Before Feminism Had a Name, There Was Sisterhood
By Osuolale Oluwatomilayo
I faltered. Weren’t my mother’s daughters my only sisters?
Oh, my mother, hotter than brimstone, softer than morning dew, the woman who walked through storms so we could learn to dance in the rain. Yet Baba Arowosegbe on Lane 5 still pitied her for birthing seven girls, as though raising seven suns was some kind of tragedy. The world we live in.
When Aribanke asked me that question, I didn’t have an answer. But now, in the blooming year of the 21st century, 2025, I have learned that sisterhood cuts deeper than blood. It is not defined by shared lineage but by shared battles, the unspoken understanding between women who have carried the weight of expectations and still found ways to laugh, love, and live.
The beauty of sisterhood is older than life itself. Long before the word feminism echoed across continents, it was already alive in our compounds, in the hearts of Nigerian women who didn’t know they were planting the seeds of liberation. They didn’t call it activism; they called it helping one another.
It began in the courtyards of our mothers. The evenings when women gathered to peel cassava, braid each other’s hair, and tell stories. One woman would sigh about her stubborn husband, another would murmur, “Endure, my sister, but don’t let him break your spirit.” That was feminism in wrappers and headscarves. That was the first classroom of resilience, and every woman was both student and teacher.
Our foremothers were the architects of quiet revolutions. They may never have written essays on gender equality, but they built their own versions of equity in daily acts of courage. A woman’s strength was not always loud, it was in the way she woke before dawn to fetch water for the entire family, or in how she managed to feed ten mouths with barely enough grain for five. It was in how she taught her daughters that silence was not weakness, but strategy.
When we talk about sisterhood, we must remember that it’s both survival and solidarity. In the market stalls of Ibadan, Enugu, and Kano, women formed cooperatives long before “networking” became a buzzword. They lent each other money, shared trade secrets, and stood together when colonial taxes or unfair prices threatened their livelihoods. Out of these markets grew the political consciousness that birthed Nigeria’s earliest feminists.
Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti, for instance, the Lioness of Lisabi, did not emerge from a vacuum. She was raised in Abeokuta, in a culture where women gathered for everything: births, funerals, harvests, and laughter. Sisterhood was her foundation, and she built upon it a movement that shook colonial Nigeria. She led thousands of women to protest unfair taxation and political exclusion. When men tried to silence her, she spoke louder, not for herself alone, but for every woman who had ever been told to “know her place.”
Then there was Margaret Ekpo, elegant and fearless, who turned social clubs into political platforms. She understood that feminism could wear pearls and still carry fire. She taught women to vote, to speak up in councils dominated by men, to own their voices and their choices. Beside her was Hajia Gambo Sawaba, who fearlessly campaigned for women’s education in northern Nigeria, often at great personal risk.
And long before them stood the warrior queens of our history, Queen Amina of Zazzau and Queen Idia of Benin. Queen Idia, the legendary mother of Oba Esigie, was a symbol of strength, wisdom, and mystical power in the 16th-century Benin Kingdom. She used her political intelligence and spiritual influence to secure her son’s throne and ensure peace during turbulent times. Her legacy endures not only in the history books but also in the ivory mask carved in her likeness, now a global emblem of African womanhood, leadership, and resilience. From Idia’s royal court to Amina’s battlefields, Nigerian women have always known how to lead, protect, and nurture in equal measure.
These women have embodied what it means to be WOMAN.
Our mothers might not have had access to global conferences or hashtags, but they built their own support systems, ones that worked just as powerfully. When a woman’s husband took a second wife, her co-wives became allies, not rivals, in raising children and sustaining the household. When a new bride entered a compound, older women whispered advice and protection into her ears except in households hotter than sahara’s sand. When a child fell ill, every mother in the village became a nurse and prayer warrior. That was sisterhood in its purest form: instinctive, nurturing, and revolutionary in its tenderness.
Today, we call it feminism. But the truth is, it began in our kitchens. In the rhythmic pounding of yam, in the laughter shared over palm wine, in the gentle defiance of women who refused to let patriarchy steal their joy. It began when one woman told another, “Don’t cry, my sister. We will find a way.”
The modern Nigerian woman stands on these shoulders. Whether she is a nurse in Lagos, a lawyer in Abuja, or a farmer in Nsukka, she inherits a legacy of courage and connection. We have learned that feminism is not imported; it is inherited. It lives in our grandmothers’ stories, in our mothers’ sacrifices, in our friends’ unwavering support.
When I think of sisterhood today, I think of WhatsApp groups where women share job openings and encouragement. I think of social media collectives that raise funds for girls’ education and survivors of abuse. I think of laughter and insults shared after heartbreaks, and hands held through the storm. Sisterhood, like water, always finds a way to flow, through time, through culture, through change.
And so, when I remember Aribanke’s question, “Do you see me as a friend or a sister?”, I finally have my answer. She is my sister. Not because we share parents, but because we share purpose. Because in her I see the same fire that burned in Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti’s heart, the same grace that flowed through Margaret Ekpo’s smile, and the same quiet power that made my mother stand tall when the world mocked her for birthing seven girls.
The truth is, sisterhood is the oldest form of feminism. It is how Nigerian women have always survived, resisted, and thrived. It is how we will continue to bloom, together, and always together.
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