In a country that still measures elegance by Western standards, wearing our traditional fabrics can remind us who we were before we learnt to doubt our own beauty.
Some mornings, as I navigate through Lagos traffic or sit quietly in a café with a cup of tea, I find myself people-watching. Office workers hurry to beat the clock, students stride by with backpacks slung over their shoulders, and traders arrange their stalls before the sun fully claims the sky. As I watch, I notice a quiet pattern.
Monday to Thursday, the streets are filled with crisp shirts, neutral blazers, slim-fit trousers, tailored skirts — the looks we term “professional,” “serious,” “refined.” Then comes Friday, and suddenly, the city blooms. Ankara and traditional fabrics make their weekly appearance, as though we collectively exhale after holding our breath all week.
However, isn’t it telling that we have confined our most expressive fabrics to the “weekend only” corner? Fridays — when the office allows us to “dress down.” Saturdays — because it’s owambes. And Sundays — when some churches still allow it, though many now prefer their workers in English suits.
When did we become so accustomed to colonial conditioning that our own fabric, vibrant, ancestral, and unapologetically ours, became “inappropriate”?
Ankara, a borrowed fabric with a complicated history
It’s worth remembering that Ankara, for all its colour and familiarity, didn’t start as ours. The fabric traces its roots to 19th-century Dutch merchants who tried — and failed — to sell wax-resist prints inspired by Indonesian batik to Southeast Asia. When those markets rejected them, the traders turned to West Africa, where the vibrant colours and bold patterns resonated deeply.
Over time, Ankara became so woven into our daily lives that we began to call it African. Yet, in embracing it, we slowly pushed aside our truly indigenous textiles — Adire from Abeokuta, Aso Oke from Yorubaland, Akwete from the East, George from the South-South, and even our own batik traditions. Ankara may now dominate weddings, markets, and fashion runways, but it should never be mistaken for the replacement for the fabrics that once told our stories before trade ships ever reached our shores.
The shift from everyday to occasional
There was a time when traditional attire was not only for occasions; it was an Identity. Our mothers wore them to the market, our fathers to meetings, our aunties to work. These fabrics recorded our lives — folded, rewashed, and reworn, always alive with the patterns and stories of those who wore them before us.
Today, they sit neatly in wardrobes, waiting for the weekend like a distant cousin we only visit out of duty. It has become a costume for cultural performance, something we wear to show heritage, not to actually live it. And in that subtle shift, something deeper has been lost.
Let’s be honest, we inherited more than the English language from colonialism. We inherited the notion that to appear “proper” is to appear Western, appropriate and professional. That competence wears a tie, and seriousness comes in muted colours. And that elegance must be European. We internalised these rules so thoroughly that even now, decades after independence, a brightly patterned Ankara dress can still be deemed “too informal” for the boardroom. The same fabric that tells our stories, marks our ceremonies, and holds our identity is deemed unsuitable for spaces of power, as though our professionalism should have a foreign face.
However, this isn’t just about fashion. It’s about memory. About how easily we forget that refinement existed here long before the arrival of starched collars, suits and patternless fabrics.
Read also: Power is a print and a fabric: Decoding the language of what we wear
Ankara endures the shifting tides — quietly and powerfully
Despite being pushed to the fringes of formality, our local textiles continue to assert themselves with determined persistence. It has never truly left us; it simply reinvented the spaces it inhabits. In the hands of young Nigerian designers, traditional fabrics have shed their old stereotypes. It now walks confidently down global runways, reimagined as structured blazers, avant-garde gowns, streetwear jackets, and even shoes. The same patterns that once told family histories now tell stories of modern rebellion. They serve as proof that tradition and innovation can be partners, not opposites.
Walk through fabric markets or scroll through social media, and you’ll see this revival everywhere. Tailors experimenting with asymmetry, stylists pairing local textiles with denim or silk, creators celebrating its unapologetic colour. Gen Z have made these fabrics cool again, not as nostalgia, but as defiance.
Although unfortunate, the statistic that 90% of Ankara is imported underscores its resilience. The demand remains fierce because its emotional value is unmatched. We may not always produce it locally, but we continue to claim it as our own, making it ours through imagination and pride.
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Alongside Ankara, another fabric is also quietly reclaiming space. Once the pride of Abeokuta’s dye pits, Adire has found new life in Lagos. Designers and homegrown brands are reimagining it with modern silhouettes. You’ll find it on runways, in pop-up stores, and on influencers who actually care that it’s made here, by local hands. It’s more than a fashion revival; it’s a small reminder that we’re learning to fall in love again with what we create ourselves.
Maybe the question isn’t whether our local textiles are becoming less popular. Perhaps, the real question is: what does our hesitation to wear it freely say about us? We continue to measure professionalism by standards that were never ours. We’ve learned to shrink our cultural exuberance to fit within imported frames of decorum. We must examine why a fabric that carries centuries of artistry and identity is still seen as “too much” for a Monday morning.
Why our fabrics deserve a return to everyday life
Perhaps it’s time we let Ankara, batik, Akwete, George and Aso Oke back into our weekdays. Into our meetings and classrooms. Into our sense of what’s elegant, serious, and powerful. Because every time we reserve it for Fridays and weekends, we participate — silently but surely — in the erasure of our own aesthetic authority.
Our fabrics aren’t the problem; our perception is. The fabrics have always known their worth; it’s we who keep forgetting. When we learn to appreciate the power of our own culture, our fabrics will no longer need to be defended.
Read more: We are preserving traditions and crafting the future of fabrics made in Africa
