It happened long ago—before the coming of smartphones, cars, or loud political rallies. It was the time when the white man ruled over our lands, and our mothers—yes, our dear mothers—rose from the quiet of their kitchens and markets to speak not with guns or clubs, but with voices louder than thunder.
They were not warriors in the way you might imagine. They carried no swords. Their backs were bent not by fear, but by years of labour—farming the soil, raising children, and trading in markets. Yet, in 1929, they made history in a way that shook the British Empire to its bones.
This is the story of the Aba Women’s Cry of 1929—though we now know it was not a r*ot, but a resistance, a brave march led by mothers, sisters, and daughters who refused to be silent. It is not just history—it is a flame that lit the fire of Nigerian nationalism.
Chapter One – The Quiet Before the Storm
Before 1929, life in the Eastern part of Nigeria—especially among the Igbo people—was guided by community, respect for elders, and traditions. Women had their roles, and though their duties were plenty, they were respected and deeply involved in their towns. They controlled the local markets, ran cooperatives, and took care of homes.
But then came the white men, the colonial administrators. They did not understand our ways. They brought taxes—first to the men, and then plans were drawn to extend it to women too. Women, who already paid with their sweat and struggle daily, were now being asked to pay in coins. To the British, it seemed like order. To the women, it felt like betrayal and injustice.
What added fire to the wood was the introduction of warrant chiefs—men appointed by the colonial officers to rule over others, often without the people’s consent. These chiefs collected taxes and often abused power. The women knew that if they did not speak now, their lives would only get harder.
And so, the drums began to beat.
Chapter Two – The Spark that Lit the Fire
In a small town called Oloko, near Aba, something happened that changed everything. A British colonial officer named Captain Cook came to assess how to introduce a tax on women. He asked the warrant chief, Okugo, to gather the names of all the women in the area.
When the women saw men going from house to house, asking about the number of people in each household, they feared that taxation was coming for them too. A brave woman named Nwanyeruwa stepped forward. When a man named Mark Emereuwa came to her house asking questions, she raised her voice. She said, “Are you counting us like goats for tax?” That confrontation sparked a fury that spread like wild harmattan fire.
Women across Oloko, and soon Aba, Owerri, Umuahia, and beyond, began to mobilize. They gathered in thousands, singing, dancing, and chanting. These were not idle women. These were market leaders, farmers, mothers, and community warriors. And they had one mission—to stop this unfair taxation.
Chapter Three – The Women Gather Like Clouds In One Voice
Word spread from village to village. Drums beat. Messages flew through the air like birds. It was not through phones or flyers but through something stronger—solidarity.
Over 10,000 women came together, traveling on foot from towns far and near. Some with babies on their backs, others with bowls of food, ready to stay until the fight was won. They used a traditional form of protest called “sitting on a man” —a method where women would surround a chief’s house, sing against him, dance in mockery, and express their grievances with songs, words, and symbolic gestures.
They targeted the warrant chiefs, demanding that taxation must end and corrupt leaders must be removed. The British were shocked. Never had they seen such unity, such discipline, such fire from women.
But they misunderstood again.
Chapter Four – From Protest to Pain
In Aba, things took a sad turn. As the women continued their peaceful protest, the colonial officers became fearful. They saw the gathering as a r*ot and brought in soldiers and police. On December 16, 1929, tragedy struck.
British soldiers opened fire on the crowd in some towns. It was a painful day. Records show that at least 50 women lost their lives, while others were injured or arrested. These were women who had no weapons, only their voices. They fell not as enemies, but as heroes.
The people cried. The land mourned. But even in sorrow, the message grew louder—the women had stood for truth.
Chapter Five – The Beginning of Something Greater
After the protests and the painful incidents, the British authorities were forced to listen. Investigations followed. Some warrant chiefs were removed. The colonial government dropped its plan to tax women. And slowly, reforms began to take shape.
But beyond all that, something powerful had been born. The women’s protest awakened something deeper in Nigerians. It reminded everyone—north, south, east, and west—that power lies in unity, in courage, and in truth.
Young men and women who watched the protest grew up with a fire for justice. Many of Nigeria’s nationalists later admitted that what those women did in 1929 helped shape the idea that colonial rule must end and that Nigerians must rule themselves.
Chapter Six – The Legacy of the Mothers Who Spoke
Today, when we speak of heroes of Nigeria, let us not forget the women of Aba. Let us remember Nwanyeruwa. Let us speak of the unnamed thousands who sang and stood in the sun not for fame but for freedom.
Their story is not just history—it is a lesson. It teaches us that change does not always begin with force. Sometimes, it begins with a voice. A mother’s voice. A sister’s voice. A market woman’s voice.
The Aba Women’s Protest was not just a protest—it was a mirror of courage, a heartbeat of resistance, and a drumbeat of nationalism.
Even as we walk the streets of our towns today, let us carry their memory in our steps. Let us speak boldly, act with truth, and never be afraid to rise when justice calls.
Final Words
So, my dear readers, the next time someone tells you that women are not strong, or that the journey of Nigeria began with only men—tell them about 1929.
Tell them how the earth trembled, not from w*r—but from the footsteps of women.
Tell them how Nigeria first found her voice—through the songs of mothers marching under the sun.
And tell them this: true freedom begins when the people rise—not with weapons, but with truth in their hearts and courage in their steps.
