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 Written by: Kemi Adedoyin Adire (ah-DEE-reh) – A Yoruba word, “adi” (to tie) and “re” (to dye) translates to tie and dye. The weight of what Adire truly gives is an art form, a language without alphabets. It is history, crafted by women.Today, Adire hangs in global fashion showrooms, parades through Instagram feeds, and sells in open markets across West Africa. But something feels off. A closer look at these prints, the slick polyester feel, and then the label: Made in…. We are now importing the very thing we invented. Before Adire came into the cultural wardrobe of the Yoruba people, indigenous clothing leaned heavily on Aso-Oke, Etu, and Sanyan, rich handwoven fabrics that signified social status and occasion. These were often worn during ceremonies and rites of passage, carrying as much spiritual significance as aesthetic. Clothing for Africans wasn’t just about covering the body, it was storytelling, identity, and pride. So when Adire was born, it didn’t replace the old ways. It extended them. Adire began in Abeokuta, Nigeria, in the early 20th century, pioneered by Yoruba women, especially members of the Egba tribe. These women were textile traders and artists, especially the Aladire (a professional decorator for adire), who combined local innovation with foreign influence. How? When Europeans introduced imported cotton into West Africa, Egba women saw potential. Instead of wearing it plain, they dyed and decorated it using onko (local indigo), raffia ties, cassava paste, and feathers to create patterns. While Abeokuta in Ogun State is widely credited with pioneering its popularization, especially through Egba women, many in Osun State also claim origin. Cultural figures from Osogbo argue that Adire existed in various forms long before colonial trade routes, pointing to Osun’s spiritual depth and longstanding dyeing traditions. Adire was born out of creativity, trade, and cultural evolution. It was women-led. Women-owned. Women-powered. The ProcessTrue Adire is hand-dyed using natural indigo dye extracted from plants like Elu (Indigofera). There are three main techniques: ● Adire Oniko: tying parts of the fabric with raffia or thread before dyeing. ● Adire Eleko: applying cassava paste to draw motifs that resist the dye. ● Adire Alabere: stitching patterns with thread that are removed after dyeing. Each design holds meaning. For example, Ibadán dun (“Ibadan is sweet”) means a celebration of pride and city identity. A System Built Around WomenAt its peak, Adire was a thriving industry driven by female collectives. In Abeokuta, Ibadan, Osogbo, and beyond, entire families were sustained through Adire production. Young girls apprenticed with their mothers. Markets buzzed with women selling freshly dyed cloth. It wasn’t only culture, it was commerce as well. Fast forward to today, and the story is far more brittle. Imported Adire knockoffs that are synthetic and mass-printed are now flooding African markets. These fakes are falsely branded as “African prints.” And these results to ● Local dyers losing customers. ● Mothers no longer teaching the trade as it’s no longer profitable. ● Whole families who once relied on Adire are turning to other forms of crafts The very communities that built this heritage are now priced out of it. Imitation Crisis Might ContinueIt’s easy to talk about globalization and access, but what we’re witnessing isn’t only expansion, it’s cultural theft under economic pressure. Originality is replaced by replication, and even worse, many buyers, especially in diaspora communities, can no longer tell the difference. Imagine a child wearing Adire to an Independence Day parade, not knowing the cloth was printed in a factory, not in the same country whose independence they are celebrating. What We Lose as Africans● Craftsmanship: The years of apprenticeship it takes to master resist dyeing can’t be replicated. ● Local enterprise: Women-owned Adire businesses once sent children to school, built homes, and supported extended families. ● Intergenerational knowledge: Without demand, no one learns. The skills vanish. ● Cultural authority: We lose control over how our identity is represented and reproduced. Preserving Adire Is Preserving PeoplePreserving Adire is to protect the ancestral knowledge stitched into every design. Here’s what it takes: 1. Invest in Local Artisans: Government and private initiatives must go beyond festivals and fashion shows. Invest in Adire cooperatives, provide access to raw materials, and offer export support for authentic African products. 2. Cultural Education: Teach young Africans not just how to wear Adire, but how to recognize real from fake. 3. Creative Collaboration with Boundaries: We welcome innovation. But collaborations must center and credit local artisans. Global designers can work with African dyers without erasing them. 4. Shift Our Mindset: We must stop viewing African products as inferior unless validated abroad. If our people produce it, it matters. It’s premium. It’s powerful. What We Keep, Keeps UsCulture and Heritage don’t vanish all at once. It fades when the small things stop mattering, when we stop asking where our fabrics come from, who made them, and what they were meant to say.Adire is still here. Not as a trend, but as a thread, that is, one that connects us to meaning, to one another. So we don’t need to shout to preserve it. We just need to choose it. To keep buying what’s made with care. To honour the hands behind the work. To teach the stories behind the cloth. Because when we protect what’s ours, we don’t just preserve heritage, we pass on something worth inheriting. And that, too, is legacy.

By Kemi Adedoyin There’s a particular quality to the air when summer settles in. It’s like a promise. The cities feel looser, the music a little louder, the skin more confident. People start to move differently. Even the dust on the roads rises with more drama, as if the earth itself wants in on the performance. Summer in Africa isn’t marked by a fixed calendar month, nor is it the simple inverse of winter. It’s sensory. Sometimes it’s Detty December’s dry heat in Lagos, sometimes it’s July’s coastal breeze in Dakar or Accra. But whenever it comes, it comes fully. Sun spilling through open markets, hands sticky with mango juice, someone’s cousin’s wedding, where half the village shows up. You don’t just do summer here, you live through it. Where We Go When The Sun Comes OutThe season calls us outside. Not with gentle suggestion but with full, chest-beating insistence. You’ll find people answering the call in different ways: some with a quiet beach day, others with a rooftop afterparty that begins at noon and ends when the last speaker dies. In Lagos, it’s the poolside takeovers – hotel pools converted into hedonistic playgrounds. Entry wristbands, DJs spinning amapiano into highlife, plastic cups balanced on inflatable flamingos. The fashion is deliberate. Midriff-baring crochet, wrap skirts knotted carelessly, the occasional man in linen doing too much and just enough. At the beach, maybe in Cape Town or Diani, it’s coconut water straight from the shell, grilled fish with sauce that bites back, and the soft chaos of beach football right where the tide meets the sand. Vendors sell bracelets, suya. It’s ladies applying sunscreen, teenagers flirting, and then looking away too fast. Some escape the city. A lodge in Naivasha, a road trip through the Cape Winelands, or a hiking weekend in the Simien Mountains. Instagram becomes a catalogue of curated soft life – sandals against red soil, panoramic views from infinity pools, captions that say “needed this” because everyone understands what that means. The Season of Festivals: Art, Sound, and Street NoiseFestivals do not wait quietly in the corner. They arrive with drums, glitter, cracked speakers, and hundreds of bodies moving in unison. Summer in Africa is a timeline of these moments. It is cultural, musical, sometimes spiritual, but all layered with meaning.Chale Wote in Accra is less an event and more a portal. Jamestown becomes a living gallery, walls covered in murals, women in gold dust and headwraps performing slow dances, children painting the pavement. The energy is both future-facing and deeply ancestral as always. Lake of Stars in Malawi is more intimate. Music on the edge of water, poetry that disappears into wind, beach tents strung with fairy lights. It’s the kind of place where people fall in love, or at least write about it as if they did. Durban July, if we’re being honest, is not about the horses. It is the Super Bowl of fashion risk-taking, where mesh meets leather, and entire bloodlines turn up coordinated in emerald or ivory. Everyone is somebody, or performing as such. And if you didn’t know, this years’ Durban July came dressed as a love letter to the country. The theme, Marvels of Mzansi, invited people to show off what makes South Africa unforgettable and they did. Think gold-dusted fabrics, Xhosa beadwork reimagined, structured gowns shaped like baobabs, and jackets that looked like walking murals. Celebrities leaned all the way in. Oh yes! Mihlali’s metallic Ndebele print fit got the internet talking, while others arrived draped in velvet, feathers, cowhide, or full Skhothane-style opulence. The horse race was just background. The main event is Fashion in full South African volume. And then there’s Nyege Nyege in Uganda. The only place where underground African electronica, experimental visuals, and riverbank campouts feel like a necessary combination. It is sweaty, surreal, and sacred. What We Wear: A Season of Skin and Statement The fashion in summer is an act of storytelling. What you wear signals who you are or at least who you’re experimenting with becoming. The women wear crochet bikinis like they were born in them, pairing them with mesh skirts or denim shorts that barely qualify. There are bumpshots, the tight, high-waisted shorts that women wear unapologetically, paired with spaghetti tops, or bralettes disguised as blouses. Waist beads glint beneath sheer fabrics. Braids are long, lashes longer, and nails bright enough to reflect the sun. Even the men are leaning in. The minimalist, linen-clad softboy with a bucket hat. The Adire two-piece loyalist. The gym regular who wears vests even when they’re not called for. The men who experiment with anklets, glossed lips, shoulder bags and look better for it. Ankara and Kitenge have also evolved. Less stiff, more sensual. Tailored to frame rather than fit. Halter jumpsuits with open backs, wrap dresses with leg slits that follow the breeze, even the popular sundresses that almost every African lady has in her wardrobe. The Taste of Summer: Hands, Smoke, Fruit Juice on Your Chin The food isn’t particularly fancy, but it’s full of flavour and served hot, or cold, or both at once. Fruit vendors make a killing. There are mangoes that taste like childhood, pineapples you can smell from the next street, and oranges that exist mainly to be squeezed into juice. No one is drinking water unless it’s infused or frozen. And let’s not forget the smoothie. Suya smoke curls through city corners. There’s grilled fish in banana leaves, kebabs laced with pepper so strong it silences conversation. Puff-puff, plantain chips, shawarma, meat pies. In some cities, these are dinner. In others, they are just the warm-up. You will drink something bright. Say zobo, ginger juice, palm wine, tamarind, and locally brewed lagers. Hydration is a group effort. The grill is always out, and someone’s uncle swears his marinade is the reason the meat “tastes different.” And Then There’s Just the Vibe Not every celebration is loud, but every one is intentional. The weddings, for instance, have taken