In northern Nigeria, especially among Arewa women, the laffaya or mehlfa carries symbolic meaning that shifts with context. For Hausa-Fulani women, the laffaya—wrapped as a skirt and draped over the shoulders like a hijab, paired with a blouse—is both a bold fashion choice and a quiet badge of modesty, while the mehlfa, nearly identical to its Sudanese cousin—wrapped under the arms and knotted around the chest before being draped over the head as a veil—becomes a whispered announcement of religious devotion for those who use it as their hijab and a reminder of how it was the only appropriate and affordable covering for them.  

In Arewa, bridal laffaya shimmers with elaborate embroidery and metallic threads, while everyday wear is made of soft, simple cotton or cheap chiffon. There are rules, unspoken but heard. The intricate, heavy patterns belong to wealthy older matriarchs, the lighter touches to young women or bridesmaids, but each fabric hints at status, family ties and the quiet pride of an Arewa woman who wants her clothing to speak before she does. The night before an important event, she perfumes the cloth with turaren wuta—a northern incense blend of sandalwood and resin—folds it delicately and chooses accessories that are just enough to show her status: not too much, but especially not too little. The ritual and intention begin before the fabric ever touches her skin. 

Long before the Arewa woman draped this cloth over her body, pieces of it (not quite similar, not yet coined as the mehlfa or toub) were worn elsewhere. Two locations are considered the homelands of the Toub: the River Nile valley, dating back over 10,000 years to the Sudanese Bagrawiya civilization and the historic port of Suakin in eastern Sudan. Women take particular pride in the belief that al-toub was the national costume of queens and that Queen Kandake was the first to wear it. However, no records show that it was called al-toub or mehlfa.   

In Arabic, the word ‘toub’, sometimes known as ‘thawb’, refers to clothing in general, but for Sudanese women, it refers to an outer garment of 4.5 meters draped over their bodies, a social status symbol for them, with various attributes of the toub denoting wealth and refinement.  

Additionally, the toub is the most resilient aspect of the national costume worn by Sudanese women. Its beauty and versatility have made it endure, while other costumes like the rahat and gurgab have vanished. A rural woman’s toub may serve as her nightgown, mosquito net, outerwear or curtain behind which she can nurse her infant in public. It may also be used as a pouch for collecting cotton or other crops. 

In the nineteenth century, the Mahdi reform movement banned ‘Turkish’ fashion and ordered that all women wear veils to conceal their faces in public. Prior to this, and even now, only the women of the Rashaida tribe wore the ginaa—a unique, elaborately adorned veil. The Mahdiya women, without a ginaa, secured their toubs over their faces by pulling the jedaa, which is the end of the toub that is typically thrown over the shoulder, securely across their lower faces. The remaining yard or so was then draped over their heads. 

The mehlfa or toub or laffayah goes by many names. While its earliest appearance is said—though debatably—to have originated in Sudan, it has been adapted across Sahelian cultures through trans-Saharan trade, gaining unique significance in each. In Mauritania and Mali, the clothing is referred to as dampé or mehlfa, while in northern Nigeria (Arewa), Niger and Chad, it is known as laffaya. In Sudan, it is commonly called tiyyab or toub, fūṭa in eastern Sudan, and al lāwu among the Shuluk tribe. From Chad to Eritrea, Ethiopia to Djibouti, Somalia to Mali, the Nubians of Egypt and across North Africa in Morocco and Algeria, the laffaya has been adopted by diverse cultures. 

The toub does not just have different names across regions, Sudanese women were witty and smart with it. They coined new names for each toub style, reflecting political climate, social trends and even popular love songs of the time. One of my favourites is Lahalibu (meaning ‘Flames’), a coloured toub from the 1950s and 1960s covered in large acrylic squares. These toubs perfectly matched the Arabic rhyme: ‘لحليبو – لو قادر جيبو، لو ما قادر سيبو (Lahalibu – law qadir jibu, law ma qadir sibu)’, ‘Whoever can get it, so—Who cannot, let it go.’ Another is Khartoum bil layl (‘Khartoum by Night’), a perfumed, glittery black toub inspired by the city’s aerial views after dark.

Then there is Al budrah (‘Powder’), Al sawdanah (‘Sudanization’), Wad al siyufi (‘Son of the Sword’), Zahrat al khalij (‘Flower of the Gulf’), Afrah al qulub (‘Joys of the Heart’) and Al ghirah (‘Jealousy’)—a yellow coloured toub. 

I remember pausing at a comment on Pinterest that read, ‘This is a Toub.’ It referred to a photo of a woman dressed in what I had assumed was a laffaya, ‘a Sudanese cultural attire,’ the comment explained. I raised my eyebrows, slightly confused. Yes, the wrap was familiar—but different too. It was more sculptural, wrapped fully around the chest and torso in soft loops, the cloth flowing like a robe. As I watched more videos and pictures of Sudanese women in this attire, I noticed how they styled it differently: they wore jewellery on their heads, around their necks and sometimes even on their waists. The adornment was part of the language. Rings stacked on fingers, bracelets jingling at wrists, and just like in the traditions I knew, there was incense burning thickly around her as she sang, the smoke rising like a veil of its own. 

What truly shifted something in me was a cover art by Aya Mohamed—a soft sketch of a Sudanese woman holding flowers. Around her, other women gathered, all wrapped in what I had always known as the laffaya. They circled her gently, their bodies moving in quiet rhythm, faces turned away as she stood at the centre, facing the viewer. The image was powerful, and the title stirred something painful in me. That image stayed with me. I finally understood that this cloth wasn’t tied to one place or one people or even one meaning. It was a shared garment. A shared memory. A symbol of strength. A garment whose meaning travelled with the women who wore it—adapted and reinterpreted but never lost.