On the Northside of the development divide, a trip to the market is a restful weekend activity. You might come across golden wicker baskets, untagged glass jars full of honey, and possibly a few different tables of locally sourced fruits and vegetables.

Chances are you will be paying in cash or tapping your card on a device that resembles a compact calculator. Sellers will be arranged, equidistant, in long rows, patiently watching over groups of friends and families browsing through homemade goods and tasting food samples. Kind of like elevator music on a warm Sunday morning. 

At the same time, elsewhere in the world, markets tend to be more like free jazz, informal. On a visit to Lagos, Nigeria, I set out to better understand these types of markets up close and personal. In Lagos they are notoriously run by women traders. 

The following are three portraits of working market women who all stand to “have something doing.” What do they sell? How do they run their businesses? And most importantly, who are they?

Ms. Aminat

The heat is much on this particular Wednesday afternoon on Lagos Mainland. Yaba market, known for its trove of second hand clothing and skilled tailors, has been buzzing since morning. Spread across the passage of an abandoned railway, a mismatch of wooden stalls are decorated in colorful clothing items and assortments of household wares. Women, of all shapes, heights, and hues, sit nonchalantly under wide-brimmed umbrellas, calculating the motion of the market with sharp eyes. Between heaps of bargain items, I bravely make my way through the Igbo boys posted along the narrow footpath. They are charming reluctant customers with hissing sounds and persistent gestures.

Reaching the end of the market, I approach Tejuosho Shopping Complex. It is an imposing six-story atrium building that peers over the humble market. The construction of the building itself was an attempt to “de-slum” and transform the encroaching trading area into a modern shopping experience. Instead, the building has just become a continuation of the open air trading area. 

Inside is claustrophobic and airless. A beehive of tiny corridors, low ceilings, and steep staircases. Natural light from the open atrium beams straight down into the parking garage, keeping the rest of the building at the mercy of NEPA (National Electric Power Authority) and personal generators. I meander my way through the building and find Ms. Aminat’s shop, nestled in a corner stall on the first floor. She sits on a low stool awaiting customers. Behind her formal disposition are thoughtfully displayed children’s clothing and maternity items. And next to her is a chatty woman, waiting less patiently, selling beaded jewelry and complaining about the heat. Other neighboring stalls are adorned with aso ebi jewelry, imported wooden crafts, and intricately beaded garments. Fleshy notes of sweat stain the heavy hot air as impatient buyers shuffle past each other in the labyrinth-like walkways.

Ms. Aminat and I exchange pleasantries through the tedious sounds of sewing machines and indistinct chatter. I ask what she did for work before the market and her initial response is a long suspicious look, as if to find the true meaning behind my words. I maintain my hopeful gaze, and in an evenly keeled voice, she answers, “I worked at a clearing company for 15 years.”  

In the shadowy corner where her stall sits, I can see tiny beads of sweat gliding from the edge of her scalp. They cool her temples as she completes her answer. “I resigned five years ago. As you can see, I am into stuff for children; clothes, shoes, mother care, maternity, accessories, and lots more.” 

Ms. Aminat notices my awkwardness as I sense the eyes of curious traders circling my presence. With a soft chuckle, she says, “It is because they can tell you are not from under this sun.” I blush under my skin, feeling embarrassed by the perceived visibility of my foreignness. Amused by my disposition, she gives me a smirky smile and continues sharing her story. “When I left work and joined business, the narrative changed.”  

For years, Ms. Aminat had been going back and forth with herself about whether or not to resign from her career as an account manager. She made sure to secure a shop before leaving the clearing company and immediately enrolled herself in a customer service training program. She credits the experience as helping to establish her business. I asked why she wanted to leave her work in the first place and she cited control, time for family, and money.  

Now, coming up on 5 years into her entrepreneurial journey, she has been able to buy a family car and is looking forward to move into a bigger space. 

Owning a business in the market has also given Ms. Aminat a new fondness for working women. She shares, “You know, women work so hard, it's the truth. When I see a woman, married or not, who is idle, I wonder, "How does this person cope?"” She believes it's the role of a woman to take care of herself and her family, “because women tend to work harder than men these days.”

However, working in the market comes with challenges. According to Ms. Aminat businesses have not fully recovered from the COVID-19 pandemic and people are not coming to buy as they used to. She goes on to list the cons of being a business owner these days; lack of available capital to scale, poor infrastructures, and issues with NEPA directly affect productivity. “The business is highly capital-intensive. So each day I struggle to grow and invest in new things that will turn a profit.” 

Other than that, “It’s awesome” Ms. Aminat says. “I have no regrets.” 

When I ask if she has any advice for younger women who are figuring out what they want to do. She empathizes with their difficult position in Nigeria’s current economy and encourages finding a way to work for yourself instead of looking for a job, because, “At the end of the day you will still end up going into business, so the earlier, the better.”

Ms. Florence

Less than 5km away, obscured from plain sight in an annex on the edge of Balogun market, is another shop. Ms. Florence sells showy ladies wear from Turkey. Her shop is one of about ten others in the annex, all selling similar imported clothing and fabrics, each brighter and louder than the next. I meet Ms. Florence with a Bluetooth earpiece fixed to the right side of her head, simultaneously directing her shop girls and confirming the details of something she’s just written in her jotter. Light bounces off her pristinely white tiled floors, alluring my eyes to the glittery kaftans flattering the plastic silhouettes of display mannequins that are grouped at the crowded entrance. 

Just outside the annex is the entirety of Balogun market, nearly bursting at the seams with activity. It’s a wholesale market situated right between the exit of Lagos Mainland and the entrance of Lagos Island. The enormity of sun-washed and dilapidated buildings juxtapose the vibrant micro-businesses that have encroached on the formalized commercial center. Shrieking car horns, the symbolic sound of impatience, broadcast the arrival of marketgoers as they approach the trading area. Just like Yaba market, Balogun is loaded with shops of every kind, size, and color. 

I am reminded again of my foreignness, as a young man bombards me with a rambling sales pitch to buy the Made in China plastic goods he has displayed across his forearm. I signal my indifference by maintaining my pace. He matches my stride, refusing to accept the hint. Now, walking in tandem, the squeeze between marketgoers, street vendors, and patrolling Igbo boys feels even more constricting. I put a pep in my step and out of frustration, I develop a voice. After the fifth rejection, he skillfully switches from a mobile storefront to a service provider, offering to carry my bags with me through the market. Here, value is created and anything can have a price. 

I suggest, before entering the frenzied spirit of Balogun market, one should pray for peace and forgo all sensitivities to personal space. 

Ms. Florence prefers the sliver of serenity she gets from her annex on the edge; she is close enough to benefit from the traffic of the market but far away enough to avoid its irritable density. “Anyway,” Ms. Florence says, “any location is better than being in the street.” 

Before the market she was a housewife, supporting her husband and tending to their 3 children. Though she graduated from the Federal Polytechnic school and spent some time working at a bank, after getting married her husband made it clear that “you can’t be working, and I’ll be working.” Since the expectation of caring for the household and children falls on the woman, she chose to take care of her family over keeping a job. When thinking of what to do with her newfound time, she picked up an interest in women’s fashion, “That was what actually pushed me into doing this business, I always envied people when they wear good clothes.” 

With support from her husband, Ms. Florence opened her first shop just 6 months after leaving her bank job. A little over five years later, she has grown out of two shops and loves what she does, “making people look good.” Ms. Florence equally sells online, using platforms such as Facebook, Instagram, and Jumia, “you can even stay at home and do this business, that’s the great thing,” she says. 

With the flexibility of working for herself, Ms. Florence can both nurture and financially support her family; “I wake up around five o'clock to prepare my children for school and my husband for work. Around 8 o'clock I do a school run, and then I start coming down to the market. By 5:30 pm I go home and finish out my day. I do this every day, except Sundays.” She reserves one day to herself.

“Sunday is when I go to church and give myself special treats.”

Ms. Esther

There is no word big enough to describe the energy of the Balogun market, cacophony, kaleidoscope, and scatterbrained come to mind. To make certain you leave the market accomplished and unvexed requires confidence, determination, and a cold front. I enter Ms. Esther’s shop dizzy from sharp turns and heated from stress. She sells hair attachments and accessories from a pocket-sized shop in the center of the market. I greet her seated at the back of the shop, holding a discerning eye over passing marketgoers like the captain of a wayward ship. 

I ask Ms. Esther how she has benefitted from working in the market. She responds with joy, “I thank God, I have a car. I have a small house. Then I have my life and my children.” From her leather phone case, she pulls out a photo of herself from 20 years ago, when she first started in the market with just 40 items and 10,000 Naira. 

She shares with me that before the market she spent her adolescence hawking pure water on the streets. Later she served under another market woman for 10 years in a working relationship she described as slavery. It wasn’t until she gave birth to her daughter that she was “set free.” I only just begin to understand the essence behind Ms. Esther’s stoicism and discernment. She came to existence through the winding aisles of the market.  Her perspective on life, work, and family is hardly unique to fellow women traders, but all the more dear to the legacy she has been able to create for herself. 

Staring inquisitively at her own image she says, “I thought I was a big woman then.” When I ask if she feels empowered as a market woman, she scoffs at my question and boasts, “of course!”

All the while, in the indistinguishable chatter between goers and traders, there is a foreboding about the state of business. Ms. Esther corroborates the sensitivities of her peers, “we market women are facing so many challenges, business is not moving the way it’s supposed to be. If we're talking about the economic system here in Nigeria, forget.” She explains that the rise in the dollar and the lack of available jobs make selling all the more challenging. She says, “It is not that people don’t want to buy, they just don't have the money.” 

Inflation and a pinched customer base make the already highly capital-intensive business even higher. “Before, if you have a hundred thousand, you can do business, but now you can't. Even 1 million is useless. And of course, who has sold? Nobody has sold anything to afford that,” Ms. Esther says. The current state of the Nigerian economy makes her weary about the future. To get through hard times she prays for a better situation, “People are suffering, even to get their daily bread. It is only God that can change the way things are now.”

After asking my final questions, 5 pm approaches. The market is finally winding down and the heat of the day is settling into a comfortable glow. I gather my things and begin wedging my way out of Ms. Esther’s shop. As I cross the threshold, a young woman walks in carrying a sleepy baby on her hip. Ms. Esther yells after me excitedly, “This is my daughter I was telling you about!”