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This is part of Traveling in Our Bodies, a four-part series that reflects on how women's bodies influence their movement through the world.
Long before traveling to Lagos, Nigeria, I knew fashion would be at the center of my first visit to the country. My friend Karen, who is Nigerian-American and easily the most stylish person I know, had invited me to visit during the city’s Fashion Week. In the same way that foodies try the best restaurants wherever they travel, I like to see the clothes everywhere I go. My closet feels like a living museum of the places I’ve been: There's the bag I got in Lusaka, Zambia; a scarf from Istanbul; trousers from Ubud, Bali; a bracelet from Palermo; a blouse from Mexico City. I could go on.
My wardrobe—an amalgam of animal prints, stripes, feathers, sequins, and (faux) furs—is colorful, and I figured that, if there was a place where I’d see bold, beautiful clothing that fit my aesthetic, it was Lagos. But as thrilled as I was to explore the fashion scene, I worried that no matter how much I liked the clothes, I wouldn’t actually fit in them. In the States, my curvy size 14-18 body (depending on the item, brand, store, or season of my life) is often a hindrance for in-store shopping. Many brands don’t stock larger sizes on the floor; others don’t carry them at all. And frankly, the options that do exist aren’t all that stylish—something plus-sized women deride regularly. In 2023, it felt like designers on my side of the Atlantic had succumbed to naked-dressing, the teeniest of mini skirts, low-rise jeans, and cropped tops—all trends that have only accelerated since—for items that simply aren't for me.
I thought about this while plotting our itinerary for the week in Nigeria, and I managed my expectations. After all, the clothes were just part of the trip: I was also excited to eat amala and suya, to go to the beach, to drop by a brewery, and to hear live music. I wanted to compare and contrast with my home country of Zimbabwe.
On the fashion front, Karen and I planned to visit Alara, Reni Folawiyo’s concept store, which was featured by the Brooklyn Museum in its 2023 Africa Fashion exhibition. The store sells high-end furniture, accessories, and clothes from across the continent. You can find South African brand Maxhosa and Ghanaian brand AAKS, beside American and European designers like Christopher John Rogers and Jacquemus. We would also hit up Temple Muse, the glitzy store known for its selection of African designers and events catering to creatives. I loved that in many cases, we would be able to eat and shop in the same place: We booked dinner at Alara’s famed restaurant, Nok, and at Temple Muse’s accompanying tropical brasserie, Slow.
When we arrived, I realized I was still worried about the idea of nothing fitting, but I had a plan: I would stick to accessories. On our first day, I picked out a patchwork denim hat by the brand This Is Us. I loved how big and floppy it was, making for the perfect dramatic flair. But when we made our way to Éki Kéré, a brand inspired by the traditions of Nigeria’s “Raffia City,” Ikot Ekpene, I loved the dyed kimonos and dresses with their raffia trims so much—I couldn’t resist trying them on.
I nervously picked up a red maxi dress with raffia pockets and headed for the dressing room.
It fit. I was thrilled and immediately planned to buy it.
It gave me the nerve to try the dress I really wanted: A short tie-dyed number with a tan raffia hem and sleeve trim. A sales associate handed me one that looked like it would work, but once I got into the dressing room, my fears were realized. No luck. I assumed there would be nothing more to say and got ready to leave the store, handing back the garment. As I turned toward the door, I noticed Karen and the associate looked at me, perplexed.
Wouldn't I want the dress made in the size I wanted?, they asked. There would be no additional cost. I hesitated, realizing that in my many years of shopping, I was experiencing an affirming first. The associate took my measurements and a few days later, I would have the dress in my size—I even got to opt for the raffia to be dyed purple. This was offered by most brands in Lagos, Karen told me. I couldn't believe it.
Sure enough, some version of this happened just about everywhere we went. If a piece didn’t fit, it could be made—but more often than not, my size was already in the store. At the boutique Zinkata, which carries designers from several African countries, owner Ezinne Chinkata guided me to silhouettes I’d normally never consider, and introduced me to designers I didn’t know about before. It was a shopping experience that felt genuinely inclusive, and helpful. I bought a black tulle blouse with sheer sealed pockets, filled with rainbow confetti, by Nigerian twin sisters Sylvia Enekwe-Ojei and Olivia Enekwe-Okoji’s brand Gozel Green.
At Ituen Basi, I scooped up an embroidered magenta mesh coat. I wished I’d bought one of Wannifuga’s billowing organza sets or Emmy Kasbit’s hand-woven blazers. For a maximalist like myself, I was more than happy to swap the grays and beiges of the “clean girl aesthetic" thriving back home for the bold colors, prints, textures, and solid fabric that Nigeria’s designers were embracing. I fell even more in love with the possibilities of fashion.
When Karen suggested we stop in the streetwear brand Wafflesncream’s store, I figured we’d go in for her. Shopping was going well, but cool, flattering, and quality plus-size streetwear seemed a stretch too far. The sales associate at Waf., as Lagosians call the store, prodded me as I kept eyeing a pair of blue and black pants. They looked like both cargo pants and sweatpants, and I imagined dressing them up with strappy heeled sandals, or down with tennis shoes. Why I wasn’t trying them on, he wondered aloud. When I instinctively replied that I assumed the pants wouldn’t come in my size, the associate seemed almost offended. He went to the back of the store and returned with several sizes that fit. I bought the pants and have since worn them in Paris, Berlin, Washington DC, and all around my now-hometown of Atlanta.
Through shopping in Lagos, I was also able to learn about traditional dyeing techniques, tailoring styles, and tribal attire. I saw what different kinds of clothes communicated about class and tribe. I understood, from watching Karen’s mom Adeyinka, that even stepping out of the house to run some errands calls for an effortlessly chic look; it's a lesson that I’ve joyfully applied since, at home. I may have traveled to Lagos to experience my friends’ culture, but in the process I found ease, joy, and affirmation in my own body. I, essentially, found a place where my body was not only considered, but catered to, in ways I've yet to experience at home.
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