“You are Nigerian.”
“No, I’m American.”
“You are Nigerian.”
“No, I’m American.”
When I was a teenager, this was a typical argument I would have with my parents, usually stemming from me acting in a way that suggested I didn’t know where I was from. They would accuse me of being too “Americanized,” to which I would respond, “Well, I am!” My parents feared that I considered myself to be an American first and Nigerian second. And this was not what they wanted. Even though I was born in Washington, D.C., they believed that since I was raised in a household by two African parents and I lived there for two years as a child, I should consider myself to be Nigerian.
Though when I came back to the U.S., it was clear from the messages I received at school that being Nigerian was nothing to be proud of. This was the late 90s before Afrobeat took over the world, and Tyla became one of the continent’s biggest exports. This was a time when the phrase “African booty scratcher” would easily roll off the tongues of my classmates. I wasn’t necessarily FOB (fresh off the boat), but after spending two years in Lagos, I returned with a thick accent and even darker skin, neither of which helped me to survive the first grade. I was easier to shed traces of my Nigerian identity to fit in and be seen as from the States.
As a stylist, I’ve always appreciated how fashion were a form of communication around one’s identity but back then, I was hesitant about the traditional clothing. I was never eager to wear African dress. I loved the American mall brands like Express, H&M, Guess, Rave, American Eagle and saw traditional wear as standing out too much. In my head, I wasn’t that Nigerian if I wore things that allowed me to ‘fit in’. I rarely wore traditional garments when attending family events, weddings, engagement parties, and birthdays. I wanted to wear the brands that my friends wore mixed in with pieces I found at vintage stores in D.C. For me, I could eat the food and dance to the music, but wearing the clothing is the ultimate signifier of being other. In fact, As I got older and left home, I rarely attended family events all together. However, in February of this year, I traveled to Nigeria to attend my grandmother’s funeral. For this occasion, I knew I had no choice. I knew I would have to fully submit and wear native clothing, especially if I didn’t want to face my mother’s wrath, and to my surprise, I enjoyed every moment of it.
In Yoruba culture, a funeral is a celebration of life, so I had to attend many events for which outfits had to be made. Every event required a specific fabric that had to be worn by my immediate and extended family members. Remember the episode on Sex And The City where Trey has to wear his family tartan to the Scottish Highland fling? It’s not dissimilar. My sisters and I had blouses (called Buba in Yoruba language) made using an Asọ-Ẹbí (family cloth), a lace fabric that we would then pair with Aṣọ òkè (high cloth). The Aṣọ òkè we wore with our Bubas were vintage and the fabrics were almost 80 years old. They are only worn on special occasions because they are prestigious. The Aṣọ òkè I wore came in 3 parts: a head tie (Gèlè), a shawl (Iborun), and a large piece of fabric (ìró) that we would wrap around our waist and fashion into a skirt. I wore a variation of there Asọ-Ẹbí / Aṣọ òkè pairing to most of the planned celebrations during the week.
Ever the stylist, I decided to incorporate pieces from my own personal wardrobe to make the looks feel more personal. I was eager to honor my heritage but I wanted to feel like I was merging both sides of myself. It was important for me to feel like myself, so I mixed brands like The Row, Khaite, and Gucci with my native clothing, the same way I would mix brands back home. It soon occurred to me what a reflection there was in design tropes of Nigerian dress and what I love about the boutique brands in my wardrobe. I love patterns, I love Comme and tend to wear a lot of hats so getting dressed in the Asọ-Ẹbí and Aṣọ òkè was oddly familiar. Each piece was elaborate in the same way that some of my favorite Western brands are. Junya Watanabe and Vaquera for example. The gèlè head wrap framed my face perfectly and its elegance reminded me of a Prada turban I purchased in Italy last year.
As the week progressed, my mindset started to change. I began looking forward to getting dressed. I didn’t even mind waking up at 5:30 am for someone to come over to tie our Gèlè, excited to see what elaborate style they would fashion for us. The most satisfying feeling was seeing my relatives’ faces; they were so happy to see me and my sisters dressed in traditional clothes. The smiles on their faces shocked me; I realized that some of them had never seen us like this. Looking back at all the photos we took during the funeral, I’m filled with immense pride. I had resisted wearing traditional clothing; I didn’t see its value. However, through my grandma’s passing, I was able to reconnect with parts of my heritage that had long been cast aside. Each time I got dressed, I felt like I was learning more about who I was and where I came from. I craved acceptance when I was younger, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve grown to embrace all parts of myself. There’s still more work that needs to be done, but I’m proud to say that while I am American, I’m also Nigerian and both sides can co-exist, stylishly I might add.
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