On the extremely scorching sun of June 8, I reluctantly dressed up to attend the Ecobank Adire exhibition in Victoria Island, Lagos. I am Igbo, and I do not have Adire. The nearest traditional wear in my closet to be remotely suited for the occasion is my senators. But that too, in the scheme of things, would not do justice to the significance of the exhibition. Out of sheer stubbornness, I ditched all my initial choices and went for a Western look—a polo, a Nike shoe, and plain trousers.
Carefully observe that I have highlighted tradition and Western because, for a long time, we have chosen to christen clothes that we recognise as indigenous or historical to us as traditional attire. Why?
Why is Adire, or Isi Agu, or Dashiki or Buba and Sokoto, regarded as traditional? Without trying to make this a religious conversation, our belief systems have long been described as ‘African traditional belief’ and our God (Gods) regarded as a lesser God (Gods) than the ones we’ve adopted. Our dishes are called local or traditional food.
It’s a pattern of storytelling that has done nothing but belittle the craftsmanship and technological advancement, the beliefs that originate from the African continent. But is there a way to retell these stories that leave a stain of inferiority, a constant suggestion of substandardness, in the African ideas and way of life?
I walked into the Ecobank hall where different types of Adire were displayed, and as I constantly resisted touching the materials in compliance with the warning, I asked myself, Why don’t I have an Adire?’ Is it because I am Igbo? No?
I want to believe that most Yoruba or Hausa/Fulani, or other tribes apart from Igbo, reading this do not have an Isi Agu. This is because we’ve, for long, told the story of our wears in such a way that inhibits its mass adoption by other tribes or by the wider world. We’ve told the story in a way that localises it, a way that makes it traditional.
Isi Agu is an Igbo attire, and anyone who wears it is almost automatically ascribed as one from that ethnicity. But that is not the full symbolism of Isi Agu. It is an attire that symbolises power, authority and pride, signifying strength, courage and royalty. With that well-rounded story, anyone, notwithstanding their tribe or national origin, can wear Isi Agu if he/she want to signify strength, courage or authority.
With that, Isi Agu suddenly becomes the attire I see world leaders wearing when they attend United Nations conferences. It becomes an attire that global business leaders who want to command and attract respect for their country wear at trade fairs and business meetings. It becomes an attire that Presidents, who are facing external influence that threatens the sovereignty of their country, wear when they want to make a strong public statement that signifies resilience and power. Just by yanking off that traditional label, and telling the significance of Isi Agu from the prism of its true meaning and identity, it becomes a wear that can be worn by all and not just meant for Igbos.
Unconsciously, I ran my hands on one of the Adire displays and for a fraction of a second, pictured myself in one made beautifully by my tailor in Aba. Slowly, as my eyes could see, I began to read the writing placed beside each Adire and was hit by a revelation: each carefully made Adire, each design and style, each symbol imprinted on the cloth, carries a story that transcends beyond the Yoruba culture.
I read the inscription on Adire, Ibori, Portrait of Power. This design, which has a repeating portrait of a man making the victory sign, “serves as mobile billboards for loyalty, identity, and political expression.”; Keeping that symbolism in mind, I envisioned the political conflict in Rivers State, a place I hold in high regard for its remarkable evolution. I wondered whether, at the reconciliation table, all the aggrieved parties would embrace Ibori, understanding that ultimately they owe their loyalty to the people of Rivers State. Self-interest mustn’t overshadow this responsibility.
I moved some steps, and again, as I read the writing, I was in awe of the significance of each design. For instance, Irawo, which means stars in Yoruba, symbolises destiny, guidance and the unseen forces that shape our lives. It is similar to what my people call Chi, and I wonder why I cannot bask in this immense sense of divinity by wearing the Irawo Adire design.
Every Adire design displayed in that hall had a meaning that I fully resonated with. With the consciousness that these writings have triggered in me, I became fully aware that I could wear Adire while fully embracing my Igbo identity, which I do not fail to announce at any opportunity I have. I could wholly cloak myself in these Adire symbolisms because the meaning they carry transcends culture and speaks to me as a human.
The way we have chosen to carefully guard our traditional outfits to describe tribe identity without stories that tell the significance of those attires could be blamed for why the Nigerian fashion industry, and Africa at large, is not a major player in the global fashion industry. The Nigerian fashion industry, now being described as booming, still contributed less than 0.5 per cent to the 2024 GDP. I believe this could significantly change if we begin to refocus our story from a traditional standpoint to a significance viewpoint. Our attires are made with vibrant colours, and its designs are irresistible. But the story behind them, for years, has been trapped in an identity that makes it difficult for others to see themselves in our clothes.
If we reimagine our fashion storytelling, I believe that our mark in the global fashion industry would come faster than we ever imagined. We can dominate this industry at a global level if we can simply get our stories right.
