In this opinion piece, guest contributor Folasade Ferron examines the systemic challenges and transformative opportunities of Nigeria’s fashion industry, specifically in the ready-to-wear aspect.
When Bubu Ogisi’s label Iamisigo walked the runway at Copenhagen Fashion Week Spring/Summer 2026 this August, it was a statement. Fresh off winning Zalando’s Visionary Award, the brand underscored just how far Nigerian fashion has travelled in the global conversation. This kind of visibility is becoming increasingly common. Lagos Fashion Week, spearheaded by Omoyemi Akerele, has propelled designers like Kenneth Ize — an LVMH Prize finalist now stocked at Browns — onto international platforms. At the same time, the buzz around Nigerian celebrity weddings and red-carpet events has kept Nigerian fashion in constant focus.
Behind the buzz sits a fast-growing industry. Part of the wider “textile, apparel, and footwear” segment, Nigeria’s fashion sector has grown at an average of 17% annually since 2010, contributing $4.7 billion to Sub-Saharan Africa’s $31 billion market. Diaspora demand, social media virality, and a new generation eager to wear African-made style that feels world-class are fuelling the boom. But with the spotlight comes scrutiny — and a pressing question: how “ready” is Nigerian ready-to-wear (RTW)?
The RTW promise vs the Nigerian reality
Globally, ready-to-wear has a very specific meaning. Born as the bridge between couture and mass fashion, RTW connotes garments that are produced at scale, sold off the rack, and consistent in both sizing and finish. It relies on sophisticated manufacturing systems, including industrial pattern grading, standardised sizing charts, and assembly-line production. Efficient distribution channels also allow customers to buy today and wear tomorrow. In cities like Paris, Milan, or New York, the label RTW assures creativity, speed, reliability and accessibility.
In Nigeria, the term tells a different story. Most local labels operate more like ateliers than factories, with small teams of tailors producing limited runs. Fabrics and trims are often imported, as the local textile industry has collapsed. Frequent power cuts also necessitate reliance on generators rather than industrial machinery. Couriers are inconsistent, customs can be slow, and the result is that so-called RTW pieces can take weeks to reach the customer. The creative ambition is there, but without a manufacturing backbone, the “ready” in Nigerian ready-to-wear remains more aspiration than reality.
Read also: Is Nigeria’s ready-to-wear market serving Nigerians?
The challenges facing Nigerian RTW begin long before a garment reaches the rack
It starts with the inputs. While production may be local, more than half of the fabrics and trims are imported from Asia. The collapse of Nigeria’s textile industry has left cotton farming at its lowest, and local manufacturing minimal. Traditional textiles like Adire and Aso Oke are in high demand, but limited supply of cotton and the likes drives up prices. As one Lagos-based designer put it: “The cost of sourcing cotton here is just not competitive. I can get fabric cheaper and faster from China than I can from Abeokuta — that tells you everything.”
Even when fabrics are secured, the real bottleneck emerges in labour. RTW depends on standardisation, industrial pattern drafting, size grading, and consistent finishing., However, these remain scarce. Tailors are plentiful in Nigeria, but tailoring remains a low-barrier, craft-based trade. Many learn informally through apprenticeships rather than formal schools, which means techniques vary widely, and industry standards are almost nonexistent. The result is a workforce where entry is easy, but true technical expertise is rare. “The problem is not that the skills don’t exist, it’s that they’re inconsistent, and there’s no shared standard,” a designer revealed. The lack of sizing consistency, in particular, has shut many Nigerian brands out of international multi-retailers. “We’ve had buyers interested,” another designer explained, “but they told us straight: fix your sizing or we can’t place an order.”
On top of that comes the grind of energy and infrastructure. Power cuts are a daily reality, forcing brands to run costly generators and limiting investment in industrial machinery. Even when the garment is ready, the logistics remain fraught. Couriers are unreliable, customs processes are slow, and lead times often stretch beyond ten working days. As one designer admitted: “I’ve lost clients abroad because delivery took three weeks. They liked the clothes but they didn’t trust me to deliver again.”
Across the chain — from sourcing fabric to hiring talent to getting clothes out the door — the creative ambition is undeniable, but the operational backbone remains fragile. When those inefficiencies stack up, the result is higher prices, slower delivery, and consumer frustration.
When pricing becomes both survival and status
Against the backdrop of Nigeria’s infrastructural and production hurdles, the debate over pricing becomes even sharper. Pricing is perhaps the most contentious issue for Nigerian ready-to-wear — and the most polarising. On one side, designers set high prices to cover costs and sustain their operations. On the other hand, pricing doubles as a brand identity strategy — a signal of creative value and cultural cachet. It also serves as aspirational positioning in a country where luxury carries an undeniable appeal. The outcome is exclusionary.
A dress tagged at ₦600,000 (around $400–500) might work for diaspora customers, but it sits far beyond the reach of most Nigerians. Some designers are candid that the local market isn’t their target, adopting the same posture as global luxury houses. Yet, in a country where access to international brands is already limited, that stance feels out of touch.
Diaspora demand has undeniably fuelled growth, but it has also raised expectations. International customers expect the same quality, delivery, and consistency they receive from Western RTW, but they are often disappointed. A few brands have tried to resolve this with two-tier pricing. “You can have a collection at Nigerian price points and then release a capsule for international buyers,” suggested one Lagos-based customer. “But you have to be honest about what you’re delivering and to whom.”
Read also: The truth behind luxury fashion: Are brands really what they claim?
Scaling Nigerian ready-to-wear isn’t simple, but some brands show it can be done.
Despite the hurdles, some Nigerian brands are proving that scale is possible. Brands like Zephans & Co, Shop Bawsty, Malite and Studio Bonnitta sell thousands of units each month, catering to a price-conscious market while still attracting diaspora buyers. Through pop-ups, both locally and abroad, and collections that balance affordability with style, they have shown that Nigerian RTW can work across segments. Their success suggests that the gap between aspiration and accessibility doesn’t have to be permanent.
What these brands also highlight is the money being left on the table. Investors are beginning to notice, with a growing appetite for fashion-focused venture capital and funds looking to build portfolios of scalable African brands. Just as private equity has shaped the retail and fashion landscape abroad, there is room in Nigeria for consolidation and capital injection. With the right structural support, we could transform craft-driven studios into industrially viable businesses.
A structured path forward would involve investing in vocational schools to standardise training and strengthening manufacturing capacity. Professionalising operations would also enable brands to meet both local and global demand. It’s not straightforward, but the trajectory of brands like Zephans & Co shows that the opportunity is real.
The path forward for ready-to-wear fashion in Nigeria
Nigerian brands don’t have to force themselves into a ready-to-wear mould that doesn’t yet fit. For some, a more transparent made-to-order model may be the better path — one that manages customer expectations, reduces waste, and honours the realities of the local supply chain. For others, mid-tier collections that balance aspiration with scale could create a bridge. The hybridisation of models is not the problem; the careless use of the RTW label is. In the long run, integrity in structure will matter just as much as creativity.
What Nigerian fashion has achieved in such a short time is remarkable. The next stage, however, will depend less on what happens on the runway and more on what happens in factories, training schools, and supply chains. With the right foundations, Nigerian ready-to-wear could move from a fleeting aesthetic moment to a lasting movement — one that is both globally recognised and locally grounded.
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