I stopped by my mummy’s shop recently — Omò Ìyá Oní Bàtà — and for the first time in a long while, it hit me hard.
I can boldly say this: I am the founder and the foundation of this business.
Many years ago, around 2006 or even earlier, my mum was already deep in the trenches of hustle. She travelled regularly to Cotonou, buying goods and reselling them to market women back home. Back then, there was no niche, no specialization. If it looked like a good deal, she bought it.
Cloth linings (I hated those ones with passion because of the weight), soaps, slippers, baby shoes — anything that could sell.
We had a small shop inside the market, and I was everything rolled into one: personal assistant, cashier, delivery agent, and debt recovery officer. She took me along to her customers. I took orders, recorded prices, tracked debts, delivered goods, and followed up days later for payment.
That follow-up part was where my frustration truly began.
I would get to a customer’s shop to collect money and be told to “sit down.” I’d sit for hours. Sometimes they’d pay half. Sometimes nothing at all. Other times, they’d smile and tell me to come back another day. Meanwhile, my mum had already spent money on transport, stress, and energy to bring those goods in.
One day, after plenty begging, I convinced my mum to take me with her to Cotonou.
She was worried about the stress, but I needed to see it for myself. I wanted to understand whether all this wahala with market people was truly worth it.
That journey changed how I saw my mother forever.
At the border, she slowed her pace behind me and whispered calmly:
“I’m going to cross to the other side using that gate. You, just keep going straight. Walk fast. Don’t turn left or right. And don’t answer anyone.”
And she disappeared.
I walked straight for about five minutes without her. My heart was racing. I was scared and almost in tears, but I kept walking just as she said. Suddenly, she appeared from nowhere like magic.
“That’s how we cross the border,” she said casually.
I was shocked. “Why didn’t you prepare me ahead of time?”
She laughed. “If I had told you, you would have been shaking. And they would have caught you.”
That day, my respect for my mum multiplied. That woman is a certified hustler.
On that trip, I became the buyer. Calculator hanging proudly on my neck, I converted CFA to naira, compared prices, and made decisions. We eventually settled on adult and children’s slippers in different designs.
That trip changed everything.
That was how my mum unknowingly found her niche.
Back home, reality still annoyed me.
My mum made just ₦50–₦70 profit on a dozen slippers, depending on the design. Yet retailers sold each pair for at least ₦50 profit per piece. They didn’t travel. They didn’t cross borders. They didn’t face stress. And still, they delayed payment.
It pained me deeply.
By 2009, I couldn’t keep quiet anymore.
I sat my mum down for one of the hardest conversations we remembered.
“Mum,” I said, “let’s start selling these slippers ourselves.”
That sentence would later become the seed that transformed Omò Ìyá Oní Bàtà from survival hustle into a defined business — but that part of the story is for another day.
Written By Zeenat