Ebere sold Ankara handbags. Good ones. Stiff lining. Strong zips. Prints that didn’t fade after one wear. She made them herself, each one taking a day from cutting to final stitch.
But at the end of every month, her account told a story her mouth refused to speak. Money came in. Money went out. What stayed behind was too small for the hours she worked.
She blamed the market. Too many sellers. Customers who wanted “Jumia prices” for handmade quality. Transport that kept rising. Data that disappeared like morning mist.
Then one Thursday, a customer sent her a message that broke something open.
“I love the bag. But why is yours N18,000 when someone in Alaba is selling something similar for N13,000?”
Ebere typed a long reply. About materials. About time. About the difference between factory and handmade. About rent. About transport. About everything.
The customer read it and said: “I understand. But I still have to think about it.”
She never replied again.
That night, Ebere opened her notebook and did something she had avoided for two years. She wrote down every cost that went into one bag.
Fabric: N7,500
Lining: N2,200
Zip and accessories: N1,300
Transport to market: N600
Packaging: N250
Data for the week divided per bag: N180
Occasional “I’ll pay later” losses: N200
Her own time, divided: N2,000
She added it. Twice. Three times.
N14,230.
She stared at the number. She had been selling at N15,000 for months, thinking she was making N1,770 profit.
But that calculation had forgotten half the costs. The real profit was N770. Sometimes less. Sometimes nothing, when a customer negotiated hard and she gave N14,500 just to keep them.
She was not running a business. She was running a charity funded by her own exhaustion.
The next morning, she did not raise prices. She opened AI and pasted her numbers. All of them. The true cost. The old price. The customer’s reaction. The competitor’s price.
She asked: “Analyze whether I am underpriced, fairly priced, or overpriced in a Nigerian urban market.”
AI answered: *”Your true cost is N14,230. Your selling price is N15,000. Your margin is 5.1%. This is below sustainable levels for a handmade product. You are vulnerable to inflation, negotiation pressure, and operational shocks. Consider repositioning toward mid-market trust pricing between N17,500 and N19,000, supported by clearer value communication.”*
She read it. It said nothing she did not already know. But seeing it written, separate from her guilt and fear, made it real. The number was not an opinion. It was arithmetic.
She did not jump to N19,000. She moved to N17,500 first. And she did something else. She updated her description:
*Handmade Ankara bag. Stiff lining, strong zip, fits 13-inch laptop. Made in Lagos. N17,500.*
No apology. No justification. Just clarity.
The first week, three people asked: “Why expensive?” She had her answer ready, calm and structured: “The materials are premium, and each bag is handmade. It lasts longer than factory alternatives.”
Two bought. One said she would think about it. That was fine.
The second week, four bought. The third week, six.
Not because she shouted. Because her price finally matched her effort. And customers who valued quality found her, while those hunting for N13,000 moved on.
She calculated her new margin. True cost still N14,230. Selling price N17,500. Profit per bag: N3,270.
More than four times what she was making before. On fewer bags. With less stress.
She looked back at the customer who had asked about Alaba. She understood now. The problem was not the comparison. The problem was she had never known her own floor. She was pricing from fear, not from fact. And fear always looks like a discount.
Pricing is not what you charge. It is what your costs allow you to survive. The difference between a business that lasts and one that leaks is not how many customers you have. It is whether your price includes every cost you forgot to write down.
The framework for finding your true floor is here: