In July 2021, guests gathered on the lawn of Villa Lewaro, the Italianate mansion once owned by pioneering entrepreneur Madam C. J. Walker. A circular runway had been erected in front of the house’s columned façade, surrounded by hundreds of attendees who had returned after storms postponed the show two days earlier. 

As the sun settled, activist and former Black Panther Party chairwoman Elaine Brown opened the evening with a speech on Black liberation before the first models appeared. What followed was not a conventional couture presentation. Models walked in sculptural garments shaped like traffic lights, hair rollers, refrigerators and fire escapes — surreal reinterpretations of everyday objects invented by Black innovators. The collection, titled WAT U IZ, was the first haute couture show by Kerby Jean-Raymond for Pyer Moss and paid tribute to Black invention through exaggerated, playful silhouettes that blurred the boundary between fashion, performance and cultural tribute. In that presentation, couture was expansive, and showed Black ingenuity could be rendered with humor, spectacle and pride.

For decades, fashion’s engagement with Blackness has often been filtered through struggle: protest imagery, political symbolism, or narratives of resistance. While these frameworks remain vital, a growing number of designers and fashion houses have insisted on something equally radical — the visibility of Black joy.

In fashion, Black joy functions as an aesthetic language and a cultural intervention. It reframes Black identity away from perpetual trauma and toward celebration, creativity, humor, sensuality, and community. Through runway shows, campaigns, and collaborations, designers have used clothing to stage moments in which Black life is not defined by survival alone, but by pleasure and endless possibility. Across the global diaspora, this framework has emerged in runway shows, campaigns and editorial imagery that challenge the industry’s historical fixation on hardship as the dominant narrative of Black experience.

Few designers have articulated Black joy as deliberately as Kerby Jean-Raymond. Jean-Raymond’s work operates somewhere between fashion show and cultural ceremony.
His “American, Also” runway trilogy reframed American fashion history by foregrounding Black cultural contributions, from gospel music to hip-hop. Rather than simply citing Black history, the presentations staged a collective celebration: live choirs, communal seating and musical performances turned the runway into something resembling a cultural gathering.

What made Pyer Moss’ haute couture 2021 show significant was its tone. Black innovation was framed as exuberant achievement, and joy was a historiographic method, a way of telling Black history through spectacle, wit and pride. According to the official show notes, the collection was “both a celebration of Black culture as well as a critique of the fixation of others who seek to profit off of Black trauma.”

Within an industry that often aestheticizes Black suffering, Jean-Raymond insisted on something different, and that celebration itself can be a form of archival practice.
While Jean-Raymond stages joy through spectacle, Grace Wales Bonner approaches it through intimacy. The work of Wales Bonner is deeply informed by diasporic research, drawing connections between West African, Caribbean and European histories. Their collections have frequently centred Black masculinity in moments of reflection, beauty and vulnerability. This is significant within fashion history, where Black male representation has oftentimes oscillated between hyper-athleticism and street-coded rebellion. Wales Bonner introduces another register entirely: tenderness.

Wales Bonner is well ahead of the curve. Their campaigns and lookbooks frequently depict Black men lounging, embracing, reading or simply standing in contemplation. The imagery refuses spectacle, instead emphasizing interiority and leisure as aesthetic states. In this context, joy appears less as exuberance and more as ease and a subtle but powerful reimagining of how Black bodies occupy fashion imagery.
Before the contemporary fashion industry began centering Black joy, representations of it can be seen all across Africa.
The culture of La Sape, a movement of impeccably dressed dandies in the Republic of Congo, the Democratic Republic of Congo and some parts of Rwanda, has used clothing as a tool of pride and theatrical expression for decades. Sapeurs are known for their vibrant suits, flamboyant color combinations and highly stylized gestures. But the movement is not only about dressing well. It is a philosophy of dignity and play, developed within contexts shaped by colonial history and economic hardship.

Through fashion, sapeurs transform their everyday streets into stages of joy. Their sartorial performances demonstrate how style can become a form of cultural resilience. In many ways, La Sape embodies the very essence of Black joy in fashion, with clothing as celebration, spectacle and personal sovereignty.

On the other hand, South African designer Thebe Magugu approaches joy through storytelling grounded in place. As founder of Thebe Magugu, Magugu has built collections around narratives drawn from South African history and everyday life with imagery that feels familiar, like kitchens, living rooms and outdoor landscapes. His garments feature bold prints and vibrant colours, but their significance is in the stories embedded within them.

Across collections like African Studies (SS19), Gender Studies (SS21), Folklorics (SS22) and Genealogy (AW23), Thebe Magugu situates joy within narrative, and joy emerges through storytelling — through garments that honor intellectual history, cultural folklore and familial memory. In doing so, Magugu demonstrates how fashion can document everyday Black life not as struggle, but as continuity, creativity and belonging. By foregrounding domestic and communal spaces, Magugu situates joy within daily life. His work suggests that the most radical fashion imagery might simply be Black people existing comfortably within their own cultural worlds.
Fashion campaigns are equally critical when examining how Black joy is articulated across the industry. While runway shows construct conceptual narratives, campaigns circulate those narratives widely. In this sense, campaigns not only promote clothing but also build the aspirational imagery that defines the cultural mood of an era.
One clear example was when photographer Tyler Mitchell shot Beyoncé for the September 2018 cover of Vogue. Mitchell became the first Black photographer to shoot the publication’s September issue in its 125-year history. The imagery departed from fashion’s usual visual drama. Beyoncé appeared in soft natural light, surrounded by flowers, barefoot in grass, her styling stripped back to an almost pastoral simplicity. Mitchell’s broader body of work continues to build this visual language. His photographs depict Black youth riding bicycles, reclining in open fields or resting in warm interiors. Leisure becomes the central aesthetic gesture. In contrast to fashion’s long history of stylized intensity, Mitchell’s images foreground ease and softness that are impossible to overlook.

A different articulation of Black joy can be found in Telfar’s campaigns. Designer Telfar Clemens consistently casts friends, artists and members of his extended creative community. In most of his campaign imagery, individuals appear dancing, laughing and interacting with one another rather than posing in static editorial compositions. The resulting images resemble gatherings or parties more than stoic advertisements, positioning his pieces as something lived collectively. This matters because campaigns help determine fashion’s aspirational narratives. By placing joy, humor and community at the center of their imagery, designers can reshape what aspiration itself looks like.
Fashion has always been an archive of cultural values. What it chooses to highlight, celebrate or ignore ultimately shapes how histories are remembered. For decades, Black creativity has influenced the direction of global style while Black life itself was often framed through narratives of struggle. The growing emphasis on joy is a shift in that visual archive. When designers foreground pleasure, intimacy and celebration, they refuse the idea that Black identity must be mediated through trauma in order to carry cultural weight.
From sapeurs transforming their city streets, to designers like Kerby Jean-Raymond and Thebe Magugu embedding celebration within their collections, fashion becomes a space where Black life can be documented through abundance rather than absence. In this context, Black joy is not just a mood or aesthetic choice. It is a curatorial decision. It asks a fundamental question about the images fashion leaves behind: not only how Black life has struggled, but how it has danced, dressed, gathered and imagined itself otherwise. And perhaps that is the most radical gesture fashion can make, insisting that joy itself should be documented.

“I’m just a girl.” That phrase, more popular over the past few two years, came from a resurgence of ‘girlhood.’ What felt like just the ‘Barbie’ movie or an intimate dinner party grew into an understanding of the world, each other, and the universal experience of womanhood. Alongside this catchy way of reminding women to prioritise themselves, there’s been a worldwide expansion of opportunity, recognition, and appreciation for women around the world. Not only thanks to the power of storytelling via social media and films, but through the lives of the approximately 4 billion women in the world.

On its 115th year, International Women’s Day, globally recognised on March 8th, brings about the global tradition of honouring the women in our everyday lives. From mums, nans, aunts, teachers, cousins, and friends. In this article, Deeds Magazine will take you around the world showcasing how different countries celebrate day and the women that make the world go ‘round.

Originally starting in the United States, United Kingdom, and several European countries, what began as strikes and marches for fair wages, suitable working conditions, and child labour laws, as early as 1776, has evolved.

In 1911, after a series of strikes in Europe and North America, Clara Zetkin, leader of the Women's Office for the Social Democratic Party in Germany, tabled the idea of an International Women's Day to the Second International Socialist Women's Conference.

After receiving unanimous support from over one hundred women representing 17 countries, the day was promptly recognised by Austria, Denmark, Germany and Switzerland, on March 19, 1911. After the Russian revolutionary strikes by women on March 8th 1917, Vladimir Petin announced the date as a public holiday, later adopted by the United Nations in 1977, and countries around the world.

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Since then a series of powerful and influential women have been the catalysts of change and progress around the world. Look at Nigeria’s Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti, the ‘Mother of Africa,’ who pioneered women’s rights, education, and became the face of political campaigns in her home country. Kenya’s Wangari Maathai, who advocated for environmental awareness and was recognised globally as the first African woman to win a Nobel Peace Prize. Or the United States’ Dorothy Height and Rosa Parks, who empowered women and stood alongside thousands of African-Americans during the Civil Rights Movement. 

The day itself is focused on fostering solidarity and understanding by celebrating women’s achievements, raising awareness of gender inequality, mobilising action to educate and encourage, and donating to or fundraising for charities, organisations, activists, or initiatives looking to advance women's rights.

With these in mind, the day (whether it's March 8th or not) is celebrated a little bit differently in countries and cultures worldwide.

[TIKTOK VIDEO: C Lungaho - Culture x IWD | Song/Sound: I Think You’re Special by Justin Bieber & Tems (already in video)]

Italian international student Maria Luchetti spoke of her home country’s La Festa della Donna, which boasts fragrant mimosa flowers being shared with women across the country. The flowers bloom fills the air as marches take place in remembrance of the day’s symbolic roots.

In the US, UK, and Australia, March not only hosts a day, but a whole Women’s History Month - honouring the influential women whose work has changed the face of women’s rights in the workplace, society, and at home.
In China and Madagascar, women are usually treated to half days off work. That’s right - women only.
Twenty-four countries, including Cuba, Eritrea, Angola, and Kazakhstan, consider IWD a national holiday! Meaning no school, no work, all sleep. Sadly, this year fell on a Sunday so no four day week this year.
In Africa, there’s no shortage of celebration and progress with conferences hosted across the continent.The African Union’s meeting in Addis Ababa will be honouring the voices, work, and community of women in the AU at its headquarters in Ethiopia. 
In Ghana, the National Women’s Summit and EXPO took place on Sunday in Accra, highlighting women, money and power in today’s climate.
In Kenya, the IWD Protect the Future event hosted by PESOS Nairobi and Grade Africa had its debut, provoking powerful conversations to celebrate women, culture, and creative collaboration across the continent.
Nigeria and South Africa are hosts of the Google Development Group event ‘Break the Pattern in Tech’ this week, empowering women to build a world in tech in which they can thrive.
And these are just a few of the ways women are celebrated. From Mexico’s #UNDÍASINNOSOTRAS ('A Day Without Us’) to the historic Global Citizen Festival: Power of Women in 2019, the world has proven it needs its women. Therefore, they need to be celebrated. Continuing to empower and educate - in the physical and digital - is crucial. So, as the world celebrates the 115th anniversary of the day, let it be a reminder to all of the power women hold in every station, and another great day to be "just a girl."

IG: clungaho

International Women’s Month, this year, arrives against the backdrop of truly unprecedented times. Across the world, the winds of change are gusting with startling intensity. And as often is in history, women have been left to bear the brunt of this cascading series of disruptions. In the past few months, hordes of unscrupulous men have deployed  AI tools, most prominently Grok, to either strip women down to their underwear or otherwise doctor these images to suit their whims. Meanwhile, the tranche of Epstein files released in the past months have reminded us of the level of depravity powerful men often visit on women. As wars and conflicts erupt across the globe, women in these regions have seen a shrinking of their rights and freedoms, in the cases where they’ve not been completely eroded. Even in so-called democratic societies, far-right conservatives continue their misplaced efforts to roll back women’s reproductive rights. 

But even as all of this unfolds, so much gives us hope for the future. At the recently-concluded Olympics, women have dominated the headlines, inspiring hope and warmth in our hearts. U.S Olympics figure skater Alysia Liu took us on an exciting journey, culminating in her gold medal win, a first for the U.S in 24 years. Many more women continue to make waves in fields ranging from music, science, the arts, to business. 

To mark International Women’s Month, the women of Deeds Magazine gathered for a round-table discussion spanning topics such as the ways in which their experiences as during adolescence shaped their views of womanhood, the reasons they’re hopeful for the future of women, the joys of womanhood, and, not least, what it feels like to be a woman living through this period in history. 

As an adolescent, freshly coming of age, what city(ies) did you live in and how did your experiences there inform your views on womanhood?

Kafilat: I spent most of my early years in Lagos and Abeokuta. Looking back, one of the biggest lessons that experience gave me was the importance of community. I grew up watching the love and support between my mum and her sisters, the way they showed up for one another and carried each other through different seasons of life.
As the only girl, it’s taught me that womanhood is not something experienced in isolation, but something strengthened through solidarity, care, and shared wisdom. Seeing the way the women in my family supported one another showed me the power of women standing together, and it continues to influence how I approach other women and my friend groups.
Elah: I spent most of my childhood in Abuja. Growing up there shaped my earliest understanding of womanhood in visceral ways. I’ve always been surrounded by women who are industrious, expressive, grounded and endlessly resourceful. It’s made me understand womanhood as expansive, even when society tries to compress it. That foundation has naturally evolved into my belief in self-determination. Watching women constantly negotiate expectations taught me that identity is not something handed to you fully formed, it is something you claim. My view of womanhood resists binaries. It is not soft or strong or traditional or radical or visible alone. It is layered. It allows contradiction, and it makes room for many ways of being.

What would you say are, for you, the greatest joys of womanhood?

Laurene: The greatest joy of womanhood is the ability to bring life to the world. We are the gatekeepers of life. Depending on what culture you come from, women are also the ones to preserve and install culture down to the next generation. That is why in many religious groups, clans or tribes, the child inherits the culture of the mother.
Ruqayyah:  The greatest joy of womanhood, for me, is sisterhood. Women are incredible teachers and nurturers. Learning from their experiences, wisdom, resilience, and stories and growing from them has always been deeply empowering to me. There is something powerful about shared understanding and collective growth among women.
Diane: I would say the greatest joy of womanhood is my existence. The ability to simply exist as a woman amongst other women. I am a constant testament to the beauty that is womanhood and being able to experience that with other women is beautiful. 

This is a bit of a nuanced question but every generation of women has aspired towards solving several big issues facing women. In the mid 20th century, it was workplace access. Not much earlier, the struggle had been women’s suffrage. In the late 2010s, the #meToo movement fanned across the world with bracing urgency. What would you say are the big challenges women of this generation are faced with? 

Kafilat: For me it will be equality and I often think about it through a simple lens: equality isn’t about women being the same as men, it’s about having the same rights, opportunities, and respect. Many of the earlier movements for women focused on access, the right to vote, the right to work, the right to be present in spaces that excluded women. Those battles were about opening doors.
For this generation, the challenge is slightly different. The doors may be open, but true equity within those spaces still isn’t guaranteed. Women today are navigating issues like unequal representation in leadership, safety both online and offline, and the constant negotiation between visibility and respect.
In creative industries, women are present and producing incredible work, but the question now is who gets the resources, the platforms, and the authority to shape narratives? So the challenge for this generation is not just participation,  it’s power, recognition, and structural fairness. It’s about moving from simply being included to being fully valued and able to shape the systems we operate within.
Gloria:  While the high-profile legal battles (like reproductive rights) are well-known, much of what you're feeling comes from the administrative dismantling of protections.
•⁠  ⁠Regulatory Shift: Many rights are not being "voted away" but are instead being neutralized through the rescinding of executive orders and the defunding of enforcement agencies (like the EEOC or the Gender Policy Council).
•⁠  ⁠The "Secretive" Element: For a woman of color, this often manifests as the removal of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) frameworks in federal and private sectors. When these "guardrails" disappear, discrimination doesn't always look like a "No Trespassing" sign; it looks like being overlooked for a promotion or losing access to a healthcare subsidy without a clear explanation

So much can be said about the perils women today are faced with—from Trump and countless other hard-line politicians rolling back abortion rights, to the rise of incel culture. Nonetheless, are there any things that make you optimistic about the future as a woman?

Whitney: Honestly, what makes me optimistic is watching women stop shrinking, the future feels hopeful because women are getting louder, bolder, and less interested in being likeable — and as we all know history usually changes when that happens!!
Emem: I feel like the power of womanhood lies in our collective commitment to full self realization. What I mean by that is — as women, we spend a lot of time putting out fires, helping others build their dreams, trying to fix, fix, fix. I think the power is realizing that while we try to save others the most important thing we can save is truly ourselves. Not just professionally, but creatively, socially, intellectually…. All the things. There’s so much in this life that women can do, and I think immense power lies in running full speed ahead toward all the things we have been told we’re not good enough, or capable enough, to do. We’re limitless. Timeless. I find great joy in that. 

Who are some of the women—across all walks of life—who inspire you? 

Laurene: primarily, it has always been the women in my family. Those are the women I ever compared myself to, looked up to and aspired to be. Since I come from a large family, I really got to see the different personalities and agents we often glorify, restrict, neglect when we speak of black women and how they are portrayed in society. I wouldn’t necessarily say I was inspired but it equipped and informed me just enough to navigate the world.
Adun: I would say my Mom, most of who I am is because of who she was and the way she carried herself through life. I don’t particularly make it a habit to look up to people because we as humans are flawed one way or the other, however I would say the women in my life , my friends, the ones very close to me, I learn from them everyday.
‍Diane: I would say my partner. She has constantly taught me the importance of embracing who you are. The importance of existence being just enough. 

‍In one sentence, what does it feel like to be a woman living in these unprecedented times?
‍‍Laurene: To be a woman in these unprecedented times feels like the greatest responsibility and power over generations to come. If every woman in the world were to refuse to birth another child, then humanity would go extinct. Now more than ever, it is important for women to recognize how much they can prevent and ultimately control the world narrative. What do we want the world to look like in the next 100 years? What kind of people do we need to raise in favour of what I believe is goodness and unity.
Whitney: It feels like standing in the middle of history while quietly deciding we’re no longer asking for space — we’re strutting in our heels and designing 
Emem: It feels overwhelming. But also vast—vast in terms of the opportunity to find and re-find yourself, over and over again.
Ruqayyah: As a woman in her early twenties, living in these unprecedented times feels like constantly learning, unlearning, and relearning myself every day.
Kafilat: Being a woman in these times feels like living on both sides of a coin, having the power to choose your path, while knowing society is still learning how to be kind to the women who do.
Gloria: Living in these unprecedented times feels like a familiar exercise in constant pivoting, where I navigate a world that doesn't always feel safe by anchoring myself in my faith, utilizing therapy as a vital outlet for processing, and intentionally seeking out safe communities where I can be my complete self while focusing on the internal changes I can actually control.
Adun: To be a woman in these unprecedented times is an ever present challenge, but a welcome challenge all the same.
‍Diane: It feels like constantly and navigating  and having to deal with the challenges of being a woman while  understanding that my life matters just as much as anyone else’s

If you can send a few words of encouragement to every woman reading this, what would they be?
Adun: I feel ill equipped to give words of wisdom but I would say, make choice everyday to love the person that you are and be kind lol (honestly the world is already such a crazy place it hurts absolutely no one to show  kindness)
Diane: You are deserving of the space you occupy in the world. Exist, take up space, do the things you think about everyday, have fun.
Emem: Don’t be afraid of falling or failing. Fail fast. There’s a lot on the other side of trying in a world that would rather have us be stagnant.

This month marks Women's History Month, and so it is only fitting that we unveil our third cover for our Cultivators Issues. And it is only even more fitting that it be The Queen of Dancehall herself, Spice. When it comes to the title of The Queen of Dancehall, there is only one person who can stand fit to wear that title. The past 25 years of her career have shown her resilience and ability to embody everything that it means to be the Queen of Dancehall. Spice is a cultivator whose legacy extends beyond her and deserves to be celebrated in every way. 

Having Spice grace our cover is an occasion in itself, and it's an honour to give her flowers, as her impact on music has been monumental. The energy we captured during our cover shoot at East London's Blankbox Studios felt like a special moment for everyone who gathered to bring the editorial vision to life—spanning an evening and ending shortly after midnight. The atmosphere really felt like a real excitement and celebration of what we were creating and bringing together in honouring the Queen of Dancehall for this issue. 

For Spice, the meaning of the word cultivation goes beyond its definition and holds significance for her. "When I hear the word cultivation, mi feel it deep in mi spirit. Cultivation means planting something, even when nobody believed in it, watering it with hard work, dedication, tears, prayer, sacrifice, and faith—then standing tall when it finally bears fruit. For me, cultivation is about patience and purpose." She shares, as we speak, what it feels like to be a cultivator. "I had to cultivate my sound, my blue hair image, my confidence, my stage craft and most importantly, my voice as a woman in a male-dominated space. Nobody handed me my crown or my throne—I built it piece by piece, one year at a time." The last 25 years of her career have been evidence of this. She is someone who has never been shy about expressing herself, whether it be through her music, her style, or just the way she presents herself.

Entering the music scene in 2000, she has been able to craft a career of longevity, something she has recognised as a long road from the outset. "My career has been a journey of evolution. From “Fight Over Man" “Jim Screechie” to "Ramping Shop”, “So Mi Llike it" "Go Down Deh" and many other hits, I metamorphosed from controversial to being celebrated, from underground clashes to international stages. I've been misunderstood, criticised, boxed in—and still, I rise every time. I cultivated resilience. I cultivated authenticity. I never watered down who I am to make anybody comfortable." Throughout this, she has maintained her belief in herself, stepping out of her experiences of poverty and homelessness and building a career many can only aspire to have. No doubt there have been challenges along the way; however, it's her ability to rise above them and still stand in the power that has recognised her as the woman she is.

Meeting her 25 years into her career, there is no way we cannot look back and see just how far she has come, and she recognises this when it comes to where her career started. "When I first started in Jamaica, I didn't have this big, polished blueprint of what being an artist would look like. What I did have was hunger, confidence, and a strong belief in myself. I knew I wanted my voice to be heard, and I knew I wasn't going to blend in or play small just to fit into Dancehall." This was a driving force and has cemented her artistic power throughout the years. When you listen to Spice, you hear an unapologetic nature. No matter what she is singing about, she is somebody who never apologises for who she is.

Her legacy is rooted not only in her culture, as reflected in her music, but also in everything she represents as a Jamaican woman. Having graced stages across the world, she has always carried her pride in her heritage and in what it means to carry the island's flag. And this is something she has always carried throughout her career and has recognised in the responsibility she takes on. "I come from a small island, but the culture is big, and I've always taken that responsibility seriously. Every time I step on an international stage—whether it's a major festival, a TV platform, or a collaboration with global artists—I know I'm not just representing Spice, I'm representing Jamaica, Dancehall, and Caribbean culture. I carry that with pride." Looking at where Dancehall has reached in 2026, there is no doubt that Spice has been a big part of making that happen. For artists such as Jada Kingdom, Pamputtae, Shenseea, Stalk Ashley, and Lila Iké, these are just a few examples of artists who have benefited from the legacy Spice has built throughout her career. And this impact and legacy are not something she takes lightly, and she has seen them in the new generation. "Seeing younger artists now travelling, charting, and being embraced globally feels like confirmation. It tells me that the foundation we laid helped make it possible. Dancehall is evolving, and that's natural. I took the baton from those who came before me, and I never stopped. Now, knowing I played a part in taking it from the streets of Jamaica to the global stage, that's legacy." 

One of the things that has continued to maintain that legacy is her ability to grow and evolve throughout her career. Travelling and performing all over the world, as well as collaborations and creative expansions, have allowed her to step into different spaces and genres, while still maintaining what makes her Spice. As you listen through her discography, each era has brought us a different version of Spice, keeping in step with the shifts and changes of the world and the music industry. She has never been one to let herself stay comfortable or be boxed into one thing. She has always welcomed change and allowed herself to experience and push herself without losing the essence of Spice. "I stay inspired by collaborating across cultures while still keeping my Jamaican identity front and centre. That's how creativity expands beyond the diaspora—by being confident in where you're from, while being open to exchange and growth. Whether it's experimenting with new sounds, visuals, or platforms, I make sure the culture is respected and not diluted."

The latest evidence of this was her 2024 release, Mirror 25. The album was an ode to her legacy and was a marker of where she is now, 25 years into her career. As well as being introspective and being able to reflect. It once again represents a special time in her career, which has been no small thing. "Mirror 25 represents reflection, growth, and survival. It's me standing in the mirror and looking at every version of myself over the past 25 years, the struggle, the strength, the mistakes, the victories, and the evolution. That album is not just music, it's a testimony." At this point in her career, she is operating from a place of freedom and fearlessness. Having gone through the experience of being stuck in a record deal to life-threatening health issues and other hurdles she has had to overcome in her career, Spice is at a different point in her life, and this is something that is represented in the album. "At this point in my artistry, I'm confident and fearless. I know who I am, and I'm no longer creating to prove myself. I'm creating to tell my truth. Mirror 25 reflected maturity, versatility, and self-awareness. It shows that I can still deliver hardcore Dancehall while also exploring vulnerability, storytelling, and global sounds." 

Seeing her bask in the celebration of this music, receiving her flowers, the celebration of her legacy has been no small effort. In the past year alone, she took the stage for the return of Red Bull’s Culture Clash and took the crown as its winner. She also took the stage at the 2025 MOBO Awards, headlined both City Splash Festival and Boomtown Festival. As well as performing at the 10th Anniversary of Wireless Festival, reunited with her longtime collaborator, Vybz Kartel. And these are a few moments; however, they indicate how far Spice and Dancehall as a genre have come. "The past year has honestly felt surreal and deeply humbling. To stand on those stages, to be invited into those spaces, and to feel that love not just from my Jamaican people but from audiences around the world, reminded me of why I started in the first place. Moments like those don't come overnight. They come from years of work, sacrifice, resilience, and believing in yourself even when the odds were stacked." There is a deep gratitude she carries, and not something she takes lightly, given the cultural impact Spice has had globally.  

When speaking about everything we have discussed, I'm aware that Grace Hamilton is, too. The person beneath the artist. She is someone who has grown and changed over the years, maintaining her own peace of mind and standing strong in what is important and meaningful to her. Outside of Spice, she is a mother and someone who exists in her own right. When speaking to this, I'm intrigued to know what she has learnt about herself over the years and what it has meant for her to reach this point in her life. "Over the years, one of the biggest lessons I've learned is to stay true to myself. Trends will come and go, opinions will change, but authenticity is what keeps you standing for decades. I learned early that you can't build longevity pretending to be someone else, you have to know who you are and protect that." Protecting herself from everything that comes with being an artist and all that comes with that has also been a big thing for her. "I've learned to value faith, family, and self-worth. Success doesn't mean much if you lose your peace. Protecting my mental space, choosing my circle carefully, and knowing when to rest have become just as important as the grind". 

Her faith has played a big part in her life, not just personally but also throughout her career, and she has never been quiet about it when it comes to her relationship with God. The single "God Don't Play About Me," released at the beginning of this year, was just one of the songs that have expressed her faith. Other songs like "You Are Worthy", "Spice Marley", and "God A Bless Me" are all acknowledgements of the role that her faith has had throughout her life. "My faith has been my anchor. When the noise got loud, when the criticism was heavy, when doors felt closed, and people counted me out, my faith reminded me who I belong to and why I'm still standing as the Queen of Dancehall," she tells me "Faith gave me peace in chaos, strength in weakness, and clarity when I felt lost. God also reminded me that He's always by my side. My faith taught me patience, resilience, and gratitude, even in the hard seasons."

As the conversation comes to a close, there is so much more to discuss, but since we have spoken in depth about her career so far, we have reached this point. Spice is also embarking on and embracing the next phase of her career, as heard in her latest releases “Clean and Fresh” and "Soft Girl Era". The latest sounds are bringing a new vibe that reflects where her artistry is taking her in this next part of her life. "Right now, I'm in a very intentional chapter of my life and career. With "Soft Girl Era", that's exactly where I am in my glow-up season, stepping into a softer, more elevated, more self-aware version of myself while still being powerful and unapologetic." With everything we have discussed, there is a newfound freedom and fearlessness that Spice carries, knowing everything she has achieved and still plans to. "Creatively, I feel free. I feel inspired. I feel like I'm upgrading in every way sonically, visually, and emotionally. I want the world to see my versatility: that I can be fierce and dominant, but also feminine, reflective, playful, classy, and evolving. This is about showing growth without losing my edge."

This new chapter for Spice carries excitement about what she will bring next. As she continues to grow and evolve, and what that will expand to, and even though it comes with a new vibe and energy, there is still no letting go of who Spice is. "This chapter is about elevation of mind, music, image, and spirit. Soft… but still strong." As the conversation draws to a close, we return to the title of The Queen of Dancehall and what it has felt like to carry that, in terms of the pressure to uphold it and the way people view her as such. "Carrying the title Queen of Dancehall comes with pressure, but it also comes with purpose. When people look at you as a queen, they expect strength, excellence, leadership, and consistency at all times. That weight is real," she tells me. Ultimately, it comes back to everything we have discussed throughout the conversation, underscoring the importance of authenticity and staying true to oneself. And so as we celebrate and honour the reign of Queen Spice, we are looking forward to seeing where the next 25 years take her.

The history of Nigerian music does not start and end with Fela Kuti. For the glorious child that is Afrobeats today was once dust, before the labour of the hands of those that lived before it, their struggle for firmament and form breathing life into its nostrils many years later. But time and again, history itself informs us, albeit by its inaction, on how often and large the war stories of women go untold. It is a disembodiment in practice. Or, as is more seemly, organised obliteration. But what is certainly not possible to erase is the understanding that if there is an ubiquity of successful women in contemporary Nigerian music today, it is no doubt thanks to the women pacesetters that have come before them, fighting then to be seen just as what they were—artists who just wanted to matter—in a field swamped with prejudice.

In the wilds of the industry, these Nigerian women blazed trails across diverse genres, bringing, perhaps what could be named as most imperative: a differing point of view. That is, beyond mere sonic variety, or as opposed to mannequin representation (where the presence of women is only some sort of side attraction), the light of these women’s voices reproduced a new spectrum of experiences, stories. Of pleasure, pain, agitation… what it meant—means—to be a woman.

The following is an impossible-yet-necessary attempt at highlighting the triumph of some of these women.

1. Christy Essien-Igbokwe.

From the 1970s to the late 90s, Christy Essien-Igbokwe established herself as a Nigerian pop culture sensation. Her roots in music and acting would yield fruits of a career studded with excellence, and flowers alike in the plethora of awards and honours (including Doctorates) she received at home and abroad in both fields. She sang in her native language, Ibibio, but also in Igbo,Yoruba, Efik, and English, recording ten albums to her name, including the 1981 favourite, ‘Ever Liked My Person?’ which would go on to be the pioneering platinum album in Nigerian music history. From a discography charged with traces of R&B, Soul, and Highlife came hit tracks such as ‘Seun Rere’, ‘Rumours’, and ‘You Can’t Change a Man’. From a seventeen year old releasing her debut album in 1977 to becoming the ‘Lady of Songs.’ Between 1996 and 1999, she served as the first female president of the Performing Musicians Association of Nigeria. She passed away amid immense tributes in 2011.

2. The Lijadu Sisters.

Ambitious twin sisters determined to make a name for themselves debuted on the bubbling and male-centric post-civil war music scene with a ballad to their mother, ‘Iya Mi Jowo’, at twenty, in 1968. Later came the record deal with Afrodisia. Then ‘Danger’ (1976)—their first international breakthrough; then three more seminal albums to complete an incredible run of four in four years. Having drawn influences from their mother’s foreign record collection and later from local genres, collaborations with multinstrumentalist Biddy Wright and renowned drummer Ginger Baker further refined their fusion of Afrobeat, Rock, Reggae, & Jazz. ‘Come on Home’, ‘Orere-Elejigbo’, and ‘Life’s Gone Down Low’ are some of their most popular tracks. In the 1979 documentary, Kokombe: The Nigerian Music Pop Scene, the sisters are filmed amplifying the rising agency of women in post-colonial Nigeria as well as their dissatisfaction at the exploitative behaviour of their label bosses, mirroring some of the themes that pervade their work. Today, while Kehinde is of blessed memory, Taiwo lives in Harlem, preserving the legend of her sister, and the legacy of their music.

3. Queen Oladunni Decency.

Born Serifatu Oladunni Oduguwa, seventeen-year old Queen Oladunni Decency broke the gender monopoly of Yoruba Juju music with her guitar and an audacious band in 1956. The first female guitarist in Nigeria, she first shredded the sexist dissonance that alienated the co-existence of two ideas: women, and musical instruments. She would then, off the growing mobility of women that the civil war afforded, achieve huge success as a band leader, performing to critical acclaim as Her Majesty Queen Oladunni and Her Unity Orchestra. She attained national recognition and was fondly called ‘Mummy Juju’ by fans. Sadly she passed away at 28.

4. Hajiya Fatima Lolo.

What’s more poetic than a historian living for more than a hundred years? Fatima Muhammadu Kolo, turned Fatima Lolo, began her journey to stardom performing in village gatherings first, then in more elaborate circles in her place of birth, Etsu, in Northern Nigeria. Lolo’s grip on the reins of glory would be tighter after getting turbaned Sagi Ningbazhi (Queen of Musicians) by the 10th Etsu Nupe, ruler of the Nupe people, bringing prestige to her local music industry. Alongside Her Nupe Group, Lolo became a staple in the company of dignitaries throughout the North, carrying in Nupe music the memory of a people and a wisdom seasoned by time. One of her most enduring releases is her 1985 album, ‘Ewodechizi’. Her many years of excellence would eventually earn her a National Honour, a Member of the Order of Niger. And on May 15, 1997, aged 106 and after a lifetime of riding, the Queen descended from her horse.

5. Onyeka Onwenu.

Onyeka Onwenu was a multihyphenate. Dazzling audiences with glitter as she wielded her talents across music, journalism, film, fashion, and activism, shapeshifting, earning her the nickname ‘Elegant Stallion.’ While working her broadcasting job at Nigerian Television Authority (NTA), she released her 1981 debut LP, ‘For the Love of You’. Onwenu wrote and presented a BBC documentary; Onwenu won a Best Actress award at the Africa Movie Academy Awards; Onwenu, while at NTA and when it was unpopular, protested against their refusal to pay royalties on her song. All these with the image of her manicured hair and its slight patch of grey so that it is almost inseparable from her icon. Of her many hits, the 1986 anthem, ‘One Love’, is the best known. She released four albums in total before switching her Soul and Pop majors for Gospel in the nineties. She was twice awarded the National Honours, and also later served as the Executive Director of the National Centre for Women Development in 2013. She passed away amid nationwide tributes in July 2024.

6. Salawa Abeni.

For Waka music, Batile Alake first, then Salewa Abeni. But it was Abeni who took the recipe from the fifties to sate the appetite of the seventies. She contemporaralised Waka music, a traditional genre that was an offspring of, and popular among Yoruba muslim women. As a teenager she sold one million copies of her 1976 debut record, ‘Late Murtala Muhammed’, becoming the first Nigerian female artist to achieve the feat, quickly turning her to the life of fame. At the turn of the eighties, Salawa Abeni and Her Africa Waka Modernizer had injected popular appeal into a redundant genre, contesting the field with more enduring and male-dominated genres in the industry. ‘Gentle Lady’ is one of her most evergreen songs, her 1990 hit. Two years later she was crowned “Queen of Waka Music” by the then monarch of Oyo, the Alaafin, Oba Lamidi Adeyemi. In a 2011 interview for her 50th birthday, “A lot of water has passed under the bridge,” Abeni says; “I never knew I was going to be as great as this…”

7. Evi-Edna Ogholi.

At twenty-one, Evi-Edna Ogholi happened upon the late 1980s with ‘My Kind of Music’, a reggaeton album of African expression. Coming into a male-thick genre and from the same enclave (Delta state) as reggae maestro Majek Fashek, she shows no diffidence when she sings, “Special dedication to all lovers of reggae / music / all over the world” on the album’s titular track. She would later be dubbed the Queen of African Reggae by fans, often sporting Jamaican costume and a wide smile. ‘Happy Birthday’, and ‘Oghene Me’ are her most famous tracks today. 

It is a marvel to see how far women have come: from existing as microfauna in an ecosystem that moralised feminine participation in popular music to producing immortals even across different genres. Today, although women still struggle more to break barriers in the industry when compared to their male counterparts, it is, again, thanks to these women pacesetters that have come before them, fighting to be seen just as what they were. And while there remains many more of them to be talked about, an attempt at total recognition has been declared impossible from the gun.

IG: @fortuneakande

Black Women in French Music on the Rise 

The French music rise is no longer just another discovery playlist––it is a momentum here to stay. Now, it would be in your best interest to get familiar with those exceptional female acts pushing boundaries across the Francophone sphere & beyond. Far from being mere singers draped in extravagance and flamboyance, these artists embody a generation of black women reshaping soundscapes, trampling on their male counterparts, and setting cohort trends for others to follow. It is the rebellion spirit that resides within them that we hope resonates throughout this year’s Women’s Day.

Aya Nakamura

Aya Danioko, better known to everyone as Aya Nakamura is a French-Malien Afropop singer who really sparked in 2018 when she released ‘Nakamura’ with hit singles such as ‘Copines’ and ‘Djadja.’ Ever since, music listeners have been infatuated and inseparable with the star. Her Afro-blending sound coupled with relatable and authentic lyrics, makes Aya one of the most sought-after French artists to date. Not to forget her unmatched personality, she truly earns the title of the Queen of France. Her latest album ‘Destinée’ includes guest appearances from our Jamaican covergirl Shenseeea, JayO and more.

Theodora

A new addition to the French-speaking roster of female rockstars is none other than recent Les Victoires de la Musique Award winner, Afro-fusion French-Congolese singer Theodora. What is there not to love about her? Theodora’s music is fun and carefree; however, she also tackles heartfelt topics that a lot of young black women can relate to. At just 22, she shook the world with hit songs such as ‘melodrama’ and ‘MASOKO NA MABELE.’ featuring music producer THIZIZLONDON. Theodora is definitely one of the more experimental emerging French artists who doesn’t let a specific genre define her.

Yseult

There is a special place in our hearts when it comes down to French-Cameroonian Pop singer and model Yseult. Getting her start on screen in a French TV show called Nouvelle Star in 2014, when she was only 20, the icon’s rise to stardom was nothing close to ordinary. Yseult is also the only singer on our list that works independently. Her music often echoes a melancholic ballad, penetrating topics about love, heartbreak, depressive episodes and many more. Along with her masterful collaborations such as ‘Wine’ with Rema, and more recently ‘Alibi’, Yseult manages to never leave our sight.

Tshegue

Tshegue is a French-Congolese Afropunk group consisting of Faty Sy Savanet (the face) and Nicolas 'Dakou' Dacunha. The best way to describe their sound is like a ball of energy. Although Faty mainly expresses herself through Lingala, a native language in both Republic of Congo, Democratic Republic of Congo, and Central-Africa, the electronic flare that Nicolas delivers is obviously of obscure Parisian niches. In short, Tshegue’s music is not for the weak! This is evident in tracks such as ‘Na Boyi’ and ‘Pili Pili.’ Faty’s lyrics often call for a revolt, which can correlate to the constant unrest in Eastern Congo.

Lous and The Yakuza

Last but not least, Lous and The Yakuza is a Congolese-Belgian multilingual singer-songwriter and model. Some of you may recognize Lous based on her bookclub. Needless to say, she is an artist of many talents, a gift that keeps on giving. Notable songs from her catalogue are ‘Dilemme’ and ‘Je ne sais pas.’ Perhaps you may have noticed The Yakuza in her artist name that derives from giving flowers to her music collaborators. One more interesting fact about her is that the singer has a lot of other interests aside from music such as poetry, which really makes her a virtuose of the arts.

In 2018, Nigerian streetwear had no address. Brands existed, but scattered, selling to friends, praying for virality, competing for the same small audience. There was no connective tissue. No gathering point. No legitimacy.
Iretidayo Zaccheaus was 18 when she decided to fix that.

Eight years later, Street Souk receives over a thousand brand applications annually, has hosted everyone from Mowalola to Naomi Campbell to the late Virgil Abloh, and has staged pop-ups across Lagos, Dubai, Cape Town, London, Los Angeles, Abuja, and Accra. Ireti, as she's known, created the infrastructure an entire industry was missing. Street Souk gave Nigerian streetwear something it never had. An epicentre. A scene.

We sat with the woman who built it, to talk about what it took, and what comes next.‍

Your mother Yewande built Eventful and its souk series for her generation. When you walked into one of her Fashion Souks in 2018, what made you think you could do this for yours?
The specific moment was just walking around and seeing how everything was set up, how neat it looked. The fundamentals were there, it was an extremely well-organised event, but it just wasn't appealing to me. The clothes were Ankara bubus and stuff I wasn't necessarily interested in. So as a creative person, the first thing I'm thinking is: Wow, imagine if it was a bunch of brands that look like the kind of stuff I wear. Streetwear brands.

You were 18 when you launched Street Souk. What did you tell those first brands to convince them to take a chance on something that had never existed in West Africa?
I was blessed and fortunate enough that I was already on the scene. Whether people knew me as Teezee's sister, or part of the DRB team organising events, or from the Traplanta t-shirts I was selling, or the work I did for Homecoming, I was a trusted face. My opinion mattered in the fashion space already without having done anything. That's the easiest thing to say.

You receive applications from over 1,000 brands now. Walk us through your curation process.
It's very rigorous because I still go through every single application myself. The brands represented at Street Souk are also representing the streetwear scene in Africa as a whole. I have to make sure they're up to a standard that every youth from Africa will be proud of. The key thing I look at is intentionality. If you're just slapping graphics from the internet on t-shirts, nine years ago that might have been cool, now it's not. It's not about followers. It's about showing you're serious. From seeing someone's thing, you can tell if they're going to be a no-show or if they're going to come through and make their booth the sickest booth possible.‍

Nigerian streetwear pulls from traditional textiles, hip-hop, skate culture, "bend down select" upcycling. Which of these excites you most right now?
I'm into all of them, but I'm definitely keen on playing around with traditional Nigerian textiles, aso oke, adire. We've seen what Dye Lab have done with adire. With Street Souk, we created this piece for Lagos Fashion Week: camo aso oke jorts, camouflage jorts with aso oke patches. Infusing traditional textiles with modern-day culture is where my head is at right now.

You've said Nigerian streetwear is "very raw and fast-paced." What does "raw" mean in terms of actual design?
Raw means it's still very fresh, still very new, and there are no rules to it. People are just doing what they want to do, taking inspiration from a bunch of different places. No one thing is exactly the same. We have influences from the West, from pop culture, from hip-hop, but it's still very raw and very fresh.

International brands have been "dubbing off" African culture for years. What distinguishes authentic African streetwear from imitation?
The technique in which items are woven, how they look, how they fit, how loud they are. There are certain things as an African you're willing and daring to do that someone from the other side of the world might not be willing or able to do.

‍How do you balance showcasing established names against taking risks on emerging designers?
Honestly, it's very much a gut feeling. Some of the biggest brands might not give you as much impact as emerging brands with a cult following. It depends on how I feel, what I feel is the best situation, and what that partnership means. “I'm a very deep person when it comes to people I work with.” It has to have some level of importance or meaning to me for it to happen, for it to feel authentic, for it to go well.

Virgil called Street Souk a key part of Africa's "youth-driven fashion renaissance." Now that he's gone, who do you look to globally as a reference point?
Globally, for the infrastructure of what streetwear has become, I look up to people like Clint from Corteiz and Ronnie Fieg from Kith. What these brands have built individually has been incredible, Kith with the infrastructure of popping up stores all over the world. I also look to Daily Paper in terms of their storytelling, their strong core and essence.

Streetwear is heavily male-dominated. How has navigating that shaped your approach to amplifying women-led brands?
I always try to amplify woman-led brands, whether we're curating the marketplace at FEM Fest and only highlighting female-led brands, or doing events where we give women advantage. I'm probably not supposed to say this, but if I ever have to choose between a male and female brand and it comes down to the line, if they're both equally deserving, I would always go with the woman. I know how much harder it is for a female brand to get into certain situations. We need more female-led streetwear brands. Shout out to Ayanfe from WWYD, Tolu from Meji Meji.

The world tour hit Lagos, Dubai, Cape Town, London, LA, Abuja, and Accra. How did you adapt Street Souk's identity across different cities?
The most important thing about Street Souk, and I guess about our core ethos and me as an individual as well as being Nigerian, is whatever room you go into, you shake it up. Instead of adapting to fit them, you make them adapt to fit you. That's the mindset I go with when I go into any of these cities. I'm going in there to give you the Lagos experience. You don't want me in your city to give you something that you've had before, or to dumb it down so it's easily digestible or palatable.
So we always make sure that wherever we're standing up, we're really showing up for our city, that people can feel like, "Oh, it feels like I'm in Nigeria," or "It feels like I'm at Street Souk Lagos." That's definitely the mindset we go into all our pop-ups with. We're not trying to adapt to where we are. We're trying to get them to adapt to who we are.

Street Souk now hosts 100+ vendors and 5,000+ attendees, it has become a marketplace as much as a cultural moment. How do you ensure brands are actually making sales, not just getting exposure?
The one thing we keep at the centre: it's an event where you come to shop. Shopping is the core. Buying and selling, trade is the core. Everything else is a bonus. It would never be a situation where you're going for a concert and shopping is added value. Streetwear is at the core. Music, vibes, food, that's a nice add-on. People already know they're coming to shop. Our percentage of brands that sell out, that make record amounts of money, and our retention of brands that always want to come back is extremely high. So I think we're doing a pretty good job in that department.

You've said the goal is to be bigger than ComplexCon. What would an African streetwear convention need to offer, in terms of experiences, brand access, exclusives, to reach that level?
The problem with this question is a lot of it is infrastructural. A lot of it at this point is out of my control. Things like the ability to get goods in and out of the country easily. So for example, let's say we have a brand deal with a Nike or so and they want to come and show up at Street Souk in a real way like they do at ComplexCon, them getting their goods in has to be easy. The purchasing power of the nation, the economic situation, people being able to afford these goods. The venues, ComplexCon has maybe three, four hundred brands and still has space for a festival. There's nowhere like that in Nigeria or West Africa indoors yet.

And also the appetite of sponsors. Sponsors are the ones that make events like this happen. We're still in a situation where we have to explain to sponsors why this is important. Some are just starting to see the youth is the future, let's invest in them, let's tap in with them.

But Africa has the numbers. Nigeria alone has the numbers. Seventy-five percent of our population is under twenty-five. A third of the world's online users in the next ten years will be based in Africa. The data is showing we can take over. Infrastructurally, we just need the help of people who can make a difference.

What advice would you give designers starting out in 2026?
The first thing about starting your own brand is create your hero product. Find out what that one product is going to be for your brand that you can sell thousands and thousands of units of in different colours, in different shapes and sizes of the same product in order to gain brand equity. Let people see that product and know it's your brand.

Kai Collective has her vest top that generated over a million pounds in revenue for her brand. Corteiz had the tracksuits that they started off with. Most brands that have really gone on to be super successful, they have that hero product that they're known for, and then they use that product to enter the markets and then they can flex their creativity and do everything else they always wanted to do. But don't try and go in too quick doing everything.

Become a master of something, and then when you have the capital, you can play into all the different things you want to do. That's definitely one of the most important things I've learned over the years.

And make sure you reference, make sure you look at brands that are already existing, but do not copy them. There's a big difference between referencing, getting inspiration, and straight up dubbing. Do not be a dub. Just get your inspiration, do your research, do your referencing, have a strong story to tell. Most brands that are doing really well now have a story to tell. People want to buy to be part of the brand. It's more than just selling t-shirts these days. You're buying into something. So that's really important.

Eight years in, what was the Nigerian streetwear ecosystem missing that Street Souk provided?
An infrastructure. A place where you could find all these brands in one place, almost like a directory. An epicentre. One place where you could go and find everything. It was missing a community. There were brands, but no synergy. No scene. Just a bunch of different people doing different things. Being able to bring everything together and define it is what Street Souk provided.

And that global push, the platform that got Davido to wear these Nigerian brands, that got your favourite artists from here and abroad paying attention. Street Souk legitimised streetwear in Nigeria and Africa as you know it. People were like: Okay, this is something that exists. This is something we can look at.

What's next?
This year is about to be our most exciting year. We have a lot of sick collaborations coming out, local and global. I'm really excited about them. Nothing I can necessarily speak on now, I'm NDA'd out, but I'm really, really excited. It's going to be the most special year yet.

This is our year of expansion. I feel like we're really about to get to that next level and that next step. You should look out for our e-commerce store. We launched it officially last year. We're onboarding a lot of new brands from Nigeria, from across Africa, and from our friends in the diaspora as well. We're going to have a really incredible selection at Street Souk.

We also have a physical space within the Homecoming concept store where you'll be able to shop everything online in person, just for that in-person experience, you want to go try it on, see how it feels. We also have the Street Souk After Dark, which is our monthly activation where we'll be curating different brands on a monthly basis, different DJs, different artists, a chance to come and discover what's next in our community, what's next on the scene. I'm really excited about this. It has a lot of potential to be something really incredible.

We're just in that cycle where this is the next generation of what is going to be mainstream or what is going to be the next big thing, and we're lucky enough to be an incubator for a lot of these brands, a lot of these artists, a lot of these different forms of talent. We're also going on a university tour in Nigeria. Of course, we're going on a global tour as well, hitting up some new places, hitting up some of our stomping grounds already. I'm really excited for the university tour, just tapping in with the youths out here, seeing what people are doing, activating their brands in a lot of design competitions. We have a lot of really sick stuff coming up this year. I'm super excited. I can't wait for everything to start officially rolling out.

Midway through, Ireti says something that lands differently the second time you read it: "We're not trying to adapt to where we are. We're trying to get them to adapt to who we are." She says it like it's obvious.At this point, it is. Ireti knows exactly what Street Souk is; an epicentre, an infrastructure, a legitimiser, and she's known since she was 18, standing in her mother's event space, imagining a version for people who dress like her, her generation. Eight years later, the vision has only sharpened. The e-commerce store. The physical retail space. The After Dark monthly activations. The university tour. The global expansion. Every decision connects back to the same vision she had at 18.

And at the centre of it all, a woman who still personally reviews every single one of those thousand plus brand applications, because she understands that what shows up at Street Souk is not just representing another convention, it's representing an entire continent's creative output.

Ireti Zaccheaus didn't wait for the infrastructure to exist. She built it. And eight years later, she's still building. Tastemaker, Curator, Architech of StreetSouk.

On Monday last week I woke up sizzling with excitement over the 79th British Academy Film Awards (BAFTA). In the days and weeks before, I had engaged friends and film enthusiasts in effervescent conversations regarding the awards—which is perhaps an elegant way of saying I trotted out my predictions to anyone who cared to listen. On the night of the show, I considered staying up to follow the event, but the prospect of getting updates alongside the discordant tweets I knew awaited me the next morning seemed more alluring. 

At the crack of dawn, as shafts of amber-hued sunlight pushed through my blinds, I grabbed my phone and immediately typed in the keywords: “BAFTA,” “Winners.” What popped up left me completely shell-shocked. Award shows, by their very nature, tend to elicit drama but not even in my wildest dreams did I imagine a white man yelling the N-word at two black actors. In hindsight, foreclosing the possibility of this terrible gaffe seems a tad too generous on my part. John Davidson, the offender, suffers from Tourette’s and has been known to hurl obscenities especially when the situation demands utmost civility. 

In the hours that followed, the scandal filled up my social media timeline. Opinions were split between indicting Davidson and defending him. Amid the bedlam, one thing became clear: in this case, there are no easy answers, no tidy narratives with a clear aggressor and victim. Like the BAFTA controversy, the other topics I interrogate in this installment of Pop Takes—an original column in which I interrogate some of the most culturally relevant Pop culture topics—defy easy resolutions. Against the backdrop of an endlessly polarized political landscape, I hope that in working through these topics, walking the tightrope between showing empathy and holding on to our values, we’re reminded of the importance of applying nuance to situations and defying the tyranny of binary logic: two truths can, and very often do, coexist. 

Unpacking The BAFTA Debacle

Dressed in crisp dark suits, Michael B. Jordan and Delroy Lindo stood behind the lectern, poised to deliver the first BAFTA of the night when a word drifted from behind the hall—40 rows behind the stage—sending the 2,700-seater hall filled with the crème de la creme of the movie business into an eerie silence. Those few seconds of silence seemed to last for ages and while Jordan would retain his characteristic stoicism, Lindo's jaw slacked with bracing alacrity, his mouth a door wide ajar. Tourette Syndrome activist John Davidson had blurted out the N-word, putatively spurred on by his implacable tics. Davidson was in attendance for the film ‘I Swear’, nominated in several categories, and inspired by his life. Expectedly this incident has left social media simmering with forceful debates, recriminations, and polemics. Why was Davidson allowed access to a microphone when his tics are a matter of public knowledge? Is Tourette’s syndrome simply a smokescreen for what appeared to be unvarnished racism? What is the path forward from all of this?

This is a conversation that resists simplistic resolutions, the binary logic we love to apply when adjudicating cultural events. It is first important to revisit what Tourette’s Syndrome is. The neurodevelopmental condition, which affects less than 1 percent of the global population, is characterized by involuntary movement and sounds—essentially your body acting in defiance of you. Davidson’s variant of the disorder, characterized by profane outbursts, is much rarer, affecting about 10-20% of the general Tourette Syndrome population. 

Davidson’s history of Tourette-induced swearing is however well-documented. Years ago, as he received his MBE, he yelled “(expletive) the Queen.” He once blurted “You’re going to die” while on a visit to a woman with cancer. During the BAFTA awards, Davidson blurted out about 10 offensive words in total, including calling this year’s host Alan Cumming a pedophile. All of which is to say despite how offensive and disconcerting it was to hear that word sully a high point for two exemplary Black men, especially during Black History Month, the available evidence suggests that it wasn’t his intention to say the word. 

Nonetheless, two truths can coexist. We can acknowledge that Davidson's faux-pas issued from his disorder whilst also recognizing the damage it caused. As someone with OCD, I know firsthand how debilitating mental illness can be. But I find it extremely curious that Davidson has at no point made an attempt to issue an apology to the people his actions directly affected. He has made a show of asserting his innocence, claiming to be distraught and explaining that he has no control over his tics and calling out the BAFTA team for placing a microphone so close to him knowing how spontaneous and his tics can be. He has expressed his consternation at the whole debacle airing on television. Before the show, the BAFTA team reportedly assured him that his tics would be excised from the broadcast footage. There’s much to be said about how poorly the BAFTA team and the BBC, which broadcast the event, have handled all of this. Consider that Akinola Davies' speech was cut short, in the broadcast, to exclude the parts in which he calls for a free Palestine but they saw it fit to broadcast the N-word to the world. Nonetheless, the path to reconciliation begins with the ways in which one’s actions, accidental or otherwise, have caused harm and then issuing an earnest apology.

Nigerian Ace Singer Simi Finds Herself in a Controversy 

For some two weeks now Nigerian singer Simi has found herself at the heart of a roiling controversy. This month in Nigeria, several victims of rape or assault have called out their abusers on social media. Each call-out sent waves of sadness, grief, and anger reverberating across the country, setting off a reckoning on social media. And while many of the nation’s celebrities largely steered clear of the conversation, Simi bravely bemoaned the endemic sexual violence in the country through a bracingly heartfelt tweet in which she called for the nation to stop raping its women. “Women are terrified to go out. Women in their homes are not safe either. Ask your sisters. Ask your female friends and your girlfriends. Ask your wives. We're not all crazy. STOP RAPING WOMEN!!” The tweet partly reads. Before long, her comments section had morphed into something resembling a marauding mob: essentially composed of men denigrating her for myriad inane reasons. Days after, however, the story would take a surprisingly dreadful turn. 

Internet sleuths exhumed pedophilic tweets the singer had posted on a lark years ago, many of them well over a decade old. The fallout was immediate and, as one would expect, chaotic, leaving many who had rallied behind her earlier at a loss for what to do. Many of the problematic tweets have been deleted now and Simi has issued a statement addressing the issue. In it she pushes against the narrative that she was depraved, arguing that—at 23 years of age, when she made most of those tweets—she was “cheeky” and tweeted everything that happened in her life. Suffice it to say the statement only served to exacerbate the scandal. 

It goes without saying that the events of the past few days are incredibly sensitive and require nuance to untangle. Misogyny, rape, and pedophilia are great evils that somehow perform an elaborate tango in this convoluted scandal. Further complicating matters is the fact that the sleuths who surfaced Simi’s disturbing tweets did so not out of concern but as retribution for the tweets in which she condemns rape. Nonetheless, the two truths, once again, can coexist. Simi must be commended for standing in solidarity with victims of assault, especially in defiance of the rabid misogyny that’s increasingly prevalent online. But we must also condemn her deeply disturbing tweets, because turning a blind eye to them would make us no different from those who sit on the sidelines when issues of social justice are being addressed. 

Is Pitchfork Biased Against Black Music?

Three recent reviews from the cheeky and irreverent internet-native music publication Pitchfork have revived an age-old question: Does Pitchfork have a bias against black music and musicians? The platform recently published scathing reviews of J Cole’s ‘The Fall Off,’ Brent Faiyaz’s ‘Icon,’ and Baby Keem’s  ‘Casino.’ Responding to Pitchfork rating his album a 5.8 wrote on his Instagram Stories: “Ay Pitchfork I'm sorry for not paying ya'll but can I get an honest album review just 1 time for the 1 time?” 

It’s well known that Pitchfork, despite its storied history and generally respected critical tone, hasn’t historically been the best arbiter of Black music. The platform tends to favor experimental and artistically ambitious music, which means its Best New Music section is often graced by left-field, avant-garde offerings. The platform, like most others,  has also just begun to include more Black and minority groups within its editorial team. Nonetheless, suggesting a bias against Black music is disingenuous. In February alone, three of the six projects in its Best New Albums’ category have been Rap albums. Ella Mai’s ‘Do You Still Love Me?’ received favorable ratings and a song from the project was featured in the Best New Song category. Seeing some of the most anticipated projects by Black artists get crushed might give the impression that the publication has a bias towards Black music. But zooming out reveals a more nuanced picture. Could it be that these projects, whose enormous marketing budgets have all but ensured that they are up in our faces, aren’t all that impressive? 

In recent weeks, social media, or perhaps more appropriately, the corner of social media concerned with all things Nigerian music, has lit up with something resembling holy indignation over a seven-month-old Billboard article. The article, titled ‘The Biggest One Hit Wonders of the 25th Century,’ puts Rema at the number six spot, on account of his putative failure to reprise the surreal heights he attained with ‘Calm Down’ remix, featuring Selena Gomez. “The No. 3-peaking "Calm Down" was obviously not veteran pop superstar Gomez's only hit, but Rema has yet to make it to the Hot 100 again,” the article notes, in a tone that seems somewhere between dour and cheeky. “Although he has landed six top 10s on the U.S. Afrobeats Songs, through the June 7, 2025, chart,” the writer follows, on a somewhat conciliatory note.

It was a sedate Sunday afternoon when I happened upon a tweet decrying the article as malicious. Before long my timeline had transformed into a sizzling pastiche of takes and polemics on the subject. Rival fans seized upon the article, wielding it to downplay Rema’s impact on Afrobeats. I found this ironic, if Rema, who made the biggest Afrobeats song and has constantly bent the culture to his will at every turn in his career was suddenly insignificant because of a Billboard article, what claims does anyone else on the scene have to significance? Expectedly, fans of Rema and Nigerian music enthusiasts have forcefully railed against the Billboard article. Even those who have maintained an ambivalent stance, have been no less involved in the conversation. What all of this immediately gestures at is the immense significance the Billboard Chart holds in this part of the world. 

But even this assessment barely captures the full picture. Weeks ago, the Grammys, in usual fashion, set off a salvo of debates, ranging from conversations about who deserved to win in the recently minted Best African Music Performance category to debates on the relevance of the category. Taken together, these underscore the degree to which Western validation has become a mainstay in the Nigerian music industry. The question then becomes: Why is this so? Why do Nigerian music enthusiasts care so much about western validation? Putting aside the singular cultural influence the western world, America in particular, wields over the rest of the world, and the fact that American charts and awards have come to be lodestars for music scenes across the world, Nigerian music artists and stakeholders disproportionately value western validation for the same reasons droves of Nigerians migrate to these regions every year: the desire for better opportunities. 

Nigerian artists are nowhere near being unique in their fascination with American success. Stretching back to the early days of the country, America has attracted strivers from around the world, eager to make good on their American dreams. And Nigerian artists are no different. Winning a Grammy or scoring a Billboard Hot 100 hit instantly signals ascendancy into a rarefied club. It also translates to increased commercial success, as well as visibility and access. For everyday Nigerian music fans, who relish a good grass-to-grace story, it's not hard to see the appeal of success on the Billboard Charts or the Grammy stage; and by extension, why we care so much about what the Billboard charts have to say about our artists. But I suspect it also owes something to our local metrics of success being in a shambolic state. 

The Headies, which is supposed to be the Nigerian equivalent of the Grammys, continues barreling towards obsolescence. Every year, the show’s production quality and organizational problems drive a wedge between the award and fans. These days the nation's biggest artists don't bother attending and the complaints of former years have given way to collective apathy. The Turntable Charts, the nation’s eminent music chart, despite the best efforts, still struggles to muster the widespread acceptance and cultural cachet it needs to be a cultural authority in Africa in the way the Billboard Charts is in America and indeed much of the western hemisphere. On this front, it has to be noted that the good people of the Turntable Charts are doing an excellent job and require all the funding and institutional support they can get to maximize their potential. 

It’s tempting to wrap up this piece with a feel-good rallying call for Nigerian music fans and stakeholders to avert their gaze from Western honors and milestones, even if only momentarily, and look inwards. It’s true that in our pursuit of global domination, we have neglected local institutions, and that now more than ever we need to return to building structures and systems that can better serve the local industry. But I’ll be remiss if I fail to call out Western music institutions for their half-assed efforts at recognizing Afrobeats or Nigerian music as a whole. When you take the Billboards Chart branding Rema a “one-hit wonder”—which makes no sense regardless of whatever angle we look at it from (he’s not an American artist, so why should the Billboards Hot 100 be used to decide his hits?—and the fracture between the Grammys and current trends within Afrobeats, what one finds is that while these platforms constantly affirm their interest in Nigerian music, they’re often unwilling to do the work required to properly recognize the genre. 

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Fashion weeks are markers of regional identity. Each city approaches the season with its own tone and visual language. Since January, we’ve had Autumn/Winter 2026 presentations through Berlin, Milan and Paris — and from February 19 - 23, London stepped forward with a schedule that felt especially vibrant.

The city’s atmosphere was amplified by the presence of the BAFTA Awards, but what we can appreciate most is the sense of discovery threaded throughout the week. Beyond the major names, the schedule was rich with debuts and emerging designers whose work felt deeply considered and emotionally grounded.

With that being said, here’s a rundown of some of our favorite presentations from London Fashion Week AW26: 

Kazna Asker

Kazna Asker presented a collection shaped by process, storytelling and layered cultural reference. Showing as part of the British Fashion Council NewGen programme, the designer transformed the 180 Studios space into a warm, sunset-washed environment that mirrored the emotional tone of the work.Titled Hour of the Sunset, the collection drew from Asker’s travels across Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Zimbabwe and India throughout 2025, weaving together references to craft, heritage and movement. Intricate embroidery, carefully constructed accessories and textural depth gave the impression that each piece carried history.

What stands out the most is the sincerity of the work — garments feel thoughtful and emotionally anchored. Kazna Asker creates clothing that feels alive with memory, and that sense of care was visible in every detail.

Jawara Alleyne

For AW26, Jawara Alleyne presented his collection as an immersive gallery installation, exploring fashion through a sociological lens. The set-up — featuring walls, plinths and seating — encouraged viewers to move through the space slowly, engaging with the garments as objects of reflection. The collection examined the diminishing number of communal nightlife spaces and how clothing functions within those environments. Deconstructed polo shirts, layered jersey constructions and lace moved through the presentation, and the collaboration with Converse added an accessible dimension, grounding the conceptual work in everyday wearability. 

The presentation format was distinctive throughout LFW. It created room for conversation and observation, allowing the work to be experienced collectively. And successfully homes in on that feeling of sculptural expressions of community and self-presentation. 

Leo Prothmann

Munich-born designer Leo Prothmann delivered a leather-driven collection that balanced subtle eroticism and contemporary edge. Titled Gaia, the collection referenced the primordial Greek deity as a point of departure for exploring creation, protection and embodiment.

Leather appeared throughout as both armor and statement, shaping bombers, structured outerwear and dramatically elevated wader boots. The collection blended gothic undertones with playful exaggeration with the vibrant oranges, yellows and greens, creating silhouettes that were bold and expressive. What can be appreciated most is the tension that Leo Prothmann carries in his work. The collection feels confident in its hybridity and allows multiple references to sit together without dilution.

Oscar Ouyang 

For his sophomore outing on the London Fashion Week calendar, Oscar Ouyang staged something closer to theatre than a traditional runway. Presented within the British Fashion Council NewGen space at 180 Strand, and titled The Last Party, the collection read as a final, decadent gathering before morning breaks. Capes, cummerbunds and regency-inflected waistcoats appeared in moody shades of black, white and crimson. Hints of gold shimmered throughout, woven into fabrics, glinting from masks and even traced through the models’ hair, which added a sense of alchemy to the spectacle.

Technically, the work felt assured. French wool tweeds, virgin wool and llama blends gave structure to sharply tailored silhouettes, while silk evening shirts were knitted with subtle undulations that referenced tuxedo pleats. Despite the theatrical staging, nothing tipped fully into costume. The result was dramatic but still somehow controlled.

Selasi 

Elsewhere on the schedule, Selasi returned to the runway with their collection titled Endurance, which translated that idea into ready-to-wear shaped by tension and adaptability. Dresses, skirts and tailoring were reconstructed from donated PE kits from Walthamstow School for Girls, alongside repurposed tracksuits from Pangaia. Familiar sportswear materials were elevated through deconstruction, with handmade skirts and trouser-skirt hybrids saturated in earthy browns and beiges. Sculptural leather pieces draped unexpectedly across the body, adding structure to the otherwise athletic references. Pops of green and yellow disrupted the neutral palette, appearing in asymmetrical jerseys paired with tailored trousers.

The show carried a raw, improvisational energy that mirrored its theme. Nothing felt overly polished. Instead, there was urgency and intention in equal measure — a reflection of its founder Ronan McKenzie’s place among London’s most compelling emerging voices.

Lucila Safdie

Lucila Safdie’s AW26 collection balanced polished femininity with subtle defiance. The show was a theatrical coming-of-age story. Polished on the surface, and framed around the fictional debut of a character named Bunny Bell, the show examined the performance of femininity through a distinctly Y2K lens, and was able to explore girlhood as performance and transformation.

The mood was glossy but slightly uncanny, and on the runway, that tension materialized through contrast. Traditional signifiers of English propriety like wool overcoats, tweed boleros, polo dresses and refined evening gowns were all present, and interrupted by playful disruptions. Ultra-short mini skirts and capris, slogan tees, trainers and cropped blouses introduced a Y2K irreverence that complicated the debutante archetype. Safdie positions femininity as something rehearsed and reinterpreted rather than inherited whole, and i​t’s precisely this balance that makes her work feel current.

This season was London’s commitment to emotional clarity. The week felt more invested in perspective — designers using clothing to document memory, interrogate community and explore the body with intention. From deeply personal craft to presentations rooted in collective experience, these collections showed LFW as a space where emerging voices are able to experiment without losing sincerity.

More than anything, AW26 felt like a reminder that discovery remains one of London Fashion Week’s greatest strengths. Not just discovering new designers, but new ways of seeing clothing altogether, across sport halls, masquerade balls, marble salons and sunset-drenched runways alike.

“Street style emerged from Black culture producing fashion — continuously, collectively, and without permission”

There is a particular kind of amnesia that fashion depends on. Every season arrives with the promise of discovery, as if silhouettes appear fully formed or trends are spontaneous. The spectacle thrives on this illusion. By the time an aesthetic becomes the subject of trend forecasting, it has usually lived elsewhere, refined without institutional approval and circulated through communities that were never considered part of fashion’s official archive. 

Street style sits squarely within this pattern. It’s easy for cameras to flash and street style to be framed as spontaneous — fashion’s democratic counterpart to the exclusivity of the runway. But the mythology of spontaneity conceals that what is celebrated as street style today is built on a long history of Black cultural invention that extends across Africa and its diaspora.

Black street style has always existed and for many Black communities, fashion was never just presentation. It was evidence of self. A way to hold dignity, and a way to communicate belonging to each other even when broader culture refused to understand. Across the African continent, dress systems functioned as language before Western fashion institutions formed their hierarchies. Textile traditions like kente, mud cloth, and Ankara prints encoded lineage and philosophy through pattern and colour. Adornment was intentional. These were all systems of meaning, and precisely why street style does not begin with trend logic. It begins with presence.

The political stakes of appearance within Black life predates some aspects of what we now recognize as streetstyle. During the 1960s, visual presentation operated as ideological language. The uniform of the Black Panther Party, for example, communicated collective discipline and resistance through leather jackets, berets, and controlled silhouettes, transforming clothing into visual rhetoric. Around the same time, glamour moved through Black music in mainstream media in ways that felt equally political. Watching Diana Ross appear in sequins and immaculate styling, radiant and fully adored on screen, was visibility that felt expansive.  These moments did not carry the language of street style at the time, but they established its philosophical groundwork that dressing is assertion.

By the 1970s, expression widened. Funk and disco allowed Black style to move toward joy without abandoning resistance. Artists like Chaka Khan embodied a kind of sensual freedom that translated directly into everyday dressing. Metallic fabrics, platform shoes, dramatic hair, unapologetic colour — these choices felt intentional. Groups such as Parliament-Funkadelic blurred costume and identity completely, proving that exaggeration could be its own form of truth. Street style absorbed that energy. 

Across the diaspora, similar logics unfolded. In Congo, La Sape reinterpreted European tailoring through Congolese self-determination. These turned sharply tailored suits into declarations of dignity in postcolonial space. In Jamaica, Rastafarian aesthetics fused spirituality with visibility, natural hair, colour symbolism, and silhouette functioning as political theology. In Black Britain, grime culture transformed tracksuits and sportswear into a language shaped by council estates and youth negotiating surveillance and belonging. None of these were not isolated movements but parallel articulations of the same impulse: to style oneself as a way of claiming space.

Hip-hop did not invent Black street style, but it changed how the world consumed it.  With hip-hop’s emergence in the 1970s New York, the conditions through which these earlier aesthetic impulses would crystallize into what would later be identified as street style. The same sampling logic that structured hip-hop sonically shaped fashion practices, as Black youth repurposed sportswear, workwear, and luxury symbols into expressive uniform. What emerged from block parties and neighbourhood economies eventually rewrote global fashion priorities. Oversized silhouettes, sportswear as everyday luxury, sneakers as status language were not manufactured trends. They reflected resourcefulness and aspiration existing side by side. Garments were stripped of their original intention and reassembled to reflect neighbourhood identity, economic reality, and aspirational imagination simultaneously.

At the same time, oversized garments disrupted traditional tailoring norms, sneakers gained emotional and symbolic weight, and logos were worn with an awareness that blended aspiration with critique.

Few figures illustrate the politics of this reinterpretation more clearly than Dapper Dan, whose Harlem atelier reconstructed European luxury monograms into silhouettes tailored to hip-hop life. By remixing visual codes from Gucci and Louis Vuitton, he exposed the contradiction of desiring access to symbols of prestige while being structurally excluded from the institutions producing them. His work was not counterfeit in the cultural sense but theoretical, and decades later, the industry’s collaborations with him confirmed a recurring pattern in which Black creativity is first criminalized, then imitated, and eventually celebrated once economic potential becomes undeniable.

Street style’s authorship is also inseparable from Black queer expression. Ballroom culture created alternative fashion systems in which performance, fantasy, and identity experimentation were required. The visual excess of ballroom — gowns, tailoring, dramatic styling — offered a space where Black and Latinx queer communities could construct visibility outside of societal limitation. Way before gender fluidity became a marketable concept, these communities had already established fashion as a site of self-determined identity instead of fixed categorization.

Sneaker culture is another reference point that shows how street style transforms ordinary objects into narrative artefacts. Michael Jordan and Nike’s partnership catalyzed a whole cultural economy in which sneakers became evidence of participation within a shared cultural conversation.

As hip-hop globalized, so too did the aesthetics rooted within it. By the late 1990s and early 2000s, silhouettes and styling practices born in Black neighbourhoods had migrated into editorial fashion, advertising, and luxury design. The transition was however reframed as discoveries rather than translations. This pattern reflects a broader tension within fashion’s relationship to Black creativity: innovation generated within marginalized communities is frequently detached from its origin once it becomes commercially viable. What is celebrated as universal style often began as culturally specific expression shaped by social constraint and creative resourcefulness.

Even today, the cyclical return of oversized denim, tracksuits, visible branding, and customized accessories does not signal nostalgia so much as the persistence of Black cultural archives continually resurfacing. Social media has definitely accelerated this circulation but this oftentimes complicates its authorship. Visibility has increased, but attribution remains uneven, and although street style is omnipresent, it is persistently decontextualized.

Understanding street style as a Black invention therefore requires confronting the politics of recognition embedded within fashion itself. It challenges the assumption that legitimacy originates within institutions and instead locates innovation within lived experience. Street style established the now-dominant belief that individuality could outrank designer authority, that community could function as tastemaker, and that fashion could emerge from improvisation.

What remains radical about the origins of street style is not any particular garment. It was the refusal of Black communities across continents to depend on validation. Fashion often narrates history through singular designers and landmark collections, but street style shows innovation as collective, improvised, and resistant to ownership. And even as luxury fashion still repeatedly mines its aesthetics and corporations convert its imagery into capital, the generative force continues to emerge from Black communities documenting themselves in ways that exceed trend cycles. 

To pay attention to Black street style means understanding that fashion’s most compelling ideas rarely begin within institutions. They begin with people dressing themselves for their own lives, their own communities, their own sense of joy and survival. The industry arrives later, reframing what already existed as discovery. But the origin remains intact. Street style emerged from Black culture producing fashion — continuously, collectively, and without permission.

Merging functional wear with niche, experimental elevations, Kody Phillips designs for the creative freelancer. In collaboration with the fashion brand Who Decides War, the five-piece collection centers around workwear, while dissecting and reimagining it through eccentric style. Phillips plays with this idea of worker versatility – in concept, and in practice. The nucleus of the project focuses not on the pinstripe corporate-esque pant suit, but rather the daily uniform of the freelancer: rugged, functional; durable. By situating workwear within the varying freelancer worlds, we envision workwear multidimensionally —

Workwear as utility,
Workwear as playful
Workwear deconstructed.

With his meticulous stitching and design sensibility, Phillips simultaneously adds playfulness to his pieces. White, distressed denim pants are met with strokes of multi-colored paint, while the tailored camp shirt is met with intricate custom jewels, complete with intricate braided piping. 

At the closing party for this fashion collab capsule, Deeds Magazine met with designer Kody Phillips to talk more about his vision and process, ruminations on perfectionism, the power of digital storytelling, and what lies on the road ahead. 

Tell us a bit more about this collaboration with TurboTax—what was the first thing that came to mind when you were brought with this opportunity?
The first thing I thought was… This is crazy. Just crazy like, how? And why? And what do they want me to make? 

Indeed, it’s an interesting collaboration.
‍Yeah. Very interesting. It was very out of the blue. I  don't know why they did it, but thank God they did. It gave me some good freedom. I made some good pieces. And after that, I was excited. ‍

As an artist and designer, how do you connect financial literacy within the realm of art?
‍It's a good time because we're very poor right now. We're in cycles of growing, so we got a lot of money going out. So it was right on time to teach other artists, designers, and creatives  about financial literacy and how to avoid the mistakes I made.
I also used them when I did start— like my very first year of business, I did use TurboTax.
‍Ev [Bravado] was one of my first inspirations from Who Decides War. So that collaboration has been amazing. And Hypebeast is, of course, incredible. So it was an honor.‍

A lot of the ways that you think and approach design really mirrors the thematic elements in the Dandy Exhibit at the MET— fusing Black expression and really thinking about utility as a concept for the piece. So talk to me about utility, in terms of your design process.
‍I don't know. I never think about it. It's like, it just comes.

‍Why wouldn't you want your things to do the thing it's supposed to do? That’s where a lot of this stuff comes from, like, a pocket that is actually big enough for your hand or deep things is useful. I don't understand why you wouldn't design in this way. The reason pockets are small and shitty and thin, like fabrics, is because they hate you. That's the only reason. There's no other reason.‍

‍It's like, why wouldn't it be good?

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I know another theme that is really resonant for you is persistence over perfection. And I think it's a really important concept, especially for creators existing in this creative economy. We all want to have this perfect mindset on things. And so I think for you, and this fashion capsule, and having your own place here in Soho, which is incredible— talk to me a bit more about that idea of persistence over perfection.
Perfection is so stupid. It's so dumb. Like, it doesn't exist, you know? The bigger you get, the more real deadlines are, and your first anything is going to suck. And no matter what, putting something out, I mean, I would never put something out that I'm not happy with because that's ridiculous… I would never do that. But — you fucking run as fast as you can to get it as good as you possibly can, with what you have right now, for a price and a design language that people will accept quickly, you know? I'm not a perfectionist. It's silly. It's boring. Boring! 

This collection feels like it's for the modern creative CEO. How did you reinvent traditional professional codes to fit the lifestyle of an independent creative in 2026? 
Yeah, I designed it specifically around creatives. I mean, I've been very fortunate to work with a lot of people this year, a lot of freelancers, and not one of them has shown up in a thin ass pinstripe suit. They've all come in Carhart jeans. You know, rugged shit. So we made it pre-distressed and durable like that, so you can wear it out. We made this for the modern freelancer. I know gaffers that are on the ground 24/7, you know? So I designed around us. And I think that was a cool juxtaposition of financial literacy in suits, against a rugged, distressed freelancer.‍

Were you able to experiment with any new fabric sourcing or hardware details that were previously out of reach?
Yes, I was. That goes into financial literacy—  I used TurboTax to pay for the hardware. The jacket with the nice little hooks, the fireman jacket— I've been trying to get it off the ground, but that design relies so heavily on the hardware and it's so expensive to get in bulk. Once they did this, I was like, I'm pitching this and they bought it and I was like, hell yes, I can buy the rest of my hardware to cover those. I experimented with new hardwares. Hardware's great. It's a really fun thing to do. It's a cheap-ish way to elevate a simple garment without going overboard while reaching a wider audience. 

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How important is it, while you're designing, to also support the sustainability of a brand financially? Especially right now, you know, in this economy… in this world.
Yeah.. Yeah. No, it's hard. You don't want to think about it. You know, I didn't start thinking about it. I don't love thinking about money. I don't desire anything. But, you know, with a team of 11 people, you got a lot of responsibility on your hands, you know? So you got to start really, really thinking about it, and that really sucks. But you have to balance it out with creative freedom and getting your little wins. Me as a person is much smaller than me as a business, you know? Business is first, I am nothing. So I take less to give more to the business. We give up our paychecks pretty quick. You have to just try to give back as much as you possibly can and just hope that it works out.‍

As long as I can eat and sleep, I'm okay.

What would you say is next, in your next unconventional territory in the design world?
I really like what we're doing for campaigns. That was like a huge revelation moment. It was so fun.

I think that's the new runway. I was just at the panel with Ev and Tela and they said they spent 500 grand on their last runway. Crazy, right? I spent 56, maybe 60 grand on my last campaign, and I would bet that, you know, the campaign was a little more fun. We want to reach a wider audience. It's a lower barrier to entry, and you get more time to experiment with it. We got to showcase our designs over three days as opposed to 15 minutes live.

‍Like what is this, the Daily Show?
It's a completely different landscape. That's where we're all at. So, like, you know, you're going on Instagram. I think digital is the way to go. 

That was such an incredible way that you utilized Instagram as a medium to reach audiences, outside of the traditional runway that most brands use to market new designs. 
There's so much stuff that can resonate. You can see an old scene from a film you love. And you can just recreate that in your own way.

Like what we did with “OUR LAST DANCE” a Cab Calloway reference. We had a whole orchestra, dancers, in full costume, touching on themes of fashion, fame, and death all at once. The Cab Calloway Estate commented on it. That was amazing. That was our stamp of approval right there, because I thought they'd be pissed about it. But you can do stuff like that for no money and have fun with your friends, and it lives on forever. Show your artistic expression, you know, instead of a sexy man walking down a runway in an outfit you can't afford. It’s time to start building outside of the ordinary. 

Kody Phillip’s latest work can be found on his Instagram, as well as on his website.

Emem-Esther U. Ikpot 
@ememIK46
(Instagram/Substack/ememikpot.com)

The Nigerian designer talks building a fashion brand from personal need, the real cost of independent production, and a five-piece collection that puts Black women at the centre of the conversation.

Ogechi Edith Osi started St. Nuella because she couldn’t find clothes that fit. Specifically: trousers, jeans, jorts, and maxi dresses that worked for taller women without sacrificing style for length. It’s a problem that sounds small until you’re the one standing in a fitting room watching hemlines hit three inches above your ankle. That frustration became a brand.
“Fashion was honestly a hobby at the beginning,” Osi says. “I was making outfits for myself, not necessarily with the intention of turning it into a business. But whenever I wore pieces I made, people noticed. They complimented them, asked questions, and connected with the designs.”

Before the brand existed as a label, Osi was already doing the work. Friends came to her before weddings, birthdays, and special occasions for styling advice. She sketched constantly, drawing from films, magazines, events, anything that caught her eye, and found that the process of turning an idea into a garment, from sketch to pattern to final fit, was the thing she kept coming back to. “That was the moment it became clear that this was not simply a passion project, but a path I was meant to pursue with intention,” she says.
The original vision for St. Nuella was direct: create pieces that make women feel seen, confident, comfortable, and beautiful. Inclusive by design, especially for women who are overlooked in fit conversations. Every piece should carry elegance and timelessness. “At its core, St. Nuella was created to offer more than clothing,” Osi says. “It was created to give women presence.”

The Cost of Making Things Properly
There’s a conversation that keeps coming up around independent Nigerian fashion brands, and Osi addresses it directly: the assumption that because production happens locally, the final product should be cheap.
“The reality is much more complex,” she says. “A lot of the materials and tools needed for good production are imported, so costs are affected by sourcing, shipping, and exchange rates. Then there’s inconsistent power supply, alternative power solutions, machinery maintenance, these are real costs, even though they’re not always visible to the customer.”

She’s also candid about the human side of production: finding and keeping experienced tailors, investing in staff development, managing turnover. All of it feeds into the final price of a garment. “When customers see the final price of a locally made piece, especially from a luxury brand, it can sometimes feel expensive compared to foreign ready-to-wear,” Osi says. “But local brands are often producing in smaller quantities, with more attention to detail, better finishing, and in some cases bespoke options. That’s very different from mass-produced clothing.”
It’s the kind of transparency that more emerging designers could benefit from offering. The gap between what customers see in a price tag and what goes into producing a single garment in Lagos is wider than most people assume.

Growing Without Losing the Plot
For a brand St. Nuella’s size, scaling isn’t just about volume. Osi describes it as becoming more structured: improving operations, strengthening production capacity, maintaining quality as demand increases. The excitement of early momentum is real, but she’s clear-eyed about what comes after.
“In practical terms, scaling looks like increasing repeat customers, growing our retail and bespoke client base, and expanding into product areas where we know there is still a gap,” she says. “Especially for women who are often underserved in fit. That includes trousers, jackets, coats, pieces where fit and proportion matter a lot, particularly for taller women.”

The market approach is both-and, not either-or. A strong local base for trust and identity, but international growth is already happening, St. Nuella has returning customers in both Nigeria and the UK. “Over the next few years, the vision is to deepen our presence locally while expanding globally through digital platforms, community, and consistent brand storytelling,” Osi says. “We are especially interested in broader growth across Europe and the Americas, as global audiences continue to show more appreciation for Nigerian fashion.”
This is the part of the story that often gets missed when people talk about Nigerian fashion. Everyone sees the finished product. Nobody talks about the systems you have to build just to get there.

Valora: Five Dresses, Five Arguments
Which brings us to the work. Valora, from the Latin valere, meaning strength, worth, courage, is a five-piece womenswear collection released February 24, 2026. It’s Osi’s most complete statement yet on what St. Nuella is and who it’s for.
“When I was developing the collection, I was thinking a lot about how clothing should make a woman feel, not just how it should look,” she says. “I wanted each piece to feel refined and feminine, but also intentional. The kind of pieces that make you feel confident the moment you put them on.”

The collection moves through five dresses in crimson, royal blue, purple, gold, and emerald green. All bold, all saturated, and, on the lookbook evidence, all extraordinary on dark skin. Every colour pops against melanin in a way that reads as deliberate rather than coincidental. When asked whether designing the palette around melanin-rich tones was a conscious starting point, Osi’s answer is nuanced. “The colour story was very intentional,” she says. “We chose tones that felt rich, elevated, and expressive. But we did not build the collection with only one skin tone in mind. At St. Nuella, versatility and inclusivity are very important. We design with a broader view, across different skin tones, body shapes, and sizes.”
Fair enough. But the lookbook speaks for itself. These colours were made for this skin.

The crimson gown is the collection’s most traditional piece and its biggest statement. Floor length, shimmering textured fabric, ruched bodice with a sweetheart neckline and spaghetti straps so thin they nearly disappear. The skirt is full, pooling at the floor with the kind of volume that commands a room. This is a dinner gown. The kind of dress that starts conversations you don’t even have to join. 

The purple satin piece has my favourite design detail in the collection: three dimensional sculptural loops across the bustline, hoops of fabric that curve and fold in a way that’s both unexpected and genuinely beautiful. Inspired by a trendy detail that makes you look twice and then a third time trying to figure out how it’s constructed. Below the bust, the dress gathers into a flowing skirt with thin halter straps. Those loops are the mark of a designer thinking with her hands.

The royal blue cocktail dress, which Osi calls Ugonma, is the piece she’s most proud of, and the most technically ambitious in the collection. Off-shoulder with sculptural pleated sleeves that fan outward like wings. The pleating is tight and precise: fine ridges wrapping across the bodice in an X-pattern before opening into dramatic shapes at the shoulders. Osi worked with a specific type of boning to achieve the structure, and getting the sleeves to the exact form she envisioned took multiple attempts. “The most challenging part was developing the sleeve construction,” she says. “It required a lot of patience, precision, and attention to detail to get it right.”
The body of the dress is clean and fitted, wisely letting the sleeves carry the entire visual weight. This is the piece you’d photograph from five different angles and get five different pictures.

The gold dress shifts register. Off-shoulder with soft balloon puff sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, and a bodycon fit through the hip. The talking point is the hemline: black circular disc appliqués with gold tassels hanging from them, creating movement and a graphic black-on-gold contrast. This is the most event ready piece in the collection, the one that photographs well in dim light.

And the emerald dress. Halter-neck, backless, with three fabric floral appliqués, one at the neckline, two at the waist. Of the five pieces, this one breathes the most. It looks like the kind of dress that catches the air when you turn quickly, and the open back adds a quiet confidence that the other pieces express differently. Osi placed three flowers and stopped. That restraint is what makes them work.

Ask Osi who the St. Nuella woman is and she doesn’t hesitate. “She’s confident, self aware, and true to herself. She’s not trying to become someone else through fashion. She uses fashion as an extension of who she already is.” What she describes is a woman who dresses with intention rather than trend: “There is a quiet certainty about her, and you feel it before she speaks. Whether she chooses to be bold or subtle in a particular moment, it is always on her own terms.” That tracks across all five Valora pieces. None of them shout. All of them hold the room.

Osi’s next move is into elevated office wear and structured wardrobe staples. Coats, suits, tailored blazers, trousers, officewear gowns. The direction is clean tailoring with St. Nuella’s signature emphasis on femininity and fit.
“Think of a perfectly tailored women’s suit, a well-cut blazer and trousers, strong lines, refined construction, and a beautiful fit,” she says. “We want to give our woman more options for how she shows up, especially in work and professional spaces, without losing the elegance and presence that define St. Nuella.”
For a brand that started because its founder couldn’t find trousers that fit, that’s a full circle moment. It’s also the smartest possible next step, office wear is where consistent fit and quality matter most, and it’s a space where smaller brands with a clear identity can punch well above their weight.

The conversation around Nigerian fashion has rightly celebrated the brands that opened the doors, the ones with the stockists, the fashion week slots, the international press. They built visibility and credibility for an entire industry, and that work matters. But behind every wave of recognition, there are brands you haven't heard of yet doing the same work at a different scale: getting the fit right, solving the production problems, building customer trust one garment at a time.

St. Nuella is one of those brands. Valora, which released February 24, is the clearest signal yet that Ogechi Edith Osi knows exactly what she’s building and exactly who she’s building it for. Five dresses. Five colours. All of them making a case that you don’t need a hundred pieces to prove you belong in the conversation. You just need the right five.

“I just knew there were stories I wanted to tell.”

Octavia E. Butler

‍“It really is about proposing a new reality. My desire as a director is to always propose an idea. I try not to make too many grand statements. The ideal Black future is multidimensional.”

Ola Adediji‍

The magic of Afrofuturist storytelling revels in building worlds that have yet to be fully realized. Across the literary, music, and art spheres, pioneers such as N.K. Jemisin, Octavia E. Butler, Sun Ra, Jean-Michel Basquiat, and more expanded the movement. And within that, contemplate the concept of time, space, human behavior, and the unknown. 
‍“[Afrofuturism] is really a practice of thought,” states Ola Adediji, Nigerian filmmaker, director, and creative, based in London.
‍“What can happen? 
What is this reality? 
Is the current reality that you’re met with what could possibly be in the future?”‍

As a film director, Ola Adediji’s work explores science fiction, Afrofuturism, surrealism, and the complex relationship between our human and digital experiences. I sat down with Ola to talk more about her new film ‘Emi’, the existentialism of Afrofuturism, and the juxtaposition between Black surveillance and Black representation. 

“Artist Ola Adediji journeys to the shore of Tarkwa Bay, Nigeria, to create an Afrofuturist vision of a scifi homecoming in 'Emi'. In the experimental short film, Ola reflects on the contradiction of Lagos as both a military base and a beach, where the sound of the ocean meets a metallic human-made hum, finding home at a junction of dissonance. “My research began with Afrofuturism, but what I found was time folding in on itself. I found Simone Browne's Dark Matters: On the Surveillance of Blackness, a text that breathes through wires, through wounds. Surveillance sickness: the body under the gaze, the gaze under the body. To be watched is to mutate.” - Ola Adediji, for NOWNESS

Tell me about your filmmaking journey. 
I’ve always loved film growing up. I grew up in Ireland. I experienced a lot of racism where I was, so I spent a lot of time just watching the science fiction channel. They had like, these reruns, and I would watch old science fiction films all the time. I watched Alien’ for the first time at my grandma’s house. It’s about this alien who looks like a woman. She’s from a lab, and she escapes. I watched this when I was like, 8. It was crazy just watching her completely devour a man. It inspired some of my films. 
I started to become really interested in film–I used to do photography and stuff like that. I always knew I wanted to be an artist – I thought to myself, I can’t paint, not as strong at drawing, so what else can I do? My mom actually brought it up to me. She said, 

“Why don’t you do filmmaking? You should make a documentary about me. Do Nollywood.”

My mom was completely convinced that I was going to go to Nigeria and make a documentary on her. I mean, I could do… I could! 

It’s so awesome that your mom was the one who suggested filmmaking, especially as a Nigerian mother.
My mom’s a hairdresser, and that in and of itself is creative. I'm realizing, growing up now, my mom has massive stacks of photos that she took of us. Like, whole bags printed out. She had a camera, so she was developing film. I think she was interested in that. Maybe at a different time, somebody had told her that she should go into documentary photography. There is gonna be a time where I am gonna go through an archive of all the images that my mom took of us. She did them mostly on film – some are on a digital camera, but she still printed them out. So most of it is all physical. 

Your practice as an Afrofuturist. What drew you to this, from a cultural, creative, and historical standpoint? 
I went to college– I knew I wanted to do genre film, I wanted to do Sci-Fi. I wrote my final major project on representation within science fiction within a genre. Through researching, I came across the idea of Afrofuturism. I was thinking about:

What are the actual depictions of the future?

Why is that actually important?

What does that mean to have no representation of Black people in a futuristic context? 

What does that look like within the industry – people behind the camera, people working below the line, and how does that affect the narratives and the stories that we tell?
So this was my first conceptualization of how I actually felt and what I would want to explore as a director. I went to UAL (University of the Arts London) during the pandemic–it was quite hard. I was freelancing and working at a library at the time, so I had loads of access to archives. The university I was working at had one of the biggest archives of Black and Asian art pamphlets and displays in the U.K. It’s literally so amazing. Literally, when anyone comes to London, I’m like, you should go to this university. It’s genuinely such a great arts library. Tons and tons of Vogue editions, they have research artifacts and objects upstairs, so you can request items as well. If you go to the library every single day, you will realize its true worth.

Working at a library changed the course of my life. 

I did my dissertation at UAL about Afro-Futurism and the need for Black dystopia. When we think of the pioneers of the movement, like Sun Ra, how music ushered in Afro-futurism as both an art form and practice, and how themes have been extrapolated through other filmmakers and artists, you really start to think about how the whole thing is really a practice of thought. What can happen? What is this reality? Is the current reality that you’re met with what could possibly be in the future? 

It really is about proposing a new reality. As a person who leans more dystopian, I don’t think that proposing a new reality must automatically mean it has to be happy. Black people don’t need to be smiling in a field and living in a Utopia. Even when we’re in a dystopia, there are still Black and Brown people. Our culture still exists in whatever context it is situated within. There's this cultural mutation – this development of our culture over time. I think it’s good to hold true to your culture, like our innate cultural practices. That’s why people season their baked beans with Maggi, you know what I mean? And with the cultural mutation, there is this kaleidoscope of these two things because you have another context that has come into frame. In my personal work, that’s what I was deciding about, what I really wanted to say. The intersection of the future doesn't have to be good. But it exists, and it’s not replicating the culture. It will be different – in fifty years it will be different. My desire as a director is to always propose an idea. I try not to make too many grand statements. The ideal Black future is multidimensional. 

In the film ‘Emi,’ each character is being detected by this red image detector as they move. Can you talk more about this element, the concept of surveillance, the idea of being seen?
A throughline in my work is the idea of being perceived. When I thought about what I wanted the narrative to be within the film, I really wanted to explore the idea of being seen from varying perspectives. 

When you’re in a romantic situation, or you like somebody, you’re being perceived, you’re being watched, you’re being observed. At the same time, within this surveillance state that we live in, we are being perceived constantly, Black people in particular. We are watching ourselves, we are self-surveilling ourselves – we are engaging in psychological warfare on ourselves, in some ways. There is this book called Dark Matters by Simone Browne, which is one of my favorite books. It talks about surveillance sickness. It’s this idea that when one knows that you’re being recorded, you start to actually act out. So, instead of conforming to being well-behaved, because you know that you’re being watched, when you start acting out, it causes a disconnect within the mind. It’s similar on the romantic relationship side, where you feel as if, because you’re with someone and you’re being perceived and you want them to like you, there’s an infinite capacity to act out – you’re thinking about another person thinking about you. It’s this vicious feedback loop. It’s this idea that other people have this effect on you constantly. I also finished reading No Exit by Jean-Paul Sartre, where three dead people are in hell, locked in a single room, burdened by the psychological torture of judgment of each other. It really points to this constant theme that how we feel about each other, in conjunction with how we feel about ourselves, all kind of flatten into our own subjective experience. So you can be an individual, but you’re also absorbing everybody else’s energy– it’s part of you, it’s part of other people. 

I like to put ideas next to each other– and I don’t need them to necessarily touch, if that makes sense. It doesn’t have to be like, it’s about this, and it’s also about this, because it’s about this. Though my ideas are distinct relative to each other, they feel similar in the feelings that theyevoke, without needing to meld into each other. They’re just concepts sat right next to each other, but they don't necessarily need to be in direct communication. I’m not prescribing a specific outcome or feeling for the audience to take. 

In the film ‘Emi,’ there are two women on the beach, kind of having this moment that potentially feels romantic. But…is it romantic? Is it not romantic? Are they watching each other? It’s this longing for one another, but also, you have these red image detection sensors following both of the women, surveilling them in real time. There are these cyclical elements that are happening. 

All of these ideas are sat next to each other. I never try to force things. I put ideas together for the audience and ask, “how do you feel about that?” I think that's my approach. 

Giving the audience agency in their own experience of a film is honestly nice. I feel like a lot of times now, in film, it's so prescriptive that there is no room for the audience to really think about it critically. It seems we are in an era now where people need to be heavily spoon-fed on what things mean, which does a disservice, as it removes the art away from the film. 
You’re right. Like in the film, they’re watching each other, they’re wanting each other. I never want to explain anything. Like, just in general. I like talking about art and my work, but I am always led with the feeling, which I think is the fundamental point. I am a feeling person. As a director, I ask questions like,

“How long does this shot take? How long should it take?” 

From that, then I adjust: 

“This shot is long because it made me feel this, and it feels like this needed some breath and some pacing, and it feels good. It feels like it's right.”

People interpret my work differently all the time, and I think that's okay. 

Sometimes people view my work from a very specific context that’s not necessarily me. 

I think sometimes, people experience me not as a person, but in a politicized way. I am a Black, dark-skinned woman with natural hair, and I present this way. And I’m queer. And this classification of me is not through the context of me actually being human, and wanting to tell human stories. I am my identity; that is the truth. I like being Black, I like being dark-skinned. And for my character, I made her dark-skinned because I think she looks good! You know what I mean? She looks good, and she's a person with feelings. 

Is the statement that we are people? With feelings? With thoughts? 

I get that representation in these stories is so important. But I think sometimes people think Art is representation. Art is not representation. It took me a long time to see this. When I was in college, I talked a lot about representation, like how I mentioned before, pondering on questions such as ‘What does that mean to have no representation of Black people in a futuristic context?’ As an Afro-futurist, Black futures are integral. Moreover, on the other hand, in some ways, I think it’s unfair when art is expected to always represent. I think it’s really important that people are actually creating art for the sake of creation, bringing something new and fun and their own perspectives into the world. I do think that seeing more proportional stories with Black people are really important, while at the same time, representation is not only about seeing–its about being, and the truth that being carries.

It’s not that I don’t want to make political statements, but the political statement in and of itself is that I am actually a human being. The statement is that Black people are multi-dimensional, not this one fixed, political idea. We’re also normal. And real. We’re 3D and not flattened. My first film was ‘Last Night in IRL’, it took me two years to actually finish it, which is kind of crazy. The film is about augmented reality filters. This film got into Aesthetica, BFI, Future Film Festival, and British Urban Film Festival. In that film, the character has an augmented reality filter on her face. When people have interpreted this, I’ve had people talk about how, because she’s dark, it’s interesting how she was insecure about her looks. To that end, I think people can be uncomfortable about their looks, and it doesn’t have to be about their Blackness. I wanted to convey in the story that she was insecure with who she was, and what that meant for her sense of identity and who she was in the context of society. 

A question I tend to ask is: “Are you interacting with me as a human being, or are you interacting with me as a caricature or stand-in?” 

You do a great job at showcasing the contrasting, conflicting realities of living in a surveillance state as a Black woman. This idea that you can be experiencing love and life, while also always being watched and policed by the state. Having the film set in Nigeria at a military base expands this juxtaposition as well. What was the experience like being at the shore of Tarkwa Bay, Nigeria?
It was quite interesting. We rented a private boat and we went to Lekki. We drove over to the ferry area, and it was beautiful. You get to go past different things – you get to see this very metropolitan area, going past different bank buildings, etc. As we drove further, we got to this place where people are living in sheds and cabins near the waterside. It was very communal. When we got to the shore, there were not too many boats on the water, but people are on the coastal areas. When we get there, we have to get off the boat, but there is no actual official dock – there are rafts. We had to tip over onto it, and it was floating and wobbly – we had all the equipment… It was quite stressful. We also had to be quiet as we came to the shore because it’s a military base. There’s a sign that says NO DRINKING, NO SMOKING, NO VAPING, ETC. So there were these rules for the beach. There were soldiers. 

In peak summer in Nigeria, people come here. Right behind the beach, there’s a whole village/town with small shops, shacks, a market, and people who live within the area. Some people live further out on the coast. So as we were getting ready and starting to shoot, these little surfer boys came up to us. Some of them are body surfing, some of them have surfboards, some of them are surfing on pieces of driftwood– just like doing crazy, really, really cool stuff. I literally want to go back and do a documentary about them. They're so cute. There was a younger boy who had a proper surfboard that was way bigger than him, and he was surfing. They were like beach kids, which was nice – I used to be a beach kid as well. In Ireland, it was a coastal place as well, where I grew up. I used to go to the beach all the time. The beach kids lived nearby and they were curious about what we were doing with all the cameras, etc. We ordered fried fish, and people were asking us if we needed anything which was nice. People were selling eggs, coconut water, and people were cracking coconuts. It felt like a holiday experience. It was a great vibe, but of course, you need to be aware of where you are technically. You can’t just do anything. There’s a bit of tension on the beach happening simultaneously, as it's also a military base and there are these rules on what you can/cannot do. 

It’s so interesting in ‘Emi’ when they are drawing in the sand, being really present with each other on the beach. At the same time, there is this military base they are on, and also under constant surveillance, as we talked about before. The setting of ‘Emi’ holds this contradictory element – Lagos as both a military base and a beach. To quote from NOWNESS— “Where the sound of the ocean meets a metallic human-made hum.” I love this phrasing.  Do you think this element of filming on a military base added to the film’s contextual storyline? 
Yes. Even though some things are quite messed up, and there is this tension, what you have in nature on this beach is quite precious and beautiful. The Earth is great. I wanted to convey this beauty while also framing the complexities and dissonant tensions happening at the same time– romance, surveillance, peace, visibility, and nature. The film is like a poem. It really is about the feelings. 

Eyes upon me,
like a bird above the sky
yet your love steadies me.

Come to me.

Shadows of the night,
watching, circling behind me
yet your hands call me to laughter.

Come to me.

Silent journeys,
whispers, hidden pathways—
yet your heart remains my home.

Come to me.

Emem-Esther U. Ikpot 

@ememIK46
(Instagram/Substack/ememikpot.com)

We truly thought that South East London Zimbabwean-born rapper Leostaytrill couldn’t be any more talented, but he proved us all wrong. At such a young age, Leo embodies determination, persistence and a growing music catalogue that has placed Zimbabwe’s emerging talents on the map. In 2023, he made a lasting first impression with ‘2 Man’ and ‘Honeybun,’ playing around catchy punchlines and a charismatic demeanor that won the internet over just by one listen. From there, Leo’s chances to stardom only faced upwards. However, it is his recent take on melodic tunes that has us really intrigued.
This new direction caught us by surprise when Leo started teasing ‘Peace’ over social media in October. His singing voice sounded smooth, strong, with promising vocals Leo had yet to explore. This phenomena really solidified when ‘Jah Knows’ released last December. In the official music video, one specific scene, you can catch a young Leo proudly rocking the Zimbabwean flag over his neck. Just with a few details, the message was clear; Leostaytrill is not only making music for himself but also, for his Zimbabwean people.
If there’s one thing about Leo is that his country is fully behind him and supports every step he takes towards becoming the next superstar. Similarly to Pa Salieu and his predominantly Gambian audience. Leo’s approach to the inclusion of his heritage is present, but not all up your face. At times, when members of the diaspora tried to implement aspects of their heritage, it often gets labeled as tacky or inauthentic. However, Leostaytrill isn’t hiding that he is a boy of the South London’s trenches. Instead, he welcomes it through rap lyrics, while letting his singing shine a softer light, that can be interpreted as the little Zimbabwean boy in him that never left.
In the song ‘Blessing’ is where we saw no returning, but it did not come without setbacks. Like all artists are destined to face, Leo was met with multiple questions by his supporters surrounding whether he was turning a new leaf and leaving the rap game behind. Of course, Leo made sure to clarify; singing was only an extension to his artistry, and not a career move. You see, it is very common for artists to want to try new elements and for those core listeners who have only seen one side of their favourites thus far to slowly grow attached. As a result, any change can be received negatively. At times, fans may say that their acts became too Hollywood or commercial, that they forgot where they came from. The question is will Leo fall into this trap or manage to balance those two sides of him, knowing change is inevitable.
Up-and-coming singer-rapper Leostaytrill is not just a talent to watch, but also one to make notes of. When one browses through his social media, we know that Leo understands how to market himself online and he showcases his roots through a lens that many music listeners know so little of. It is his badge of honour rather than something that is supposed to limit him sonically. Ever since Drake popularized being a rapper as much as a singer, only a few artists managed to follow his footstep and keep this overall balance tasteful. Leo can certainly be the next man in the UK to follow suit. That’s to say, it may be the biggest risk he has yet taken in his career, but from the looks of it, Leo has the golden touch meant for greatness.

‍

It’s December in Lagos; a season filled with back-to-back events, launches, pop-ups, and celebrations. But among the noise, ARANINI FEST stood out. Rooted in wellness and created intentionally for women, the gathering offered something deeper than just another end-of-year event.
Following the festival, Deeds Magazine sat down virtually with founder Dr. Joyce Omatseye to explore the vision behind Aranini Health, the importance of building intentional safe spaces for women, and how what began as a one-time event has evolved into a growing global community.
Aranini, which means “good health” in Itsekiri, is more than a name. It reflects founder Joyce Omatseye’s cultural background and the philosophy behind the brand. The Itsekiri people are an ethnic group from Delta State, Nigeria, and for Joyce, wellness has always been deeply personal.
Aranini Health is a wellness organisation focused on creating intentional platforms, experiences, and safe spaces for women. What began as a one-time event has since grown into a global community, with experiences hosted across multiple countries and cities including London, Accra, Kenya, and Lagos.

Reflecting on Aranini’s journey, Joyce says:
“Aranini Health started as a one-time event, but my mum encouraged me to dream bigger, and that’s how Aranini became what it is today.”

Today the brand continues to grow which is shaped by her background as a medical doctor and commitment to women’s health education. At the core of every Aranini experience is what she calls the “Aranini girl”, the woman for whom every detail is carefully considered.

“When we plan these events, the woman attending is always at the forefront,”  She explains. “Everything is curated around her health and wellbeing.”‍

For Dr Joyce, 2025 was an incredible year both personally and professionally
‍“2025 was such a special year for me. Aranini Health grew in ways I couldn’t have imagined, and personally, getting engaged was a huge milestone,” she shares.
What started as a single event has grown into a thriving, multi-country community. Today, Aranini Health has hosted events across four countries, with Lagos serving as a major hub for its in-person activations. One of its most impactful gatherings so far is Aranini Fest, a full-day wellness experience designed to meet women where they are, physically, mentally, and emotionally. The event brings together fitness, health education, entrepreneurship, and community in one space.

Which exceeded Dr Joyce expectations. While the initial goal was to host about 100–120 women, over 160 attended, with many coming in and out throughout the day.

“We sold tickets, but more people showed up ,friends, family, women who were just curious,” Joyce shares. “For the first panel especially, we didn’t expect that many people to be so interested.”

Aranini Fest featured wellness panels, fitness sessions including Pilates and dance, free health checks sponsored by Provita Clinic and Tiffany Amber, and brand gifts from Arami Essentials for skincare, SLIQ Beauty for haircare, Basics for fitness wear and brands like Beautyhut. Beyond the activities, the event created a space where women could connect, learn, and feel seen.

Dr Joyce is intentional about showing the reality behind these events, often sharing behind-the-scenes moments on her personal platform.
“People see how beautiful everything looks when it comes together, but they don’t see what happens before, during, and even after,” she says.
From last-minute changes to technical setbacks , including lost footage from a videographer , resilience became a key lesson.
“I’ve learned that resilience is very important. Things don’t always go as planned, but they still work out the way they’re meant to.”
To start 2026, Aranini hosted the 2026 Reset event in Lagos, hosting 30 women for a day of reflection, and connection. The event focused on resetting and left a lasting impression on everyone who attended.
“The women who attended gave incredible feedback. It was amazing to see how much they appreciated the space, the conversations, and everything we’d planned for them,” Dr Joyce says.
The 2026 Reset reinforced Dr Joyce’s vision for Aranini: creating intentional spaces where women feel seen, cared for, and inspired to live their healthiest lives.

One of the interesting things Dr Joyce says about this journey is how it’s helped her discover different parts of herself.“I’ve always loved planning events. My first women’s health event was actually in Year 10. In secondary school, I did a breast cancer awareness event for my school. Event planning has been something I’ve naturally done over the years, and to be able to incorporate that with my medical journey, it’s been incredible.”
‍Questions about the future including the possibility of an Aranini clinic or hospital come up often. While that vision exists, Dr Joyce is clear that it will come in time.“That’s something that will eventually come,” she says. “Right now, we’re focused on understanding what women actually need and how we can best provide that.”
As Aranini Health continues to grow, its focus is shifting towards accessibility and sustainability. While physical events remain important, Joyce is placing strong emphasis on expanding Aranini’s virtual offerings to reach women who may not be able to attend in person.“We want to reach more people,” she explains. “There are women who want to be part of the community and gain value from it, even if they can’t attend physical events.”With plans for more virtual events, continued community building, and long-term healthcare solutions, Aranini Health is steadily positioning itself as more than an organisation ,but a movement.
At its core, Aranini Health is focused on improving women’s health and creating spaces where women can learn and connect. In Nigeria, many women still face limited access to health information and are discouraged from talking openly about their health. Programs like Aranini help fill that gap.What makes Aranini stand out is how it has grown, from a single event to a community with members in multiple countries. That growth shows it is more than just an event; it is part of a wider move towardbetter wellness for women.
To keep up with Aranini Health, follow @aranini.health on Instagram or join the Aranini community for updates on future events and programs.

PRESS RELEASE

Johannesburg, South Africa – Collective Club successfully launched its debut in-person event, Creatives Meet, bringing together over 100 creatives from across Johannesburg for an evening of relaxed networking, shared ideas, and meaningful connections.

Held in an intimate and welcoming setting of Pulse 99 Coffee, the event created a space where photographers, DJs, designers, writers, visual artists, and cultural practitioners could engage without pressure or competition. The focus was simple: build real relationships, encourage collaboration, and strengthen the creative community.
The evening featured music by talented DJs Kayo and Mensah, setting the tone for an atmosphere that was both vibrant and comfortable. Attendees connected organically through conversation, creative activities, and informal networking, resulting in new collaborations and partnerships.

Creatives Meet marked the official launch of Collective Club, a free creative community designed to address isolation within the industry by creating intentional spaces, both online and offline, for creatives to connect and grow together.
“This event showed us how much creatives are looking for genuine connection,” said founder Kelly Maredi. “We wanted to create a space where people could meet without pressure, share ideas freely, and feel supported. The response has been incredible.”
Following the success of the launch, Creatives Meet will continue as a monthly gathering, with the next edition taking place next month. Collective Club aims to expand its reach while maintaining the intimate and community-driven nature that defines its events.

Creatives interested in attending future gatherings and becoming part of the community are encouraged to sign up at:

https://tally.so/r/3xO5Jk‍

Updates, event announcements, and community features can also be found on Collective Club’s social media platforms.
IG: @collectiveclub.za 

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Far from frivolous spectacle, modern African beauty pageants have functioned as parallel modelling institutions — particularly in countries where editorial and fashion infrastructures remain limited. In many contexts, pageantry became the only formalized system through which models could access visibility, training, and international representation. This reliance, however, is both enabling and constraining. Pageantry has opened doors, producing globally visible figures and offering structured pathways where none previously existed. At the same time, its dominance has concentrated opportunity within a single annual figure, limiting the breadth and continuity required for a sustainable modelling ecosystem. Where there were no agencies, no fashion weeks, and no sustained investment in modelling as an industry, there was a crown, and with it, a yearly delegate to the global stage.‍

The Early Architecture of Representation 

Beauty pageants within the continent began taking shape in the mid-1950s. In 1956, Norma Vorster was crowned in the first official Miss South Africa competition, created to send a national representative to the global Miss World stage. A year later, Nigeria launched its own pageant. Organized by the Daily Times newspaper in 1957, Miss Nigeria crowned Grace Atinuke Oyelude as its inaugural titleholder. Oyelude was a trained nurse and midwife who later became a hospital administrator, and entered the competition through a photograph submission — then standard practice. Her win marked the beginning of a national ritual of beauty as cultural display.

By 1958, South Africa’s Penny Coelen became the first representative from Africa to win a major international crown when she secured the Miss World title. Nigeria would later enter the Miss World competition in 1963, expanding its participation to global performance.

Though initially modeled on Western templates, these competitions rapidly absorbed local aesthetics, politics and cultural aspirations. They became hybrid spaces — part colonial inheritance, part national re-invention. In many ways, early pageantry functioned as gendered diplomacy: a soft, aesthetic mechanism through which nations negotiated visibility, modernity and belonging. What appears, at first glance, as simple spectacle was also infrastructure and one of the earliest organized systems through which African countries curated and exported an image of themselves to the world.‍

When the Crown Becomes the Only Runway

Looking back now, it feels curious how these pageants, initially imported, became improvisational spaces, and the default modelling institutions of their nations.

For decades, modelling infrastructure and documentation across much of the continent had remained thin, with no consistent casting agencies, few international placements, and limited editorial ecosystems. And so, pageantry stepped into that vacuum.

When Nigeria’s Agbani Darego won Miss World in 2001, becoming the first indigenous African woman to win Miss World, the moment felt seismic. Her victory changed global perceptions of African beauty and created tangible modelling opportunities beyond the pageant sphere. 

Similarly, Ethiopian model Melkam Endale, who won Miss Ethiopia in 2010 and later Miss World Ethiopia in 2012, has spoken about how pageantry opened doors to international modelling opportunities. While not all contestants become career models, the system has, in these instances, served as a launchpad where few alternatives exist.

But what does it mean when the only structured pipeline to fashion begins with a beauty pageant?

Nigeria, South Africa, Kenya, for instance, have developed increasingly visible modelling infrastructures, with established agencies like Beth Model Africa, Few Models, Boss Models South Africa, alongside fashion platforms including Lagos Fashion Week, South African Fashion Week, and Nairobi Fashion Week that facilitate editorial exposure and sustained visibility beyond competition stages. Within these contexts, pageantry no longer functions as the sole gateway but exists as a parallel form of exposure.

By contrast, where agency representation remains sparse and editorial economies fragile, including parts of Uganda, Tanzania, Zambia, and smaller West and Central African markets, pageantry continues to function as a primary infrastructure for visibility. The result is a continental unevenness where pageantry exists simultaneously as supplement and substitute, and shapes how models enter global circuits depending less on talent than on national industry capacity. Without robust fashion ecosystems, pageantry remains the primary mechanism for producing African models from these regions. This centralization narrows the scope of modelling to a singular, annual spectacle instead of a diversified and multifaceted creative industry.

So where pageantry retains centrality, the implications are significant. African beauty queens now carry diplomatic weight by default. Participation in competitions such as Miss Universe and Miss World has become a strategic exercise in soft power. Titleholders promote tourism, cultural heritage, sustainable development, and national identity abroad. International victories are interpreted as validation — aesthetic, political, and cultural.

The economic structure of global pageantry reinforces this diplomatic dimension. At the international level, franchises like Miss Universe monetize intellectual property through licensing, broadcast rights, sponsorships, and branding extensions. National committees, meanwhile, operate through fragile balances of government funding and private partnerships. Participation in Miss Universe for instance, requires national directors to absorb franchise fees, production expenses, wardrobe, and international travel, costs typically stabilized through corporate sponsorship or informal state support. Where these financial networks are inconsistent, contestants may arrive with fewer resources for styling, media coaching, and sustained visibility, shaping which presentations of beauty appear globally polished and competitive. This funding structure can expose competitions to politicization and public scrutiny.

Also, some national organizations have responded by reframing their missions explicitly around social impact. Increasingly, titleholders champion anti-gender-based violence campaigns, girls’ education initiatives, and female entrepreneurship. The modern Miss is expected to embody both beauty and civic responsibility.

For all its visibility, pageantry has never been free of tension. It can reinforce rigid standards and the very system aimed to elevate can also narrow. Critics have argued that the format risks objectification, particularly when economic safeguards for contestants are weak. The 2024 controversy surrounding Chidimma Adetshina exposed another fault line. After facing xenophobic backlash and online harassment questioning her eligibility and heritage, Adetshina withdrew from Miss South Africa. The incident revealed how quickly celebration can turn into scrutiny and how national pride can morph into policing.

Even amid critique, pageants persist, not necessarily out of cultural attachment, but because in some countries they remain the only consistent modelling apparatus. Where there are no robust editorial circuits, no established casting agencies, and little institutional investment in diversified fashion sectors, pageantry fills the vacuum. One queen a year. One global attempt. One moment of amplified visibility.

African pageantry exists in paradox. It has constrained beauty within rigid frameworks while simultaneously providing rare visibility and mobility. It is easy to dismiss as spectacle, but in many countries it still operates as infrastructure and the only consistent system producing international faces. The crown validated Black beauty on a global stage — but only when that beauty aligned with digestible proportions, controlled poise, and a kind of translatable elegance. So even when pageants claimed to foreground culture, they often translated it into something externally palatable. Local identity passed through a filter already set elsewhere.

When pageantry becomes the dominant or only modelling pipeline, it narrows the imagination of what modelling can be. It concentrates resources around a single annual figure instead of building ecosystems that allow for true multiplicity. If modelling industries across African countries remain unevenly developed, the crown will continue to carry too much weight. It will continue to be both gateway and gatekeeper. 

The real work, then, is not in abolishing the crown. It is in decentralizing it. Decentralization looks like sustained investment in local agencies, independent runway platforms, union and labour protections, editorial commissions, and fashion infrastructures that allow models to exist beyond the pageant cycle. It looks like careers built through continuity.

One crown cannot substitute for an entire ecosystem. Editorial, runway, and independent modelling industries must exist as parallel structures. Until these parallel structures are meaningfully supported, the crown will continue to stand in for an ecosystem it was never designed to replace, a singular symbol asked to carry the weight of an entire industry.

In the heart of Los Angeles, where underground heritage meets the precision of modern luxury, Earthling has officially claimed its permanent position in the fashion landscape.
Founded by the visionary designer and artist Mama Earthling, the brand recently celebrated the grand opening of its Melrose Avenue flagship during NBA All-Star Weekend.

This isn't just a seasonal pop-up; it is the establishment of a brand built for longevity, carving out a space that will define the culture for years to come.
While the garments are undeniable, the true connection people find with Earthling begins with the individuals behind it. Having had the pleasure of visiting their studio in LA some years ago, I witnessed firsthand the intentionality that defines the brand. The founders are exceptional individuals whose energy is truly contagious. You can tell immediately that they care deeply about every stitch, every texture, and every person who walks through their doors. That level of heart is rare in fashion, and it’s exactly why the brand feels so magnetic.

My professional journey with the Earthling universe reached a peak behind the lens. In 2024, I had the opportunity to style the Michael Rainey Jr. cover for Pause Magazine, where I saw the brand’s definitive ability to disrupt the high-fashion landscape. The look was a high-water mark for textile innovation, featuring an elevated take on denim that utilized intricate lace overlays on pants paired with a matching quilted vest. Seeing those pieces move and interact confirmed what I already felt: Earthling can take rugged, traditional materials and transform them into something delicate, complex, and entirely new.
There is a specific reason Earthling is so heavily supported by musicians, artists, and elite talent. It stems from the founders' background in breakdancing history that infuses the brand with an introspective energy and a deep connection to movable fashion. When you wear Earthling, it doesn't just sit on the body; it flows. The infusion of fashion, music, and motion makes every outfit feel like a visual symphony. This focus on "clothing in flight" is why it resonates so deeply with those who live their lives on stages and courts; it is luxury that understands the rhythm of the human body. Individuality Over "Costume"

Within the brand’s DNA is a belief that clothing should never feel like a costume; it should be a seamless extension of the wearer’s individuality. Energy acts as the ultimate stylist, as a single piece is never set in stone the look changes entirely based on the person’s energy and how they choose to carry the silhouette. Because of the one-of-one nature of their work, putting the same look on two different people yields two completely different results. It is a movement centered on personal expression rather than just following trends.
Earthling separates itself from standard streetwear by leaning into the meticulous world of archival construction. This niche audience understands that the elevated price point reflects a commitment to quality that mass-production cannot replicate. Many pieces are one-of-one reconstructions, utilizing authentic vintage textiles that are reimagined and rebuilt into modern silhouettes. By prioritizing 100% vintage cotton over modern fast-fashion alternatives, the brand offers a weight and durability that defines true luxury. These timeless textures ensure the pieces feel both historic and futuristic.

The Melrose opening served as a meeting of the minds for the world’s most influential tastemakers, solidifying Earthling's status as a celebrity-fueled destination. The event drew music icons like 2 Chainz, Fabolous, Snoh Aalegra, and Hit-Boy, alongside elite athletes suchas Kevin Durant, Juju Watkins, Gilbert Arenas, and Matt Barnes. Visionary designers Salehe Bembury and Don C were also in attendance to celebrate the brand's milestone.

Earthling isn't just selling clothes; they are selling a curated legacy built on great energy and unmatched quality. By prioritizing the structural integrity of vintage materials and the artistry of reconstruction, Mama Earthling has created a brand that is luxury with a pulse. Whenever I find myself back in Los Angeles, stopping by the Melrose flagship is an absolute must it is a space that truly needs to be experienced in person to appreciate the depth of the craft.
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Photos: SAGESIX

At AW26, Orange Culture, Buzigahill and Kenneth Ize brought conversations around ownership, lineage and joy to the forefront of the runway

Berlin Fashion Week AW26 unfolded as a study in contrast. On one side, the expected pillars of German and European fashion. On the other, an expanding international presence that continues to reshape the city’s rhythm. Beyond expanding representation, this season showed a definitive shift in influence, with African designers helping redefine the cultural direction and emotional tone of Berlin’s runway.

This season’s calendar brought together labels such as GmbH, Richert Beil, William Fan and Marc Cain alongside a new generation of designers navigating craft, politics and identity through contemporary silhouettes. With the presentations, Berlin continues to position itself as a platform for independent voices, sustainability-led practices and cross-cultural exchange, though the durability of that positioning remains an open question.

Within that framework, three Black-founded brands carried particular clarity of vision. Orange Culture by Adebayo Oke-Lawal, Buzigahill by Bobby Kolade and Kenneth Ize were selected as part of the Berlin Contemporary AW26 cohort, a prize initiative supporting emerging and independent labels through production funding and institutional visibility.

At BFW AW26, their presentations did not offer a singular narrative. Instead, they revealed different tensions shaping contemporary African fashion. Orange Culture refined a deeply emotional design language rooted in gender fluidity and memory. Buzigahill sustained its critique of secondhand clothing economies through reconstruction and material interrogation. Kenneth Ize continued his dialogue between heritage textile and contemporary tailoring, emphasizing refinement while raising questions of progression.

Together, their presentations were refreshing and it showed Berlin’s gradual shift toward a more globally attentive fashion week, where conversations around memory, ownership, sustainability and cultural lineage occupy central space on the runway and influence its direction as much as its diversity.

Kenneth Ize 

For Autumn/Winter 2026, Nigerian designer Kenneth Ize titled his collection JOY. The word feels simple at first. On the runway, it unfolds as something layered with togetherness, vulnerability, celebration and softness. With collaborators including stylist KK Obi, Ize's presentation felt communal, almost like being invited into an emotional interior of the brand.

As expected, the tailoring was lean and elegant, then subtly undone. Some pieces studied contrast, presenting one mood at the front and another at the back. The tension between restraint and release was most visible in the trench coats and sculptural hats that framed the collection. Traditional aso oke moved through the garments, allowing heritage textiles to meet materials associated with everyday wear, creating silhouettes that felt grounded and recognizably Ize. Where the collection felt strongest was in its sincerity. There was no pressure to over-perform the concept. There was also something childlike in the presentation. Playful makeup. Lightness in the pacing. The collection approached joy as an intrinsic emotion - raw, communal, and expressed through craft and form.

Buzigahill

At Berlin Fashion Week, Kampala-based label Buzigahill, by Bobby Kolade, unveiled its twelfth edition of “RETURN TO SENDER,” an ongoing project confronting the afterlife of clothing. Both the brand and the collection respond directly to the influx of secondhand garments that enter Uganda, reshaping local industry and consumption in negative ways.

For their 12th edition, the label shifted toward memory. Kolade looked to photographs from the 1960s and 1970s in East Africa, especially images of his grandparents and their peers. Their posture. Their tailoring. For many East African millennials, those photographs are especially nostalgic, a longing for a moment that feels grounded and self-possessed. The collection reads as reclamation, asking who owns style, history and narrative, and how those threads can be rewoven into contemporary fashion.

The opening look set the tone of the collection. A distressed leather biker jacket, treated over 28 hours with sandpaper, red soil, paint and varnish paired with a reversed suit jacket, deconstructed and reassembled with raw seams exposed on the exterior, and “boda boda” chinos which replaced traditional waistbands with one made from track offcuts.

Conceptually, Buzigahill was one of the most urgent voices on the Berlin schedule. The critique is clear and embodied. Where the presentation struggled was in collective cohesion. The garments read as self-contained experiments instead of components of a larger visual narrative. Although, fringing and surface manipulation appeared throughout, it functioned more as recurring techniques. Nonetheless, the clothes felt innovative and sharply contemporary, and with their BFW showing, Buzigahill continues to operate as a demand, a critique and a design method, stitched directly into their seams.

Orange Culture

“Backyards of Memory is a return not just to a place, but to a feeling,” Oke-Lawal writes. 

For Autumn/Winter 2026, the Lagos-based label unveiled Backyards of Memory, a collection shaped by remembrance. Self-taught designer and founder Adebayo Oke-Lawal returns for his second season at Berlin Fashion Week, still bold, still saturated in colour and still rooted in texture. The collection continues a conversation he began at Lagos Fashion Week in November, a tribute to his mother. Now at BFW AW26, memory becomes landscape and that sentiment translates directly into the clothes, with flowing fabrics, prints, and colour that feels fearless and unreserved. 

Colour remained the collection’s most immediate strength. Custom textile, developed in collaboration with artist Sisiano Paolo, ran through the collection. Saturation and print layering created visual warmth, while flowing cuts sustained Orange Culture’s rejection of rigid tailoring conventions. Handwoven techniques were also seen across the collection, and handcrafted, fringed-edge bags created with Lagos brand Kisara added texture and tactility, tying the looks together.

From the print accents to sequin skirts and macramé dresses, the collection was unmistakably Orange Culture, but the collection’s visual language occasionally settled into predictability for the brand. Backyards of Memory succeeded as atmosphere and storytelling, while leaving open the question of how Orange Culture might translate that emotional depth into sharper structural evolution.

Across the three presentations, what emerged was a set of tensions that felt reflective of contemporary African fashion itself. Kenneth Ize showed the strength and limits of refinement, Buzigahill exposed the difficulty of translating conceptual urgency into cohesive runway storytelling, and Orange Culture affirmed the emotional resonance of a design language now facing the pressure of evolution.

Berlin Fashion Week has created space for practice, where designers could be seen within growth, experimentation and unresolved ideas instead of symbolic representation. The shift feels tangible but unfinished, leaving Berlin’s future fashion week identity dependent on whether this visibility develops into sustained structural support and not just seasonal emphasis. Together, Kenneth Ize, Orange culture and Buzigahill’s presence shows a fashion week intent on building a platform where cultural specificity and global dialogue stand on equal footing. With that momentum, our eyes are already set on July and the SS27 presentations to come.