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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 

They say if you carry a cowrie, wealth will follow. So will love. So will favor. But in the same breath, some will warn: hide it from your pastor. The African cowrie—smooth, curved, mysterious—is a small object with a massive reputation. Found in the oceans, worn in braids, tucked into purses, used in prayers, feared in myths, cowries have travelled far, both physically and spiritually, across the African continent and deep into the soul of its cultures. But where do they come from, and why do they still stir such powerful emotions? Origins of a Shell Soaked in Symbolism Cowries are marine mollusk shells, most commonly from the species Cypraea moneta. Though found in the Indian and Pacific Oceans, they made their way into African societies centuries ago, riding on the waves of Indian Ocean trade routes. Arab traders, Portuguese merchants, and East African sailors brought them ashore not as trinkets, but as currency. And they caught on quickly. Historians believe that as early as the 14th century, cowries had become a widely accepted medium of exchange across West Africa. In the old Mali Empire, one could buy a goat, a bag of salt, or a bride with strings of cowries. But the shell was never just about commerce. Power, Protection, and the Pulse of the Spirit World In Yoruba cosmology, cowries were more than money; they were eyes. Eyes of the Orishas. Conduits of communication between mortals and the divine. Babalawos, the spiritual priests of Ifá, cast cowries like dice to divine futures. Aje, powerful feminine forces associated with creation and destruction, were said to be protectors of the cowrie’s mysteries. It’s this connection to the metaphysical that shaped the cowrie’s dual reputation. To some, it became sacred. To others, especially under colonial Christianity, it was something else. Today, many still associate cowries with divination practices, thanks in part to Nollywood portrayals where a string of cowries often signals that someone is in touch with “dark powers.” But this fear is largely born of misunderstanding. To the Yoruba, Igbo, and even the Akan of Ghana, some of the most prominent cowrie users historically, these shells are not evil. They are energy. They are the essence. A Symbol Now Flaunted Over time, as colonial rule imposed new currencies and cultural systems, the literal use of cowries as money declined. But their symbolic value only deepened. Where once they bought wares, today they adorn waists, necks, ears, and foreheads. Cowries have made a stunning comeback in African fashion, worn by both spiritualists and stylists. Braided into hair, stitched into agbadas, looped onto anklets. They carry a silent but confident nod to heritage. Cowries have become the aesthetic language of African pride. They’re seen on contemporary beadwork, minimalist jewelry, and even avant-garde fashion lines that reimagine African royalty. But with popularity comes dilution. Can the Cowrie Stay Sacred in a Mass-Market World? The resurgence of cowries in mainstream culture begs a vital question: Can a spiritual object survive commodification? While natural cowries are still harvested sustainably in many regions, mass production—especially of plastic imitations—has raised sustainability concerns. The deeper issue, however, lies in the cultural flattening. What happens when a sacred object becomes a fashion accessory stripped of its history? To keep its integrity intact, cultural educators, artisans, and spiritual leaders are pushing back—hosting workshops, leading storytelling sessions, and insisting that context matters. That it’s not just what you wear, but how and why. Why Cowries Speak to the Feminine Soul The cowrie’s slit-like opening, its smooth belly, its protective curve—these are not just anatomical features. In many African societies, they’re read as symbols of the womb. The feminine. The origin of life. This is why cowries are often worn by women trying to conceive, or sewn into fertility belts. It’s why they appear in dances celebrating womanhood, in initiation rituals, in goddess altars. The cowrie is the quiet symbol of creation, intuition, and inner power. To wear it is to call on ancestral memory. A Legacy That Refuses to Fall Some say the cowrie “died” when coins replaced it. But that’s far from the truth. The cowrie simply changed clothes. It went from currency to crown, from market to meaning. Yes, its reputation is complicated. But perhaps that’s what makes it so compelling. It’s not just a shell. It’s a mirror. It reflects what we see in ourselves—our history, our fears, our beauty, our power. And if you’ve ever felt drawn to one, found one on the sand and kept it, even if you didn’t know why, then maybe it’s calling you too. So, what does the cowrie mean to you? A charm? A crown? Written by Kemi Adedoyin

Once, our skin was scripture and once, the ink was language.Before paper, before politics, before photos could freeze memory, the African body was our canvas. A site of story and a vessel of spirit.  Before tattoos became Instagram filters and modern markers of rebellion or art, they were sacred scripts etched on skin as symbols of survival, lineage, status, and spirit. Across African cultures, tattoos and scarifications were not simply decorations; they were declarations of who you were, where you came from, who you belonged to. And often, who you might become. Tattoos were the truth. The art of marking the skin was known by different names, executed through different tools, and rooted in diverse traditions but its purpose was uncannily shared: to remember, to signify and to speak. In ancient Nubia and Kemet (Egypt), tattoos were found on female mummies dating back as early as 2000 BCE. Dots and dash-like patterns along the abdomen and thighs were believed to protect women during childbirth — an amulet worn not around the neck, but beneath the skin. In West Africa, the Yoruba called it ila, the Hausa, zane. Among the Amazigh (Berber) women of North Africa, facial tattoos in geometric arrangements spoke of identity and fertility, a visual code passed down from mother to daughter. The Dinka of South Sudan wore forehead marks after initiation; the Fulani, delicate curves that framed the eyes like poetry. Each culture had its grammar, its aesthetics, its rites. But the skin was always more than flesh. It was an archive. When the Skin Was a Passport In precolonial Africa, tattoos (and scarifications, often interlinked) served roles far deeper than aesthetics. They were passports, immediately communicating your ethnicity, family lineage, social class, or spiritual calling. Some markings were tribal, others medicinal. Some healed spiritual afflictions. Some repelled evil spirits. Others marked rites of passage: from girlhood to womanhood, boyhood to warriorhood. To be marked was to be seen. To be unmarked, sometimes, was to be unmade. Initiation into adulthood often came with pain not to glorify suffering, but to symbolise inner transformation. These markings weren’t about trends. They were about thresholds. They chronicled a journey. The pain had meaning, the meaning gave purpose, and the purpose bound one to community. It was not narcissistic individualism. It was communal symbolism. Then Came the Silence Colonialism rewrote the African body. Missionaries labelled our marks “pagan,” “barbaric,” “demonic.” Colonial administrators outlawed or discouraged traditional body art as backward, replacing skin-storytelling with stitched uniforms, Western names, and sanitized ideologies of the civilized. Churches preached salvation through erasure. Mosques, too, in some regions, warned against body modifications, even when centuries of practice said otherwise. With time, many tattooing and scarification traditions disappeared. Some forcibly, others voluntarily, as younger generations, seeking upward mobility, were taught to be ashamed of their cultural expressions. In urban centres, scarified faces were replaced with powdered ones. Adorned bodies became covered bodies. Identity became something to be hidden not worn. But the skin, ever loyal, remembers. Tattoos never left Africa. They simply changed form. No longer bound by initiation rites or community sanction, the modern African tattoo is deeply personal. It might be a phoenix, a child’s name, a favorite quote, or a reclaimed ancestral symbol,  a lover’s birthdate. For some, it’s pure artistry. For others, it’s healing. Some do it to rebel; others, to reconnect. They say, I own my body now. I choose my story. Today’s Ink Tattoos never left Africa. They simply changed form. No longer bound by initiation rites or community sanction, the modern African tattoo is deeply personal. It might be a phoenix, a child’s name, a favorite quote, or a reclaimed ancestral symbol,  a lover’s birthdate. For some, it’s pure artistry. For others, it’s healing. Some do it to rebel; others, to reconnect. They say, I own my body now. I choose my story. The Modern Tension Between Sacred and Sinful Despite the boom, tattoos remain controversial in many African societies. Ink is still taboo. Many parents view tattoos as symbols of recklessness, criminality, or lost morality. In conservative households, a visible tattoo can cost someone respect, employment, or marriage prospects. The Modern Tension Between Sacred and Sinful Despite the boom, tattoos remain controversial in many African societies. Ink is still taboo. Many parents view tattoos as symbols of recklessness, criminality, or lost morality. In conservative households, a visible tattoo can cost someone respect, employment, or marriage prospects. The stigma is often less about culture and more about colonial conditioning. What was once traditional is now labelled “un-African.” What was once sacred is now suspect. But this generation is asking difficult, necessary questions: Why are our ancestral marks considered defiance, while Western tattoos are seen as cool? Why do we fear what once gave us identity? Who decides what African looks like? Ink on Skin as Memory Tattoos are not new to Africa. What’s new is the language of autonomy around them. Today’s African youth are reinterpreting old symbols with new meaning, sometimes spiritual, sometimes aesthetic, sometimes political. For queer Africans, tattoos may signal chosen family. For feminist Africans, they may mark bodily autonomy. For diasporic Africans, they may signify a return to roots long buried. Tattoos were never just about beauty. They were about belief, belonging and about memory made flesh. Even now, beneath the skin of modernity, the ancient urge to mark meaning remains. Africa’s skin has never been blank. And its stories will not fade. Written by Kemi Adedoyin