Glamsquad Magazine Jan 2023

FEATURE
Nigerian designers to public
events? I would be supporting the
different layers of the industry, from
the button-sewer to the delivery
person, and I hoped to bring other
buyers to Nigerian brands.
Nigeria has always had a
thriving fashion scene. I admired,
early on, the seamless structures
of Deola Sagoe, the unusual flair
of Zizi Cardow, but they seemed
unreachable. Now there was a
new generation of designers, with
a grassroots vigour and visibility
made possible by social media.
Most were in Lagos, the most stylish
city in the world, where fashion is
the one true democracy: from the
western-label-loving elite class, to
the working poor in their beautifully
put-together outfits bought
second-hand.
Looking at Nigerian designs
online became my favourite timewaster.
Here was bliss: clothes cut
to account for breasts, an ethos
of clothing as pleasure rather
than status, the casual presence
of sleeves. I took screenshots of
what I liked. My cousin Ogechukwu
placed the orders. They were
delivered to my Lagos home. If I
happened to be in the US, they
would be sent to me there.
Some of the clothes I fell for as
soon as I put them on. Others did
not live up to their promise. There
was an abundance of poor-quality
zippers that needed changing. I
discovered, above all else, that
price is not an accurate gauge
of quality and that there is far
more talent than opportunity and
infrastructure, a fact perhaps true
of most industries in Nigeria.
So far, my favourite brands
are Fia Factory and Grey, the
former beautifully offbeat, the
latter timeless with deft touches
of originality, both careful about
fabric and finish. To a Dior fashion
show in Paris, I wore a dress by
Ladunni Lambo, a young designer
who might well become a star
because of her rare mix of
consciousness and introspection.
Her deconstructed dresses
made from stiff aso-oke feel like
exquisite armours. I thought I
disliked sequins until I found a top
by Wanger Ayu, with self-assured
furry green sleeves and a silversequinned
bodice.
I wore it, with patterned trousers
by Grey, to the New York Times’
“Times Talks” conversation series,
and felt vainly pleased at the
surprise of people who did not
think the clothes were Nigerian. But
“
If I had a
style mantra
it was to
wear what I
liked.
my best-loved purchase is a white
dress from the improbably named
label She’s Deluxe, owned by a
young woman in Abuja.
A modern long-sleeved
cotton shift with a sly cut-out at
the shoulder, which I wore to the
American Academy of Arts and
Letters induction in New York. I
recently ordered another dress
from her. “Pay a deposit so I can
go to the market and buy the
fabric,” she told my cousin, which
I found an endearing example of
Nigerian striving. I decided to call
it my “project wear Nigerian”, and
planned to have photos put up
on my Facebook page, the only
social media I have.
But my 20-year-old twin nieces
Chisom and Amaka, full of that
terrifying millennial savoir faire,
laughed. “Aunty you should have
an Instagram page,” Amaka
said. “We’ll handle it for you.”
They were unhappy with the first
photos I took. Not bright or clear
enough, they said. Their eyes are
conditioned to the ersatz poses
and stylised photos of social
media, where people dress
specifically to be photographed
in well-lit spaces. Book events are
not usually photo-friendly, too
dark, too indifferent to optics. And
it doesn’t help that I loathe being
photographed. A camera before
me results automatically in my
being knotted with awkwardness:
finger-twiddling, breath-holding,
mouth-twisted, body off-kilter.
Now, six months later, my
nieces have made peace with
the photos not being Instagramperfect.
“At least they’re real,”
they said, as scant consolation.
We have a routine: I have
pictures taken at my events and I
send them to my best friend Uju,
my cousin Ogechukwu and my
nieces. They make the selection,
as I am known to have terrible
taste in my own photos, and the
photo is put up, with the brands’
Instagram handles.
I have practical hopes for my
project, that it shows Nigerian
fashion as it is, not a museum of
“traditional African” clothes but
a vibrant and diverse industry,
and that it brings recognition
to the brands. But it is also a
personal and political statement.
At a time of political uncertainty,
when I find myself questioning
the future of the two countries
I call home — Nigeria and the
US — this project is an act of
benign nationalism, a paean
to peaceful self-sufficiency,
a gesture towards what is still
possible; it is my uncomplicated
act for complicated times.
CREDIT: My fashion nationalism,
by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Copyright © 2017 Chimamanda
AdichieAll rights reserved
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