On the 28th day of August, 2025, in the heart of Anambra, lawmakers gathered to give shape and form to something older than the very walls of their Assembly. They passed the Igbo Apprenticeship Bill 2025, a law that will take effect on September 10, and with it, they have placed the revered Igba Boi system upon the scales of legislation.
For centuries, the markets of Onitsha, Nnewi, Awka, and Ekwulobia have been more than places of trade. They have been schools—open-air universities where boys became men and men became pillars of the community. Under the watchful eyes of their masters, apprentices learned not only the art of commerce but also the virtues of patience, trust, and loyalty. A boy who once swept the floor of a shop could, through diligence, become the master of his own, sending out his own apprentices in turn. Thus wealth and dignity spread like yam tendrils through the homesteads of Igboland.
Now, Anambra State has sought to enshrine this sacred trust in law. The Bill promises protection for the apprentice, clear guidelines for training, and the establishment of the Anambra State Igbo Apprenticeship Commission to guard against abuse. On paper, it sounds noble. Who can fault a law that ensures a young boy is not left stranded after seven faithful years, his labor unrewarded? Who can quarrel with a framework that seeks fairness where human weakness sometimes breeds exploitation?
And yet, under the moonlight, the elders will whisper their unease. For the strength of Igba Boi has always been its humanity—the handshake sealed with kola nut, the unspoken trust between master and boy, the community’s silent watch. Can such delicate threads be tightened by the cords of government regulation without snapping?
There are fears that over-regulation may stiffen the living spirit of the system, reducing it to mere paperwork. Some worry that enforcing educational requirements may push away boys whose only hope lies in trade, not classroom. Others fear that bureaucracy will plant suspicion where once trust had flourished.
Still, one must admit: times have changed. The markets of Anambra no longer hum as they did in the days of our fathers. The world is faster, harsher, more complex. Perhaps the law is a shield to preserve what remains before greed and dishonor erode it completely. Perhaps it is a bridge between the wisdom of our ancestors and the demands of the modern economy.
As dusk falls over the red earth of Anambra, one sees young apprentices locking their masters’ shops, their eyes filled with dreams of tomorrow. Will this new law be the wind that lifts their sails or the net that tangles their feet? The answer, like all things in Igboland, will depend not only on the letter of the law but on the spirit with which it is lived.
For in the end, the true strength of Igba Boi is not in contracts or commissions, but in the unbroken circle of trust—onye aghala nwanne ya—let no one leave his brother behind.
