airport,’ she said. ‘I was frustrated and… it wasn’t something I wanted to do. The sun and the cooking heat. The stress was just too much.’

After arriving in Aba, Ukaegbulam learned hairdressing and eventually opened her own shop in 2013. However, eight years later, at night on 08 September 2021, her shop and many others were demolished by the Abia State government as part of an effort to take down what they considered uninhabitable buildings. |Some of these buildings had been constructed nearly 50 years ago. Although the government promised compensation for shop owners, Ukaegbulam said her rent was never refunded. She found herself destitute. At the same time, her husband’s lace business collapsed.

‘Aka a da dim,’ she said, when we met in September 2024, using an Igbo idiom to express her severe financial setbacks. Her tone became more sombre as she fought off tears when she recounted her difficult experience. With five children to look after, Ukaegbulam turned to Igba Ọsọ Ahịa —an old business practice among Igbo people, where traders make money by attracting customers to other people’s shops and selling their goods on their behalf, at a higher price, for a cut of the profits.

But for Igbo people, Igba Ọsọ Ahịa is more than a business practice. Like all forms of Igbo entrepreneurial systems—from Igba Odibo to Igba Boi—Igba Ọsọ Ahịa thrives on community, friendship and trust, where business owners allow Igba Ọsọ Ahịa agents (often referred to as middlemen, or, when translated literally, market errand runners) who have neither shops nor goods of their own, to take ownership or claim a reasonable stake in their business, albeit momentarily. This practice is not just about economic survival; it is a social framework that reflects the values of mutual support and kinship in Igbo culture.

Each morning, Ukaegbulam, sometimes with her toddler strapped to her back, canvasses for customers to come and purchase hair extensions in ‘her shop’. But she does not have any goods of her own. Rather, she takes the customer to another person’s shop, with whom she has an arrangement—most times verbal—and is given unrestricted access to take full charge of the shop, from selling the goods to receiving the money, while the actual owner watches from a corner, helping where he or she can to convince the customer to purchase the goods. Pointing to some weave-on hanging on the wall of a nearby shop, ‘If this weave-on is ₦5,000, I can sell it for ₦6,000 or ₦5,500, or ₦5,200,’ she told me. ‘The added money, multiplied by the quantity the customer buys, would be mine. In some cases, I will claim that the owner is my elder sister and I am her apprentice. In others, I will claim to be the salesgirl.’

Ukaegbulam is one of the hundreds of Igba Ọsọ Ahịa agents in Ariaria Market. With over 37,000 shops, according to the Rural Electrification Agency, Ariaria is one of the largest daily markets in West Africa. Ariaria—where Igba Ọsọ Ahịa is practised in perhaps its most authentic form—is unlike a typical large Nigerian market. It was built in 1976 after a fire destroyed the old Ekeoha Market in Aba. The popular saying, ‘Name it, Aba will make it,’ is often attributed to this market.

Focusing on one sector—the shoe industry—helps contextualize the market’s economic potential and how it has become a window into understanding Igbo people’s entrepreneurial zeal. According to a 2022 Business Day’s report on the Aba shoe industry, Aba produces 48 million pairs of shoes annually, and with many of these shoes sold at Ariaria, the Aba shoe industry is valued at ₦120 billion.

HELPING IGBOS STAMP THEIR FEET IN BUSINESS

The demolished parts of Ariaria, which remain under construction, were a much-needed infrastructural project, but one that left Ukaegbulam and thousands of traders destitute. One of the affected traders who simply identified herself as Confidence, and now owns a thriving hair product business, was determined to get back on her feet after her shop was demolished. She leaned on the Igba Ọsọ Ahịa system for almost four years to raise money, rent a new shop, and stock the shop with various hair products. ‘It was when Ariaria was demolished, and my shop was among them, that I started Igba Ọsọ Ahịa in order to sustain myself,’ she said.

Although Ukaegbulam now has a shop, which she paid for at the beginning of the year, the shop is empty. ‘I do not bring customers here,’ she told me, pointing to a wall in the shop where she has hung some hair attachments.

The hair attachments are the only goods in her shop. Aside from a blue plastic chair, the only other items in the shop are cartons spread out like mats, where her toddler and her ten-year-old son lie. Although Ukaegbulam’s target customers are resellers who often buy in bulk, she does not have enough goods to sell yet. For now, the Igba Ọsọ Ahịa system helps her support her family while she works to raise enough capital to stock her shop.

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HOW IGBA ỌSỌ AHIA IS PRACTISED

‘Nwoke ọma. Nwanyi ọma. bịa zụta m ahịa,’ Ukaegbulam said, narrating the method she uses to attract customers’ attention in the busy market. Her voice, although persuasive, conveys a sense of affection, often layered with a subtle plea for sympathy. ‘Nwoke ọma,’ meaning handsome man, and ‘Nwanyi ọma,’ meaning beautiful woman, when said in her tone are not demanding or commanding, but compelling enough to boost anyone’s ego.

To Ukaegbulam, Confidence, and other Igba Ọsọ Ahịa agents I met in Ariaria like Josiah Nwankwo, a young tailor, and Jude (also known as Alinco), compliments are an essential part of their trade. They understand this craft well, using kind words to make total strangers comfortable and, in the process, earn their trust. Ukaegbulam said she focuses on complimenting a person’s appearance and then once that rapport has been established, she takes the customer to a shop, posing as the owner.

At the core of this practice is trust between the actual shop owner and the agent; this trust allows the agent, a ‘stranger’ in many cases, to temporarily take ownership of a shop and its goods or to claim a reasonable partnership in the enterprise.

‘The rules of Igba Ọsọ Ahịa often depend on the person and the actual owner of the shop,’ Nwankwo explained. Having spent more than a decade as a tailor, Nwankwo has leveraged the system to make extra cash by being the middleman for customers looking to buy clothing materials. ‘As a tailor, people often ask me about the best clothing materials suitable for them because they believe I am in the system,’ he said.

With this, Nwankwo, whose tailoring studio is located less than a kilometre from Ariaria market, sells different types of clothing materials, particularly to customers who have come from outside of Aba, even without having a fabric shop or necessarily having the ambition of establishing one. ‘When I get a customer,’ he said, ‘I’ll take the person to one of my clothing material dealers. There, I’ll act as the owner of the shop.’

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For those who are new to the market and do not know where the magic of manufacturing goods happens, or which of the several thousand shops to buy from at the best prices, Jude, who prefers to be called by his nickname Alinco, is their guide.

Unlike other Igba Ọsọ Ahịa practitioners who focus on one segment of the market—like Nwankwo for clothing or Ukaegbulam for hair extensions—Alinco stands at the entrance of the market, connecting buyers to sellers in the hope of making a cut from the transaction. Whether it be shoemakers or clothing lines, Alinco knows where the best quality products are, where the fake ones are sold, and the best price a customer can get for a specific product.

Although he doesn’t always add his own price or handle the money, he is part of the broader structure, bringing business to shop owners deep within the market for a cut in the transaction.

Confidence explained that as of January 2024, the spot where her shop now thrives was still covered with bushes. In fact, many people did not know there were shops in that area of Ariaria. With her shop hidden deep in the market, Confidence relies on Igba Ọsọ Ahịa agents like Alinco to bring customers to her shop, helping her to expand her business and grow her customer base.

However, not everyone is always happy with Igba Ọsọ Ahịa agents. Complaints and frustrations around extortion bubble up, with customers feeling that agents add exorbitant prices to the products they sell. Even within the system, the unregulated nature of Igba Ọsọ Ahịa can bring about dishonesty and greed, which can damage the image of the actual business owner. ‘In this line of business, we have original and fake braid extensions, which have different prices,’ Confidence said. She told me, however, that some Igba Ọsọ Ahịa agents intentionally sell the fake products at the price of the original. ‘It’s greed that often results in conflict when the customer finds out,’ she added. ‘In some cases, the customer will return the goods accompanied by the police. You’ll be forced to refund the money.’

Could there be a way to institutionalize Igba Ọsọ Ahịa? Can there be clearer rules to guide the system? Can Igba Ọsọ Ahịa be studied more deeply with a view to alleviating poverty and unemployment in Nigeria?

In the six decades since Nigeria gained independence, poverty and unemployment have persisted, defying various economic solutions mapped out by successive governments. Perhaps to lift a significant percentage of the over 88 million Nigerians currently living in extreme poverty, integrating an indigenous solution like Igba Ọsọ Ahịa—through collaborations between private sector stakeholders and policymakers—could be an effective way to create vast employment opportunities and provide citizens with financial stability and security

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