As Nigerian fashion takes over global runways and even American proms, the world falls in love with its bold elegance. However, where do we draw the line between cultural appreciation and appropriation?
Being Nigerian means weekends are for gatherings. They’re for owambes, those larger-than-life celebrations where fashion takes centrestage. Between the days off work, the Lagos nightlife, and weddings that feel like runway shows, you’re always guaranteed a front-row seat to the flair and genius of Nigerian fashion designers.
However, a few weeks ago, I stumbled upon something familiar yet unexpected. BBC Africa shared the story of American girls who wore gowns strikingly similar to a Nigerian bridal silhouette: corseted bodice, flamboyant sleeves, and even a matching headpiece for prom. The comments were instantly divided — some praised it as inspiration, while others called it outright appropriation.
And just like that, what started as a fashion moment became a conversation about ownership, culture, and where admiration ends and appropriation begins.
The Nigerian fashion aesthetic is becoming a global affair
Whether it’s Yoruba aso-oke, Igbo george, or Edo coral regalia, Nigerian outfits tell a story. The colours are declarations of joy; the fabric carries memory of ancestry, identity, and community. However, the magic of Nigerian fashion has long escaped the borders of its origin. On TikTok and Pinterest, you’ll find aso-ebi-inspired prom dresses, Nigerian couture-style ballgowns, and even brides in the U.S. or Europe choosing Nigerian traditional attire for their own ceremonies.
It’s not just the dresses, either. More women are now asking makeup artists for a “Nigerian bridal look.” That signature dewy glam, bold lashes, and perfectly sculpted gele that’s become synonymous with elegance and power.
It’s easy to understand the fascination. Nigerian fashion isn’t quiet; it commands attention. It is bold, unapologetic, and regal. It offers a kind of visual poetry that Western formalwear often lacks. For young women, especially across the diaspora, wearing these looks can feel like an act of reclamation, a way to embody strength and beauty in a new cultural language.
Yet as this global awakening unfolds, an uncomfortable question lingers: Are people honouring Nigerian culture, or are they borrowing without engaging with culture?
When appreciation becomes appropriation
View this post on Instagram
Cultural appropriation isn’t simply about wearing something from another culture; it’s about context.
When Western brands mass-produce Nigerian-style prom gowns without acknowledging their origins, the cultural roots are erased. And when influencers label an aso-ebi silhouette as “unique couture,” its story and significance fade away. The culture becomes a costume. The artistry becomes aesthetic and stripped of the story that gives it meaning.
Beyond questions of respect and recognition, cultural appropriation carries an economic cost. When Western fast-fashion brands replicate designs from Nigerian or other African creators without credit, local designers lose more than visibility — they lose their livelihood.
These global imitations flood the market with cheaper, mass-produced versions that undercut authentic artisans who rely on limited-edition craftsmanship to survive. What was once a cultural expression becomes a commodity stripped of its local value. The result is an uneven exchange: Western brands profit, while the originators, whose creativity fuelled the trend, remain on the margins of the very global stage they helped build.
Appreciation, on the other hand, invites relationships. It means buying directly from Nigerian designers. Learning why the gele is tied a certain way, or what coral beads signify in Edo or Igbo bridal wear. Appreciation also means wearing with reverence, not performance.
As a Nigerian designer told BBC Africa, her team in Ibadan produces and exports over 1,500 gowns during prom season — many bound for clients in the U.S. and U.K. This isn’t just influence; it’s evidence of global demand. Nigerian designers should benefit from the global spotlight they helped create.
Similarly, designers like Gbemi Okunlola, the British-Nigerian founder of Alonuko Bridal, are proving that Nigerian creativity can travel and profit on its own terms. Her couture gowns have found eager clients in the U.S. and across the diaspora, including celebrities like Danielle Brooks. By keeping her brand rooted in Nigerian craftsmanship while appealing to global tastes, Okunlola exemplifies what happens when appreciation turns into opportunity. And when culture is not copied, but credited and celebrated.
This balance remains delicate but powerful. It shows that appropriation extracts while appreciation connects.
Read also: How Nigerian fashion is redefining global style and sparking social change
The cross-cultural exchange within Africa
Interestingly, this conversation isn’t just about the West. Across the African continent, Nigerian fashion has also become a style blueprint inspiring countless designers and wearers alike.
In many ways, this cross-pollination is beautiful. It shows how fashion can be a bridge, and how one nation’s creativity can spark admiration and collaboration. Some non-Nigerian women now go as far as hiring Nigerian designers for their weddings, celebrating this creative exchange with openness and respect.
However, not all of it feels as generous. A growing number of African designers, including King_Corset, have been called out for replicating Nigerian designs without crediting their originators. Add to that the surge of imitation fabrics and mass-produced knock-offs, and the picture becomes more complicated. These practices don’t just borrow; they dilute. They chip away at the authenticity that makes Nigerian fashion such a powerful cultural export.
It’s a reminder that cultural borrowing doesn’t flow in one direction. Within Africa itself, exchange thrives, but it also comes with responsibility. The question is the same: how do we celebrate one another’s traditions without erasing their origins?
Perhaps the answer lies in something simple yet profound: credit and context matter. Wearing a Yoruba-inspired iro and buba to a wedding in Nairobi can be a stunning tribute, as long as the roots are acknowledged and the artistry respected. When we give credit where it’s due, fashion becomes what it was always meant to be: a shared language, not a silent theft.
The real conversation: Ownership, identity, and globalisation
View this post on Instagram
What’s unfolding here isn’t just about fabric or designs; it’s about power. Nigerian fashion is emerging as a global language just as Africa begins to reclaim ownership of its creative industries.
Across continents, the diaspora is searching for roots, stories, and symbols that affirm identity. At the same time, the world is craving something authentic, craftsmanship, and soul. These desires are meeting in the middle, but that intersection demands care.
The challenge, then, isn’t to stop cultural cross-pollination; it is to make sure we’re honouring the source. Nigerian design deserves recognition, not replication. Credit should travel with culture because culture isn’t meant to be fenced off but felt.
So, if you wear a Nigerian-inspired gown to prom, a Kenyan kitenge at a wedding, or Zulu beads at a festival, do it with awareness. Say the name and tell the story.
When we do that, fashion becomes more than fabric. It becomes a connection and a bridge between histories, not a theft of them. At the heart of it all, appreciation is participation with respect.
Read more: The Nigerian designers who graced the London Fashion Week AW25 runway
