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The Weavers of Iseyin

NigeriaOctober/November 2024vol8-no4
Weavers

PHOTOGRAPHY: TEMILOLUWA JOHNSON / THE REPUBLIC.

THE MINISTRY OF BUSINESS X THE ECONOMY

The Weavers of Iseyin

  • PHOTOGRAPHY: TEMILOLUWA JOHNSON / THE REPUBLIC.
Aṣọ-òfì does more than exist as a treasured Yoruba fabric and a commodity in Iseyin, its original home. It reflects a societal fabric interwoven with the changing cultural values, social norms, religious beliefs, education and economic systems of the Iseyin community.
Weavers

PHOTOGRAPHY: TEMILOLUWA JOHNSON / THE REPUBLIC. 

THE MINISTRY OF BUSINESS X THE ECONOMY

The Weavers of Iseyin

  • PHOTOGRAPHY: TEMILOLUWA JOHNSON / THE REPUBLIC.
Aṣọ-òfì does more than exist as a treasured Yoruba fabric and a commodity in Iseyin, its original home. It reflects a societal fabric interwoven with the changing cultural values, social norms, religious beliefs, education and economic systems of the Iseyin community.

The heartbeat of Iseyin, one of Oyo State’s largest towns, is aṣọ-òfì, the distinguished handwoven fabric of the Yoruba people. Without reference to it as home to the textile, the description of the town is considered wanting. The presence of wooden looms (òfì) in almost every direction one turns—on entering Iseyin and venturing into the innermost part of it—confirms this claim.

Iseyin’s prominence in Yoruba history is closely tied to its production and exportation of aṣọ-ofì, which conveys cultural symbolism and significance. A Yoruba proverb, ‘sányán ni baba aṣọ, àlàárì ni baba ẹ̀wù,’ which means that sányán and àlàárì—two of the numerous kinds of aṣọ-òfì—are the most supreme of all clothes, indicates that the textile existed at the apex of clothes Yoruba people traditionally wore as status symbols.

Aṣọ-òfì is still reserved for special occasions, as it embodies a prestige that envelops its wearer in eminence; the aṣọ-òfì a measure of their social standing at events. It is an identity marker and, thus, a preferred choice for Yoruba hosts in helping them stand out or be at the centre of attention at their parties. Arguments like how no one can outshine a Yoruba bride clad in aṣọ-òfì (also known as aṣọ-òkè) and the colourful display of the aṣọ-òfì attires donned on by various rẹgbẹ́rẹgbẹ́ at the annual Ojude Oba festival in Ogun State are testaments to the textile’s acclaim.

Besides being a commemorative attire, aṣọ-òfì, due to its durability and timelessness, can become a family heirloom, usually travelling down generations, from mothers to daughters and fathers to sons. Inasmuch as the textile succeeds as multiple generations can wear it, so is it a transgenerational profession for the people of Iseyin, whose ancestral and primary occupation it is to produce the handwoven fabric.

For these people whose lives revolve around the making and marketing of aṣọ-òfì, the craft is woven into their identities, shaping their familial bonds, community relationships, beliefs and financial traditions. It also gives one a peek into some of the historical timelines of Nigeria’s development. The journey to discovering and understanding how the weavers of Iseyin live their lives intertwined with their profession led me to Mukaila Kolade and Nurudeen Nafiu, two veteran aṣọ-òfì weavers at the Ita Oye area in Ijemba, Iseyin. Their lives epitomize the connections between life and craft. Both men have been weaving for multiple decades, inheriting the art from their fathers, like many other children born and bred in Iseyin. With pride and the knowledge that more of their generations than can be counted have engaged in the vocation, Kolade and Nafiu reveal that they can’t trace the exact origin of weaving in their respective families. However, they are currently living up to the tradition by teaching their own children the art of weaving aṣọ-òfì. 

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AṢỌ-ÒFÌ WEAVING AS A MALE-DOMINATED OCCUPATION

Kolade began to accompany his father to his workspace when he reached school-age, just like other school-aged Iseyin boys. According to him, at this stage, the (boy) child would start with small tasks while gradually mastering the art. Eventually, the child would begin weaving aṣọ òfì for his father until he gained independence and eventually became a master. The cycle would then continue with the child’s own sons. This is the path Kolade’s weaving career followed. ‘I learnt to weave aṣọ òfì from my father, Mustapha, whose father, Kolade, also taught him the skill,’ he told me.

The same applies to Nafiu who said that he inherited the craft just like other sons of Iseyin, and he grew up to see his father and grandfather weaving. ‘There are two generations of weavers I know before me in my lineage—my grandfather Ajeigbe and my father Nafiu,’ he said.

Prior to my visit to Iseyin, I held a preconceived notion that women were the major producers of this fabric—it turned out somewhat inaccurate. Although women have always woven and dominated weaving in Yoruba societies such as in Ijebu-Ode, in areas like Iseyin, Oyo, and Saki, men were the prominent weavers. In his 1998 essay, ‘The Evolving Tradition of Hand-woven Textile Design Among the Yoruba of South-Western Nigeria’, Duncan Peter Clarke confirmed that men dominated the world of aṣọ òfì weaving with the majority of men from weaving confirmed this pattern.  

The predominance of men in aṣọ òfì weaving in Iseyin becomes evident upon entering Ijemba. On our way to Ita Oye, where Kolade and Nafiu’s weaving space (a shed they share with two other weavers) is located, I and Temiloluwa, the photographer, entered the community through a gated road. The road opened up into a street that bore an overhead sign that said: ‘WELCOME TO IJEMBA’. The entry from Ijemba took us from the narrow-tarred road, through alleys between mud houses that led to the shed. We decided to exit Ita Oye—passing through alleys, still—through the long street that Ijemba is joined to at a right angle. Circling the area this way, we saw that each house had a loom in its veranda or passage; a few decrepit, many others still in use with unfinished warps wound on warp beams. We also saw weavers, men picking thread colours, structuring colour patterns or weaving.

Two things become apparent to anyone who’s met with this sight with no context: the area is the dwelling of cloth weavers, and most of that population are men. Women are rarely seen weaving in Ijemba, whether at home or in communal sheds. At Kolade and Nafiu’s shared shed, all the wooden looms belonged to men, with their sons assisting in different stages of production. On our second visit, Kolade attributed this to the influence of Islam which discourages women from working outside their homes. He told us that,

Though there are women who weave aṣọ òfì in Iseyin, they are very few compared to men. This is because Islam, which found its way to Iseyin a long time ago and is practised by most people here, dictates that women are not allowed to work outside [literally and figuratively] but within the confines of their homes.

The numerous mosques in the area appear to support Kolade’s claim. Right beside the road that leads to Ijemba and its environs is the grand Iseyin Central Mosque. About three houses into Ijemba is Imam Lagbede Mosque. Walking three minutes down is another mosque, unnamed. These instances reflect the early arrival of Islam in Yorubaland and its impact on local customs. The fact that the olden looms were built ‘outside’ the home and thus could not be moved into the home if desired could explain why such Islamic belief might have sidelined the women of Iseyin from the weaving profession. The deaths of Kolade’s brothers, for instance, made him the only aṣọ òfì weaver amongst the rest of his living siblings who are women. ‘My father had just six children—three sons and three daughters,’ he told me. ‘My older brother was a weaver despite also being a commercial driver. My younger brother also wove aṣọ òfì till his death. My remaining siblings are women, so they don’t weave aṣọ òfì.’

As is customary, Kolade’s and Nafiu’s sons are also practising the craft. Some of Kolade’s older sons are already in tertiary institutions, while one, also named Kolade, is now an independent weaver. Three of Nafiu’s sons, Lukman, Ayuba and Ibrahim, who have completed their secondary school education and are waiting to proceed to the next stage of their academics, are also expert weavers working with their father. On our second visit, they were joined by their sister, who was the only girl amongst numerous children working for their fathers at the shed.

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THE ECONOMY OF AṢỌ-ÒFÌ AND ISEYIN’S SYSTEM OF BUILDING UP GENERATIONS

In 1985, when Kolade was in form 4, he began earning some money from weaving for his father. By 1987, when he was preparing to write his Senior Secondary School Certificate Examination, he was already undertaking his own weaving projects. Still working with his father, he had to outsource his own work, so he could focus on his father’s trade and assist with selling the textiles. He recalled that:

I’d go to the market with my father, carrying all the fabrics as he was already old. At the market, I would display his and my wares. We used to go to Oje market in Ibadan. I was in charge of selling our goods, and his customers were the ones who also bought from me. When we returned home, I’d work on his projects and outsource mine to someone else. I continued this way until I became fully independent around 1993, 1994.

For the Iseyin weavers, becoming independent means owning a loom and managing one’s trade. While Western education is widely accepted in the town, aṣọ-òfì weaving exists as a tradition of building children and placing them on an early path of financial independence, regardless of whatever future occupation they aspire to. So, children often balance schooling with learning the craft. Some children also go to Islamic schools or ilé kéwú. In Kolade’s case, he pursued a career in education and became a teacher. He joined the civil service in 2003 and is currently a headteacher at Local Authority Primary School, Agelu-Jerusalem, in Iseyin. It is not uncommon to see people like Kolade juggling their white-collar jobs with weaving in Iseyin because according to him, they believe that, ‘one ought to have a handiwork alongside being a civil servant,’ that ‘ò yẹ kí èèyàn ní iṣẹ́ ọwọ́ fi kún iṣẹ́ ìjọba tí èèyàn bá ń ṣe.’ In their own case, weaving, the town’s indigenous occupation is the go-to handiwork. ‘Many teachers here do the same,’ he said. ‘I know someone who retired from teaching to become a full-time weaver. The skill never fades. Iṣẹ́ tí kìí lọ l’ọ́wọ́ ni.’

Because of the relative financial security that aṣọ-òfì weaving provides the weavers of Iseyin, large families are common. When commenting on the number of children his father had, Kolade mentioned that he didn’t consider his father’s family large. ‘Bàbá mi ò bí’mọ tó pọ̀,’ he said. Knowing that their product is always in demand and that their sons will join them soon enough and start earning money while working for them, Iseyin weavers don’t fear having many children. It is also common for their relatives’ children to live with them, all of whom they describe as their children. ‘Ọmọ mi ni gbogbo wọn,’ they’d say. For these family-oriented people, the financial comfort aṣọ-òfì weaving occupation offers them—to provide for their large families—is a source of pride. Kola recalled:

Before becoming a civil servant in 2003, I was already earning enough money to support my family. I am currently building my own house. I’m also catering for grandchildren and the children of other relatives who live with me; I’m seeing them through school and teaching them this craft.

For Nafiu, this appears to be one of his favourite things about the trade of aṣọ-òfì. He described it as an occupation that keeps hunger at bay. ‘Iṣẹ́ tí kìí fi ebi pa èèyàn ni,’ he said, adding that,

It’s an occupation that doesn’t make one afraid of having a large family. I have ten children, including the ones from my relatives. Every day, I come to work at my workshop and the finished products are distributed nationwide and globally. It is a peaceful handiwork. It’s also a means of employment for our young ones.

The encouragement of young industriousness amongst aṣọ-òfì weavers in Iseyin can be rewarding. Young weavers earn from their labour through a system called ìdá-àṣà, in which excess fabric is sold with the proceeds going to the child who wove it. Ìdá-àṣà is dutifully implemented by weavers to ensure that their children begin earning money at a young age when weaving projects are delegated to them. Pointing to one of the little boys seated at a loom, Kolade said, ‘If he exceeds the needed length of the fabric when he finishes weaving, the excess is his. So, I’ll sell it and give him the money.’ Nafiu also ensures his children earn from their work. He, in fact, makes allowance for this while horizontally wounding the yarns in preparation for weaving. He explained that,

Whatever the predetermined length of the warp is, I add extra to it while winding the yarn at the beginning. If I ask them to weave ten packs, it could exceed that number by some units or a pack, so the money from the excess goes to them as their ìdá-àṣà. Èlé orí aṣọ-òfì ni à ń pè ní ìdá-àṣà fún ẹni tó bá hun-ún.

The aṣọ-òfì trade shapes the financial culture of the people of Iseyin, empowering their youth with money-making skills and fostering economic independence from an early age. The financial side of the occupation also helps the weavers uphold certain traditions like raising their relatives’ children alongside theirs, while they all work and earn money together.

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FROM LOOMS TO MARKETS: TRADITION, INNOVATION, AND INFLUENCE

A weaver’s choice to work alone or in a group often determines the location of their loom in Iseyin. Elderly weavers like Abdul-Lateef Kolade—Kolade’s nonagenarian uncle—who are less active due to age, prefer to weave at home. For those with spacious homes, their looms are set up in front of their buildings. 

For weavers who work in groups, their looms are usually located in spaces away from their homes. The open shed where Kolade and Nafiu go about their businesses is one; Kolade is a founding member of the space. The shed has stood for almost 20 years and the land the shed is built on was once an abandoned dump, discovered and cleared by Kolade’s late relative, Ismail. Soon, other weavers joined them. Kolade and Nafiu’s shed is one of many that reflects a common practice amongst weavers in Iseyin: securing a workspace by simply requesting permission from the landowner, usually without payment. Kolade told us:

Whenever we see an unoccupied land, we speak to the owner and beg for permission to use it as a weaving area. They rarely disagree with us since they are aware that we’re only doing our work. Tí òun náà bá ti rí wa, kò ní bá wa jà nígbà tó jẹ́ pé iṣẹ́ wa là ń ṣe. When the owner needs the land, they tell us and we leave peacefully with our looms since they aren’t immovable.

In contrast, during the time of Kolade’s and Nafiu’s fathers, carrying one’s looms from one location to another like this was impossible. This was because the looms they used then were fixed permanently to the ground. Weavers, at the time, had to leave their looms behind when relocating, and many of such sites, known as ìdí-òfì, have now been levelled and houses have been built on the lands they once stood.

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On giving further details about the older looms and why they became defunct, Nafiu, whose father’s loom was built in Ebu, in the Ekunle area in Iseyin, revealed that such looms were called òfì-ilẹ̀. They had clay-moulded seats that were anchored to the ground, as were their wooden parts that bore the rest of the weaving accessories. They were also usually constructed in spaces large enough to allow the spread of long rolls of warps. Nafiu recalled:

Whenever it rained, we couldn’t work or carry it somewhere safe like we do these modern ones. Whenever any weaver left for another spot, his ìdí-òfì would remain and this is why there are many of them in Iseyin today.

Once done with the production of textiles, the weavers proceed to sell them; a task that used to require travelling to markets outside Iseyin, unlike now when wholesalers and retail traders mostly come to them, buying directly from the weavers. The leading aṣọ-òfì market when Kolade and Nafiu were still young boys working for their fathers was Oje, in Ibadan, Oyo State’s capital. Oje also influenced the naming of another market where the weavers sold aṣọ-òfì in Ede, Osun Sate, as Oje Ede. Kolade explained:

Oje market opens every 17 days, and nine days later, Ede’s market followed. After buying from us at Oje in Ibadan, customers would ask if we would be at the market in Ede nine days later. ‘Ṣé ẹ̀ ẹ́ tún ná Oje kan ní Ede?’ Because Oje signified a big aṣọ-òfì market, it was used to describe the one at Ede. We never argued and that was how the name stuck.

Apart from Oje market, some weavers of the older generation used to take their products to Lagos and Benin Republic’s Cotonou, though these places didn’t have dedicated markets for the aṣọ-òfì fabric like Oje, Oje Ede and Araromi in Oyo town. 

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THE THREADS OF HISTORY AND CHANGE

With colonial influence, the rate of wearing aṣọ òfì amongst Yoruba people began to decline, giving way to English/formal attires and other kinds of fabrics for ceremonies. With growing globalization and technological advancement, fabrics like lace and brocade began to gain popularity. The diversification of fashion preferences also began to impact the designs and patterns of aṣọ òfì emerging from Iseyin. Kolade and Nafiu reflected on this and many more changes the aṣọ òfì market had seen over the years.

One notable change was aṣọ òfì adopting another name, aṣọ òkè. Due to the urbanization of cities like Lagos and Ibadan, remote towns like Iseyin would be referred to as Ìlú Òkè. Aṣọ òfì in those cities were then referred to as aṣọ ìlú òkè (clothes from the hinterland), eventually becoming aṣọ òkè, with the terms sometimes used interchangeably.

Nafiu noted that the kinds of yarns used in producing aṣọ òfì have evolved, causing a shift in its production techniques. Initially, hand-picked cotton bolls (and sometimes silk from silkworms) spun into threads were used in making the fabric. ‘Òwú tìgbà yẹn, òwú tì à ń lọ já l’óko ni.’ (The yarn used then was made from cotton bolls we picked from the farms.) The spinning process involved the use of a spindle in a procedure called òwú ríran. The cotton boll/silk was spun into a usually cream-coloured thread that was sometimes dyed to any desired colour. The resulting fabrics handwoven with this thread were thicker, denser and heavier. Describing these older fabrics as òfì àtijọ́ (olden ofi textiles), Nafiu pointed out that it was forbidden to wash them due to the fragility of the yarn and the possibility of the dyes fading away. Instead, the woven fabric was cleaned with the process of ‘beating dirt out of it.’ This was achieved by placing the fabric on a wooden slab and beating it with a small, wide-headed, wooden cudgel called òlù. ‘The more the fabric is beaten, the cleaner and shinier it gets. Tí wọ́n bá ti ń lù ú, ó ma ma dán si.’

Nafiu also recalled that the labour-intensive process of refining cotton bolls to yarns made the weavers of Iseyin transition to using factory-made and imported threads that produced similar quality of textiles as the locally sourced yarns. These factory-made and imported threads were already processed, durable and easier to work with. By the time Nafiu gained independence from his father in 1991, there were varieties of factory-made and imported threads. Presently, there are even newer ones with the ‘cone’ and ‘countess’ threads being the most popular amongst the weavers. Unlike locally sourced threads that abhor water, dipping these factory-made ones in water to increase their shrinking potential for volume is a compulsory part of the process of thread preparation. The fabrics made from them can also be washed.

According to Kolade, the designs and patterning of aṣọ òfì have expanded beyond the traditional ẹtù, blue and black striped; àláárì, crimson-coloured; sányán, beige and cream-coloured; alábẹ, made with black yarns; and ọ̀bọ́, a plain handwoven textile the off-white colour of local yarn, usually used to bury corpses in place of cheap, ordinary white funeral shrouds. Weavers now experiment with colours and patterns, especially to cater to the various tastes and preferences of their customers. ‘A lot of times we explore colour combinations to make patterns,’ he said. ‘Other times, people request the colours they want or show us their accessories so we can make products whose colours complement them.’

The broadening of aṣọ òfì designs is also due to the variety of yarns in textures, colours and so on. ‘We now make buttonholes, an aṣọ òfì pattern with buttonlike holes,’ Nafiu added. ‘There’s the metallic aṣọ òfì that shimmers. There’s also the ọlọ́nà designs which feature different kinds of patterns woven into them.’

Nafiu explained that the political upheaval that followed the annulment of the 1993 Nigerian presidential election by the Ibrahim Babangida military regime significantly impacted the trade of aṣọ òfì in Iseyin. With the ensuing strikes, particularly that of the petroleum sector, the once lucrative business took a nosedive. Commercial vehicles could not work because of fuel scarcity and the Iseyin weavers, in turn, could not go to Lagos to purchase materials or go to the markets to sell their goods. This was why Nafiu left the trade and Iseyin for Lagos in 1995. He recalled:

Ni 1993 ta a dì’bo (Moshood) Abiola ni iṣẹ́ yíì ti dàrú. The trade took a hit after the 1993 elections. The companies producing our yarns and other materials fled the country then. Some weavers endured till 1998, but I couldn’t. I left the trade, and Iseyin for Lagos, until about ten years ago, when I returned.

The numerous protests and strike actions then were the reasons why the aṣọ òfì market in Araromi, Oyo town lost its vim, making Kolade and other weavers in Iseyin shift their sales of the textile back to Oje in Ibadan. ‘During [General Sani] Abacha’s time and Abiola’s election, there were lots of problems,’ Kolade said. ‘There were many strikes that commercial vehicles weren’t working and so we couldn’t continue going to Araromi. Eventually, we returned to Ibadan.’

The current economic situation is another challenge facing the trade amongst the people of Iseyin. Both Kolade and Nafiu lament that once again, the weaving business has stopped being lucrative as the cost of production keeps rising. Besides this, the mass production and importation of foreign textiles from places like China are also contributing to the decline of profits in the trade. The process doesn’t just deviate from the slow and sustainable method of producing the locally woven aṣọ òfì. It is also a mass production process that strips aṣọ òfì of its cultural acclaim and significance, where the resulting textiles are far cheaper, affecting the patronage of local producers and making aṣọ òfì and its artisans casualties of fast fashion. In 2019, Bisi Fayemi, the then-first lady of Ekiti State, called for the ban of these fabrics. However, till date, they are still being imported into the country. As opposed to banning its importation, Francisca Odega, Ogun State’s coordinator for the Nigerian Export Promotion Council, in 2023, recommended that Nigerians simply stop buying indigenous fabrics that are copied and mass-made by foreign producers.

Nevertheless, despite these obstacles, weaving in Iseyin remains an integral part of the society that is still being handed down from one generation to another. Deeply intertwined with the town’s history and culture, it has also endured through generations, adapting to modern demands while retaining its rich cultural significance⎈

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