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Before social media made influence a profession, African aunties already had it down to an art. If you think content creation is a flex, try surviving a family function under an auntie’s gaze. With no camera crew, brand deals, or curated feeds, these women have been shaping trends, narratives, and entire family dynamics without even trying. The Look that Launches a Thousand Judgements It starts with the stare. That slow, calculated glance African aunties give when you walk into a room, half inspection, half silent judgment. Congratulations, you’ve been officially noticed if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of that gaze. And if an auntie notices you, it means you exist. Their influence begins with presence. Not the kind measured in likes or views, but the kind that stops conversations mid-sentence. The kind that walks into a party dressed in a flamboyant Bubu gown, gele perched high like a crown, heels clicking with authority. They don’t announce their arrival as they are the announcement. The Original Curators of Style While influencers rely on filters and flash sales, aunties move culture with a few well-placed accessories. Before oversized sunglasses became a fashion statement, they were already a staple at church services and weekend owambes. Aunties have been swinging those structured handbags fashionistas now flaunt with flair since before it was cool. From their nails to their perfumes, everything is intentional. A full face beat, jewelry that jingles with confidence, and a walk that says, “I’ve seen things you can’t even imagine.” They were soft-launching influencer aesthetics before Instagram even existed. Owambe Icons Nowhere is their star power more obvious than at Nigerian parties. Aunties’ headline owambes. Draped in coordinated aso-ebi, every outfit a designer’s dream, they command the dance floor like royalty. Hands in the air, rings glinting under party lights, nails flawless as they signal the DJ to “play that track again!” Their movements are precise. Their expressions are Immaculate. They throw money like confetti, never losing rhythm, never letting their gele slip, not even once. And if you ever catch an auntie dancing in slow motion, eyes closed, in pure bliss, you’re witnessing someone fully in her power. She is the vibe. She is the moment.   Ojude Oba: The Met Gala of the West Every year in Ijebu land, aunties transform into full-blown fashion icons for Ojude Oba, a celebration of Yoruba royalty and heritage. It’s a cultural spectacle. Outfits coordinated down to the last bead. Color themes chosen with the precision of a royal court. Synchronized walking, regal glances, and competition-level posing for photos. This is not just showing up. This is legacy on display. And the peer review always ruthless. One head-to-toe glance from a fellow auntie can determine whether your tailor gets another job or a stern warning. Unsolicited Advice, Certified Impact Their style might make you stare, but their words stay. Aunties don’t need microphones or megaphones. A single “hmm” can quiet a room. A raised eyebrow can trigger an existential crisis. And when they start with “Come, let me talk to you…” you know a life lesson or lecture is loading. Yes, their advice can sting. “See your mate, she’s already married with two kids and a house in Lekki.” But wrapped in sarcasm, wisdom, and just the right amount of roasting, is often some real-world truth. They’ve lived through wars, recessions, heartbreaks, and homecomings. Their influence isn’t always soft, but it’s almost always rooted in care. The Life of Every Gathering Aunties are the heartbeat of African events. Be it weddings, funerals, naming ceremonies, or Sunday lunches, they bring the energy. They’ll laugh, gossip, dance, and subtly plant the seed of matchmaking ideas. Remove them from any event, and you’ll feel the absence in the air, like the music suddenly lost its beat. And yes, they can be a handful, opinionated, dramatic, even overbearing. But that’s part of the charm. They are layered, vibrant, and complex. Equal parts pressure and presence. Love and legend. Legacy Over Likes So while social media influencers chase algorithms and analytics, African aunties continue doing what they’ve always done: showing up, showing out, and shaping culture. No ring lights. No brand deals. Just pure, unfiltered influence. With digital clout in present times, maybe it’s time we logged off a little and learned from the original influencers. Because aunties don’t just set trends; they leave legacies.

Every day, we wake up and choose what to wear. Some people stand in front of a closet full of options and still feel like they have nothing to wear. Others grab a basic tee, jeans, a scarf, and suddenly magic has been made. Why does that happen? Because there’s a difference between fashion and style and while we use those words interchangeably, they are not the same. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, let’s unpack what each really means. The Fast Fashion Trap Before we define anything, we need to start with where most of us live; in the thick of fast fashion. One day your social feed is pushing clean girl minimalism: slicked-back buns, beige tones, delicate gold jewelry. Next week is the Mob wife energy: big fur, big sunglasses, big attitude. Micro-trends rise and collapse at such a speed that fashion feels less like a creative force and more like a treadmill — always running, rarely arriving. The thrill of the new wears thin when you’re constantly shedding pieces that felt essential just two months ago. It’s no wonder so many of us feel overwhelmed. Fashion, in this context, becomes noise. But it didn’t start that way. Fashion as an Industry and Invitation Fashion is the system. It’s commerce and culture. It’s the creative eye of runway designers and the commercial machine that translates their visions into affordable looks in record time. It’s the reason Lagos Fashion Week draws global eyes, and why Dior stages collections in Marrakech or Dakar to borrow relevance, rhythm, and beauty. Fashion is the world’s wardrobe, but it’s also a mirror. It reflects the moment, the economy, the mood and the power dynamics. It says: This is what’s in. Are you in? It’s why your social feed last year was filled with moto and knee-high boots, cargo pants, sweater over shoulders, and now everyone’s wearing bandana silk scarves. It’s the newness that fuels our curiosity and creativity, but also our constant need to keep up. But in its chase for novelty, fashion can forget people. Especially those who don’t or refuse to fit the mold. This is where style begins to push back. Style as the Voice that Pushes Through Style isn’t seasonal, it’s personal. It’s not just what you wear, it’s why and how you wear it. It’s when African women tye their headwraps in a way their mothers taught them.   It’s the African creative who pairs second hand blazers with printed trousers, breaking every rule and starting their own. It’s the auntie who’s had the same pair of leather mules since 1996 and still wears them better than anyone else. Two people can wear the same white shirt. One tucks it into cigarette pants with loafers and a leather sling bag. The other leaves it open over a kitenge-print slip dress and stacks beaded necklaces. Same outfit, entirely different identities. Style doesn’t need a trend cycle. Style lives in those subtle choices: the roll of a cuff, the clash of patterns, the reworking of something old. It comes from knowing who you are or at least being curious enough to find out. Fashion vs Style: Can You Have One Without the Other? Absolutely. You can be fashionable without having style, we see it all the time. You can also have incredible style without ever chasing fashion. Think of people who wear thrifted gems, rework hand-me-downs, or repeat outfits and still turn heads because their clothes speak for them, not over them. When young people in Accra remix agbadas with sneakers, or drape kente with denim jackets, they’re not just being creative, they’re styling memory into modernity. Fashion is the canvas. Style is the brush. Finding Your Style in the Scroll Era So how do you develop style in a world that sells fashion by the minute? Start small. Don’t shop only, but study along and that means paying attention – What colors bring you joy? What fabrics make you feel grounded? What silhouettes make you stand taller? Explore, make mistakes, repeat outfits, and break your own rules. You don’t need a full wardrobe refresh. You need a relationship with your wardrobe. Try this: style a single dress five ways. With sneakers and a straw tote for errands. With block heels and brass earrings for dinner. With a headwrap and bangles for Sunday service. Suddenly, you’re not wearing an outfit — you’re telling a story. Style isn’t about having more. It’s about seeing more and more possibilities in less. So, What Are We Really Wearing? The debate between fashion and style will always exist. Some say fashion inspires style. Others believe style renders fashion irrelevant. But the real question is what matters more to you? Is it staying on trend, or staying true to yourself? Is it about wearing what’s new, or wearing what’s you?We’ll leave you with this: If you couldn’t buy a single new item this year, how would you style what you already have? Written by Kemi Adedoyin 

There was a time, not so long ago, when if you saw an African in a photo, you could bet someone foreign was behind the camera. A missionary, a journalist, or a tourist with a zoom lens and a list of “authentic” moments to collect—famine in focus, dust in the light, smiling school children, every face perfectly grateful. But rewind further to the present African corner studios, where people posed like royalty against painted backdrops, dressed in their Sunday best, beaming with a pride that needed no translation. Those images weren’t for outsiders. They were for us. This is how the camera changed hands and what happened when we started telling our own African stories through the lens. Photography in Africa was never just a matter of pointing and shooting. It was a question of who held the frame and why. Studios, in the early days, were temples of becoming. They were sites of deliberate self-invention. A young man in a double-breasted coat. A woman with kohl-lined eyes and a radio on her lap. Backdrops of palm trees, cars, waterfalls. All imagined futures. These portraits weren’t vanity; they were evidence. We were there and we mattered. We existed outside the colonial gaze. Over time, the studio became a casualty of speed. Instant culture—disposable photos, selfies, reels—changed the ritual. And now, we can see the change. Young photographers are restoring the studio’s magic, this time with LED lights, projection mapping, and fabric sourced from grandmothers’ trunks.  The Fight for Self-Representation Photography has long been used to define us. The colonial photo was surveillance disguised as curiosity. The aid agency photo, a form of propaganda. And even now, photo contests and international exhibitions often reward one aesthetic: struggle with a hint of hope. But African photographers today are fighting to turn the lens inward, reclaiming the right to complexity. Self-representation demands that we look beyond what’s expected. That we linger in boredom. That we dignify mess. That we challenge the algorithm’s thirst for suffering. From the Margins to the Center Twenty years ago, there were fewer names, fewer platforms, and far less interest. Many of our greats were dismissed as hobbyists or artisans. Yet they built archives. They captured ceremonies, conflicts, and quiet moments with a consistency that whispered: one day, someone will need to remember. We remember, but we also reinvent. The evolution of African photography is not a straight line. It’s a conversation between generations. J.D. ‘Okhai Ojeikere’s sculptural documentation of Nigerian hairstyles now speaks to Laetitia Ky’s self-portraits made with hair.  Seydou Keïta’s Malian elegance walks beside the surreal experiments of Prince Gyasi, who paints his images in saturated candy tones. The tools have changed. Digital cameras replaced film. iPhones replaced digital. But what hasn’t changed is intent to witness, to question and to protect. The Personal as Political What’s the role of cultural identity in all this? It’s everything. A photograph isn’t neutral. Every choice—lens, subject, background, even what’s cropped out—says something. And when that photographer is African, the stakes are higher. Our identities are layered: linguistic, tribal, urban, diasporic. Our cultures are fluid, but they carry memory like a spine. Photography allows that memory to breathe and to find new form. Whether it’s documenting Maasai rituals, queer fashion in Kampala, or the fading blues of indigo dye pits in Kano, African photographers are mapping a continent. Against the Global Glare But with recognition comes friction. African photographers still face challenges in the global art and media ecosystem. We’re often included as tokens, the African perspective, in panels curated by outsiders. Grants come with invisible strings. Publications want our work but not our critique. Our images are licensed, exhibited, and praised but are we heard enough? There is also the burden of representation. If one Ghanaian photographer makes it, the world thinks they understand West Africa. If a Nigerian wins a prize, others must wait their turn. This can seem quite unfair. And yet, despite this, the work persists. Photographers build their own festivals like LagosPhoto. They teach workshops in townships. They print zines. They shoot weddings, then shoot editorials. They keep going. Because they have to. Not because it’s lucrative. Not always because it’s seen. But because the image is a form of survival. Seven African Photographers You Should Know In this renaissance of African photography, several voices have risen with singular vision of shaping not just how Africa is seen, but how Africa sees itself: Zanele Muholi (South Africa): Visual activist documenting Black queer identity with fierce intimacy and elegance. Malick Sidibéi (Mali): The “Eye of Bamako,” celebrated for capturing Malian youth culture in the 1960s and ’70s. Yagazie Emezi(Nigeria): Known for striking photo essays on identity, trauma, and womanhood across African landscapes. Mous Lamrabat (Morocco): A master of contradiction, blending Western symbols with Moroccan tradition in dreamlike fashion. Sarah Waiswa (Uganda): Explores displacement, beauty, and belonging through soft, thoughtful portraiture.. Prince Gyasi (Ghana): Redefines visual storytelling with hyper-saturated images that blend surrealism and social commentary. Aïda Muluneh (Ethiopia): Fuses traditional aesthetics with futuristic vision, using bold colors to discuss African dignity and self-determination. These artists are not just photographers—they’re translators of experience. Each frame is a dialect of memory, protest, play, and possibility. We Are the Frame Now In the end, photography in Africa has become something no one anticipated. it has become a conversation we are having with ourselves. We are no longer image subjects. We are image makers. We are the glitch in the narrative. The color correction. The uncaptioned moment. The memory that doesn’t fade. We photograph not just to be seen but to see ourselves. To archive the truth, to question beauty, to hold space for everything that came before and everything still unfolding. Before the shutter clicks, there is that sacred second where everything aligns. The African story, the light, the intent.   Written by Kemi Adedoyin