Power, Pain, and Powder: Iyalode Efunsetan Aniwura

What would it have taken for a woman in the 19th century to be so wealthy that the de facto ruler would rely on her for war ammunition?

Iyalode Efunsetan Aniwura. Even her name carries a weight of power “Aniwura,” loosely translated, means “one who possesses gold.” And by all accounts, she didn’t just possess it, she commanded it.

As kids, many of us loved to play carefree, while our parents did the hard work. But not young Efunsetan. She was often at her mother’s side, navigating the vibrant, competitive markets. Her mother was a petty trader, but for Efunsetan, these early experiences were more than errands they were a business apprenticeship. She watched, she learned, and most importantly, she absorbed the grind.

When she came of age, she left Abeokuta for the growing city of Ibadan. It helped that her cousin, Balogun Oluyole, was the de facto leader there. It’s safe to assume his influence made her resettlement smoother. But her rise? That was all hers.

To be Iyalode wasn’t just about being wealthy or influential, it was a seat of power, respect, and deep responsibility. The title was reserved for a woman who had proven herself in trade, politics, leadership, and community affairs. Think of the Iyalode as the voice of women in the council of chiefs. She could sit in council with male chiefs, advise rulers, and even sway decisions that affected an entire city. So, when Efunsetan Aniwura held that title in Ibadan, she wasn’t just a businesswoman, she was a stateswoman, and a force whose voice mattered at the highest level.

She was an entrepreneurial force dealing in foodstuffs, livestock, textiles, kola nuts, mats, and yes, even domestic slaves. Her trade routes stretched beyond local markets; she expanded into international trading of slaves and tobacco, a grim but undeniable part of her empire.

And she didn’t stop at commerce. Iyalode Efunsetan owned three large farms, each reportedly worked by over 100 slaves. It’s hard not to see the scale of her operations, she wasn’t just a trader; she was an economic institution. You could say if she taught economics in today’s world, you wouldn’t want to turn in sloppy homework.

But power has its shadows.

Iyalode was known for enforcing a strict or what some would  say brutal code of discipline among her workers. She forbade pregnancy among her enslaved workforce, and both men and women who defied this rule faced fatal consequences. Cruel? Absolutely. But history is rarely clean-cut, and her reasoning may have come from a deeply personal place.

She endured multiple marriages without childbirth, and the one child she bore tragically died young. Her grief may have turned into control; a desire to avoid reminders of loss. It doesn’t justify her actions, but it offers a glimpse into the pain behind the severity.

In a society that placed immense value on lineage, the absence of an heir was no small matter. The Yoruba adage says: “ Bi’na ba’ku a f’ru b’oju, b’ogede b’aku a fi omo r’opo” loosely translated as “If a fire dies, we use ashes to remember it; if a plantain tree dies, its offspring replaces it.” Legacy mattered. In an attempt to secure hers, she adopted a slave named Kumuyilo as her son. That decision would later haunt her.

Despite the personal losses, Iyalode’s wealth and influence only grew. She began supplying arms and ammunition on credit to Aare Latoosa, the Aare Ona Kakanfo; a powerful military leader. But things soured when she refused to extend more credit due to outstanding debts. That bold refusal would set off a tragic chain of events.

Unable to break her through official channels, even the council of chiefs held her in high regard. Aare Latoosa reportedly turned to underhanded means. He colluded with Kumuyilo, who betrayed his adoptive mother. He revealed the location of her sleeping quarters to assassins, and she was murdered in her sleep.

The end of a legend.

Once, a statue of Iyalode Efunsetan Aniwura stood at Challenge Roundabout in Ibadan – a symbol of her legacy. But it was taken down, following public discomfort over her brutal legacy.

Was she cruel? By today’s standards, undeniably. But she was also strategic, shrewd, and arguably one of the most powerful women in 19th-century West Africa. Her story is not one of simple admiration or condemnation,  it is a layered tale of pain, power, and ambition.

What else have you heard about Iyalode Efunsetan that history might have missed?