After two years in the making, artist Uzo Njoku invites us into “The Owambe Exhibition” – a vibrant, self-funded art show that aims to bring Nigerians together to celebrate culture through art.
Uzo Njoku left Nigeria at seven and didn’t return until she was 17. Since then, every trip back has been about reconnecting — with family, with culture, with the parts of herself that remained rooted here. Now, she’s bringing her art home. “The Owambe Exhibition,” opening November 23rd in Lagos, marks her first solo show in Nigeria — a homecoming two years in the making.
Although the exhibition might have caused quite a stir online, Njoku’s vision remains clear: she wants audiences to reflect on Nigerian stories and gather to celebrate their culture and community. Through her signature rich colour palettes and intricate textile-inspired patterns that capture the lively spirit of Nigerian life, she explores the full spectrum of identity — the joy, the tension, the nostalgia, and the truths we don’t always speak aloud.
In this exclusive interview, Nkoju reflects on her journey, sharing how art became a powerful form of self-expression and storytelling. Born in Nigeria and raised in America, she found herself painting as a way to preserve her roots while navigating the global art scene. Njoku’s path has been one of resilience and creative exploration. Her story embodies the essence of her art — a seamless fusion of tradition and modernity, celebrating the everyday moments that shape cultural identity.
Let’s start at the beginning. Tell me about your childhood.
I left Nigeria with my family when I was seven and didn’t return until I was 17. Ever since then, I’ve just made a habit of trying to come back to reconnect with my roots. I grew up in the DMV — Columbia, Maryland, Virginia area, but more predominantly in Virginia.
How do you think that experience has shaped your work? And how did your journey into art begin during your childhood?
Nigerian parents often place STEM fields — like maths and science — on a pedestal, viewing them as the ideal career paths for their children. I am very good at maths, and my parents pushed me into statistics. In Virginia, I studied it for a year, and I also studied Arabic on the side because the goal was to be a scientist and live in Qatar. Eventually, I took a year off and was painting to decorate my house. This was my first time painting, and I shared my work online, receiving a good response from people on Facebook. It kind of pushed me to look into art. I tried to talk to my parents about it, but they didn’t understand my point of view.
When I came back to school, and I snuck into an art class, I remember my advisor for statistics brought me aside and said, “I saw your art, can I see what you’ve been working on?” She encouraged me to switch, but it was hard. My parents stopped paying for my school fees. I believe things happen for a reason. This is why when I carry myself in the art space, I don’t carry myself as an artist; I carry myself more as a businesswoman.
I’ve had to prove myself, especially having support pulled from under me and just having to constantly prove myself, not just to my family but also in every room, because what I’m doing is not the norm.
I’m doing a lot of things that are not normal, especially in commercial spaces. And there are no blueprints, no mentors, or anyone doing exactly what I’m doing. There’s this game called “Battleship” where you can’t see where the ship is, and so you put your ship here and hope it doesn’t blow up. It’s similar to what I am doing with my art practice. My saving grace has always been my ability to adapt — to adjust quickly to both success and failure without letting either consume or define me.
What inspired the title “The Owambe Exhibition”, and how does that concept influence the work you’ll be showcasing?
I chose the title “Owambe” to capture the vibrant, celebratory energy I wanted to surround the exhibition openings. We are having two opening nights because the exhibition is running for two months. Typically, there’s only one opening night to celebrate. But since this was my first solo show in Nigeria — and my openings usually draw around 500 guests — I knew we had to split the events, especially with the influx of visitors returning home for the festive season.
For the opening, people are wearing fabrics that come to mind when you think of Owambe parties. The word Owambe has always captured this phenomenon of people enjoying themselves. None of the works directly relate to the word Owambe — they’re mostly personal pieces exploring themes that interest me. I chose the title to reflect the spirit of people coming together to celebrate. We’re also using this moment to challenge traditional gallery models by making it a fully self-funded project. We are bringing so many different groups of people together with our weekly programming — families, creatives — all united in a shared celebration that captures the spirit of gathering within our space.
Can you tell us more about what to expect from “The Owambe Exhibition” and the inspiration behind the works you’ll be showcasing?
The artwork reflects my personal experiences of Nigeria while also exploring the ideas and narratives I want to challenge. One of the paintings in the show depicts a house help arguing with the madame of the house. Moments like this often go unnoticed, as few people ever stand up for those in service. This painting imagines what it looks like when someone dares to stand up for them.
There’s also a painting of a young girl in her school uniform, and there is a figure behind her. It’s a man, and you’re not sure if this is a guardian or her predator. It shows the blurred line between a guardian and people who are supposed to offer guardianship — sometimes they also can be your demise, especially for children. Here in Nigeria, children are not protected as much as they should be. Many of the paintings address pressing issues in Nigeria — subjects I felt were important to shed light on. Some paintings are also celebratory. One of the pieces revisits the theme of romance — it shows a woman leaning out of a window as a man below plays his drums for her. It’s a tender, nostalgic scene that evokes old love stories.
I use colours and patterns that are also very nostalgic, reminding me of a different time. When I shared a painting, someone said, “This reminds me of the journals I used to use when I was a child.” I was really trying to capture that moment in time. It’s very 90s, which is basically around the era of TV I was watching before I left. I think it’s also an era that a lot of people our age are also yearning for.
Do you have one painting that has your heart in the collection?
She’s the one that everyone has seen. It’s a painting of a woman in full glam applying lipstick, holding a flip phone and looking directly at the viewer. It’s actually my favourite. She’s the only one hanging in the gallery right now. So when people have been coming to work, she keeps staring back. I don’t know how to describe her look; she’s unshakeable, she’s kind of that unshakeable force that transforms a space. I utilised her for the flyer and just saw how she’s travelled and taken on so many other mediums.
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You’ve mentioned that Ankara fabric influenced your earlier work, and that you’ve created your own fabric for this exhibition. Can you tell me more about that inspiration and what led you to design your own fabric for the collection?
Many African artists — including Black artists in the diaspora — initially looked up to contemporaries like Kehinde Wiley, Amy Sherald, and Kerry James Marshall when we began our artistic journeys. Many of us resonated with Kerry James Marshall’s work. I watched my other contemporaries when we first started off. We were doing a lot of portraits with the background as patterns, which garnered a lot of attention. With Kehinde Wiley, he doesn’t even paint his background; he gets it painted in China. I had to research more of the practice of the patterned fabric as the background, knowing who actually designs these patterns. I’ve always seen Ankara as this signature fabric, but then, once I started painting it, I learned about this process and how they make it.
I wanted to know who is actually designing these Ankara patterns, and I found out that there are several African creators, but they don’t own the copyrights to the work. It mostly belongs to the manufacturers. There are so many iconic patterns — like those with horses and birds — that have become ingrained in African culture. Yet, you realise that the creators behind these designs rarely received any recognition or financial reward.
After learning this, I decided to make my own patterns. I started teaching myself how to make seamless patterns, the history of patterns from all over the world, and also learning more about fabric textiles. When I see online comments claiming I’m stealing Adire from Yoruba culture, I simply ignore them. I’m not here to argue — I’m here to share facts. Adire is tie-dye, and many cultures around the world have their own ancient traditions of creating it. If you want to focus on history, a lot of textiles came through India from the slave route; everything boils down to colonialism and how fabrics came into Africa. What sets Adire apart from other tie-dye techniques is the use of unique binders — some derived from natural extracts like cassava.
My study of fabric has been interesting. I would say the style I was doing was more black French foil. For this show, this is me making patterns inspired by Ankara patterns.
You’ve faced criticism from people saying you shouldn’t use titles like “Owambe” or incorporate Adire fabrics into your work. How do you navigate those reactions, and what mindset helps you stay grounded in your creative choices?
I grew up in an art school. Once you paint something, you get a critique. You go through critiques all the time. I’m very used to being critiqued, but in these cases, there’s nothing constructive about what many of these people are saying. None of these people are experts on what they’re saying, and if they were, I’d say take me to court. No one did that, so I’m calling their bluff. The criticism around my use of the word is pure hypocrisy.
I believe it ultimately comes down to my tribal background — it’s more political than anything else. I’ve come to do a show in a very interesting climate, and I didn’t know everything that had been going on in Nigeria. I didn’t know there was this huge tribal tension going on since I’m mostly out of the country. I came in and boom, there is this outburst of bigotry, and you can’t even say it’s one-sided. It’s two-sided. Bigotry is a huge issue going on right now. It’s sad because, as someone who is Nigerian but doesn’t live here, I can see how people are being used as pawns to turn against one another. Nigeria’s failure and our inability to work together ultimately serve the interests of many other countries.
It’s disheartening to see myself being used as an example, and even more so to hear that there are plans to shut down my show. I’ve been told the government intends to do so on opening day — a situation I’m now trying to get ahead of. We have a legal team working on it and the permits we are trying to approve. They also claimed that I’m a major political commentator against the current president, which honestly shocked me.
I don’t live here, I don’t vote here, and I have nothing to say politically. So, I believe they’re trying to use me as an example, but I’m not concerned with them; my focus is on plans far bigger than myself.
I hope I get some apologies, honestly, because once the show goes up, it’ll show that these accusations are all lies. My biggest mistake was trying to explain myself. I’ve always been the kind of person who lets my actions speak for me, so at first, I couldn’t understand why so many Nigerians were attacking me. It caught me off guard, but I’m good now. The show must go on.
How does the city of Lagos inspire your work?
I definitely love the old architecture of the mainland. However, what I love about Lagos is the people. I love the liveliness, the bustle of the city and the hustle mentality of the people here. Everyone is just trying to get by, by any means necessary. I also love the amount of creatives here doing amazing stuff. The people of Lagos also make up my team as well and I have an amazing team. They are so fun to be with, and they work very hard.
What state do you call home?
Most people usually claim their dad’s side state, but we end up in my mum’s, which is Delta State. We go to Asaba for the Christmas holidays. I like Asaba. It’s beautiful and very calm.
For this exhibition, you collaborated with several people. Can you talk about the importance of collaboration in your artistic practice?
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One thing that has definitely changed my perspective is production in Nigeria. You often hear so many questions about people cheating buyers and doing poor work. It’s very important to talk to people and see what’s going on. Dyelab makes its stuff in Nigeria, and so many other brands are making their products in Nigeria. I’ve always used China, Turkey and India. But after speaking with people, my view changed on the manufacturing and production in Nigeria. I definitely started changing some projects that were supposed to be for China and moved them to Nigeria instead, and everyone’s been doing great.
In terms of collaboration, Orijin is our cultural and social partner. They really loved what we’re doing for the programming around the show. The programming aims to allow Nigerian creators to come and showcase what they can do on this platform.
We’re hosting an African Folklore Night, where I wanted to reimagine traditional stories in a way that’s engaging and accessible for children aged 18 months to seven years. I brought on two scriptwriters, and together they created scripts for three short plays. We have set designers and theatre groups coming in. The exhibition programming is about giving people different opportunities to collaborate and create something special.
What do you want your guests to feel after leaving the exhibition space?
The whole purpose of my work is about capturing Black joy. Even if some of these paintings aren’t overtly happy, the thought of people visiting the gallery, engaging with the staff, and leaving with something meaningful to talk about makes me feel fulfilled.
Every Wednesday and Saturday, we have guided tours to give people an in-depth understanding of the work. I’m also working with a few virtual reality groups and developers to work on creating an online version of this show. I want people to have access to a very similar experience of the show on this website. I thought back to us growing up, we had Cartoon Network flash games and very interactive websites where you be able to play word games.
For example, there’s a painting of a teacher standing at a chalkboard — an allegory for the “snake that swallowed ₦30 billion.” When viewers click on the digital version of the artwork, it leads to an interactive snake game where they navigate the serpent to “swallow” the ₦30 billion. I’m hoping, when people leave this exhibition, whether it’s in person or online, they feel kind of happy, content and just excited for the future of art.
When you look back on your artistic journey, how do you feel about how far you’ve come? What would you tell your younger self — and what message would you leave for your future self?
I never planned for any of this. The purpose was always to pace myself because whenever I do get to the exhibition, I am always so overwhelmed. I can’t even process the show. I feel like everyone’s so happy, and there are cameras everywhere. Most times, I don’t even process what just happened until a month later because there was so much I had to do to get the exhibition open. For this show, I first came to Nigeria in April to look for a property, and then returned again in September. I’m glad I gave myself plenty of time — especially with all the chaos that unfolded online. Imagine if I hadn’t given myself that time — so many things would have been left up in the air.
What I would say to my future self is definitely pace yourself and realise that there is no clock, there is no race, and don’t ever forget that. Sometimes, if things don’t work out as you want them to, it’s okay to breathe. Things eventually work themselves out, or you always have another chance to do things exactly as you envisioned. That’s my takeaway from all this: learning to pace myself because what’s the purpose of doing everything if I can’t get to enjoy it?
