A young Igbo woman’s tearful video, calling out the injustice of her culture’s inheritance laws, has rightly ignited a firestorm on Nigerian social media. Her pain was palpable, her grievance specific: the cold, hard wall of tradition that tells a daughter she is not a legitimate heir to her father’s legacy. In her anguish, she labelled “Igbo patriarchy” as a particular brand of severe, and in doing so, she has held up a mirror not just to the East, but to the entire nation.
While her courage in speaking out is commendable and her pain entirely valid, the ensuing narrative that one ethnic group’s patriarchy is uniquely worse than another’s is a dangerous diversion. The uncomfortable truth is that patriarchy is not an Igbo invention; it is a Nigerian staple, served in different dishes across the country, but with the same bitter aftertaste for women. To single out one group is to ignore the nationwide architecture of gender inequality that holds us all back.
Let’s start where the conversation began: with the Igbo and inheritance. There is no sugar-coating the profound hurt caused by a system that can disinherit a man’s own daughters in favour of a distant male cousin. It is a practice that sends a clear, demoralising message: a woman’s value is transient, and her primary belonging is to her husband’s lineage, not her own. This is a foundational flaw that has left countless women and widows vulnerable and dispossessed. To argue against it is a fight for basic justice.
But to then claim this makes the Igbo situation uniquely “worse” is to turn a blind eye to the sophisticated, and sometimes more insidious, forms of patriarchy practiced elsewhere. Consider the Yoruba, often hailed for their relative liberalism and the economic prowess of their women. Yet, even here, patriarchal control is deeply embedded in social etiquette. The common practice of a new wife being compelled to call her husband’s younger siblings “Uncle” and “Auntie” is not a harmless custom. It is a linguistic power play, a daily ritual of submission that instantly establishes a hierarchy. It tells a grown woman, often a professional and an intellectual equal to her husband, that within the family structure, she is subordinate to teenagers and young adults based solely on their bloodline. It is a subtle but constant reminder that she has entered a dynasty where her position is conditional on her deference.
Then, look to the North and the practice of kulle, or wife seclusion, among the Hausa-Fulani. Here, the patriarchy is not subtle; it is architectural. The practice, which confines a married woman to her husband’s compound, is a physical manifestation of control. While it is true that many resourceful women run thriving businesses from within this seclusion, using their children as intermediaries, this does not negate the fundamental restriction of their freedom of movement and association. The ability to adapt and thrive in spite of a oppressive system is a testament to female resilience, not an excuse for the system itself. To frame kulle as an economic opportunity is to miss the point entirely: it is a policy of confinement that limits a woman’s access to public life, education, and spontaneous social interaction on her own terms.
When we line these examples up—the economic disinheritance in the East, the linguistic subjugation in the West, and the physical seclusion in the North—what emerges is not a competition for “worst patriarchy.” What emerges is a clear pattern. Each system, in its own culturally specific way, is designed to control women—their money, their speech, or their bodies. The Igbo system attacks a woman’s economic future post-father. The Yoruba custom manages her social standing post-marriage. The Hausa practice controls her physical presence post-wedding. They are different tools for the same job: maintaining male authority.
This tribal comparison is a trap. It allows us to point fingers at our neighbours, fuelling ethnic jabs and creating a false sense of moral superiority. The Yoruba man can scoff at the “primitive” inheritance laws of the Igbo, while quietly expecting his wife to kneel while serving him dinner. The Igbo man can decry the “confinement” of Hausa women, while seeing no contradiction in his sister being denied a share of their father’s property. This cycle of deflection helps no one; it only ensures that the underlying system remains unchallenged.
The young lady’s video was not an attack on the Igbo people; it was a cry for help from within a system that hurts her. It should serve as a catalyst for a much broader, national introspection. The energy spent arguing over which culture is more oppressive should be redirected into asking a more fundamental question: why, as a nation, do we cling so fiercely to traditions that diminish our mothers, sisters, and daughters?
We must move beyond ethnic blame games and recognise that the struggle for gender equality is a unified Nigerian struggle. The woman in Kano fighting for her right to walk freely is a sister to the woman in Enugu fighting for her right to inherit, and the woman in Lagos fighting for the right to call her in-laws by their names. Their battles may look different, but the enemy is the same: an entrenched belief that a woman’s place is secondary.
True progress will come not when we prove one ethnicity is better than the other, but when we collectively decide that none of these patriarchal practices are good enough for the Nigeria we want to build. We must have the courage to curate our own culture, to hold on to the beautiful, empowering traditions while discarding those that cause tangible harm. The tears of that Igbo daughter should water the seeds of change not just in Igboland, but in every corner of this nation. For until every woman is free, no woman is truly free.
