“I’m gonna marry a Nigerian and you’re gonna wear gele to my wedding,” goes the line from Keys the Prince, a British-Nigerian rapper and producer. For the past few months, it has been used on TikTok to accompany videos of women — Nigerians and non-Nigerians alike — getting cinched into flamboyant outfits, complete with a perfectly pleated gele, or head tie.
Nigeria’s population is among the most fashion-forward in Africa. Its 230m people may spend as much as $6bn a year on apparel (mostly imports), according to one investment firm. For a long time, local styles did not travel beyond the country’s shores. But thanks to its large and growing diaspora, Nigerian fashion has lately begun to spread around the world. Pop-up events in cities such as London and Houston, the appearance of Nigerian brands in the world’s biggest department stores, and burgeoning international interest in the fashion scene in Lagos, Nigeria’s commercial capital, are all putting Nigerian styles on the map.
In one sense, Nigerian fashion has always been global. For centuries, local artisans imported foreign techniques and materials and fused them with their own work. The colonial era brought British-mediated imports of silky threads used in woven fabrics like aso oke (pronounced “asho-okay”) by the Yoruba people in the south-west. Akwete, another woven fabric made by the Igbo people in the south-east, shows signs of Indian influence. The damask used in women’s head ties was originally Austrian (the priciest fabric still is). Delicate lace was usually French or Swiss, or more recently Chinese or Korean. But in the past few years, the direction of travel has shifted. From beadwork by southern coastal communities to adire — cotton that is resist-dyed with cassava starch and indigo by the Yoruba — Nigerian techniques and textiles are finding new markets in unlikely corners of the world.
One reason is technology. Social media has made marketing easier, improving the visibility of once-niche cultural practices. Innovation in textiles and styles has made them easier to sell. Damasks used to be stiff — perfect for the corset of a 16th-century Habsburg bride, but heavy on the head when tied as a gele. Today’s versions are softer and more flexible. They have also changed shape, thanks to Dupe Sagoe, who became known for importing longer, narrower rectangular sheets from Austria, which are easier to tie than the traditional square yard. (Many damask head ties are called “Sagoe” in her honour.) “Autogele”, a pre-tied version quickly fastened on the head, and pre-made wrappers help those who struggle. Chinese-made machines can mass-produce the illusion of resist-dye on fabrics and mimic beadwork once done only by hand.
The result is more eyes on Nigeria’s vibrant fashion scene. More people are flying in for Lagos Fashion Week, which welcomed thousands last October. American celebrities who have never visited Nigeria are sporting clothes from the country’s top designers on the red carpet. Teenagers are wearing Nigerian designers to prom. A single designer in the south-western city of Ibadan claims to have had 1,500 prom-dress orders from America last year. At least one Nigerian tannery says it sells hides and skins from the country’s north to suppliers of luxury brands such as Gucci and Ferragamo.
Nigeria-based commercial brands increasingly focus on enticing foreigners. Some shun local fashion weeks in favour of foreign ones to amplify their exposure. Adebayo Oke-Lawal, for example, has showcased his Orange Culture label in Berlin for two years running. Many host pop-up shops in America, Britain and elsewhere, where there are large, wealthy diasporas, in order to expand their reach and profit from stronger currencies. Kanyinsola Onalaja, an Italian-trained designer, says she finishes all the pieces from her Yoruba- and Edo-inspired brand in Britain before stocking them at Saks and Zalando.
Internationalisation has its limits. The market for Nigerian fashion is still mostly other Nigerians, even if it now includes those outside the country. Aso ebi, a term for the matching fabrics guests wear to Nigerian weddings, is Yoruba for “cloth of the kin”. It was always designed for close friends and family. Many Nigerians working in textiles and fashion are small-scale artisans with no interest in scaling up.
For some fabrics, the scale needed for mass production is hard to achieve. Aso oke, for example, is not very durable in its original form. “Vintage aso oke is alive. You will see it mildew because it’s made from silkworm, which is very expensive now. Even if you have the farm, you still need people’s hands,” says Ayotola Ayodeji, a fashion enthusiast and descendant of two generations of fabric merchants. Natural dyes run. Holes form as fabrics age.
That may explain why the trend has not yet translated into serious economic gains for Nigerians. By one estimate, textiles and apparel make up a measly 0.5% of Nigeria’s GDP. The government offers small grants to designers in the hope that they will stimulate growth, but it may take more than that. Neighbouring Benin is spending $1.4bn of public and private funds on an industrial zone dedicated to its cotton and textile industry, which already accounts for 80% of its export earnings. In Nigeria, hopes of manufacturing at scale are held back by an ailing power industry and logistical challenges. Nigerians have found that their fashion makes them cool. It will be a while before it makes them rich. ■
Source: The Economist