By @amaaddo71 –
I did not realise how deeply personal clothes could be until I stood in the middle of a Primark in Peckham holding a grey puffer jacket and wondering if this was how my culture would slowly start to die.
Dramatic? Maybe. But in that moment, it felt like the final surrender. A girl born and raised in Nigeria now wrapping herself in the most unseasoned, uninspired coat on the rack. I missed my colour. I missed my shape. I missed my Sunday bests and my casual Fridays that still looked like weddings.
But let me go back.
The Problem: The UK Weather Does Not Rate Fashion
When I arrived in the UK, I had two suitcases: one for clothes, one for “essentials.” I thought I was being smart. Ankara prints, gele, flowing boubous — even my sharpest agbada set (don’t ask why, I just felt prepared). But after two weeks of British drizzle and bone-soaking chill, I realised I had packed for nostalgia, not survival.
My denim jackets laughed at me.
My sliders mocked me.
My skin, used to sun and open skies, turned ashier than my auntie’s church wig.
I needed to adapt — but I also refused to vanish into bland layers of beige and black.
Step One: Layer Like a Lagosian
The British taught me layering. But my ancestors taught me flair.
I started small — a bright scarf over my muted coat, then African wax-print lining sewn inside my winter jackets (shoutout to the tailor aunty in Deptford who understands me on a spiritual level). I’d wear a thick rollneck but throw on chunky earrings that screamed “yes, I’m freezing, but I’m still a daughter of the soil.”
Eventually, I found balance:
Wool trousers, but tailored with Yoruba-style wide legs.
Doc Martens, but worn with colourful socks peeking out.
Padded gilet, but underneath, an oversized batik shirt from my cousin’s stall in Ibadan.
Step Two: Mastering the Colour War
British high street fashion is obsessed with looking “minimal” — which is code for “scared of colour.”
I rebelled.
One day I wore a sunshine-yellow ankara bucket hat in the middle of February. A woman on the bus stared. I stared back. We are both survivors, madam, but I am surviving with joy.
Bit by bit, I built a system: grey or black base layers, then one unapologetic cultural statement piece. A hoodie, yes, but with Kente-print sleeves. A beanie hat, but handmade by my aunt in Ghana. If anyone asks, I call it AfroFunctionality™.
Step Three: Culture Is Not Just For Sundays
Here’s the thing that changed everything — I stopped saving my “cultural” clothes for special occasions. Why should I? My culture is not a costume. It’s my default setting.
Now I wear my Ankara trousers to Tesco. I mix my mum’s old wrappers with cropped puffers. I wear a Nigerian head tie with AirPods in my ears and drill playing in the background. Because this is what my Britishness looks like.
Some days I feel like a walking contradiction. Other days, I feel like a whole revolution.
Final Thought: Clothes Can Be a Soft Protest
In a country where people often ask, “Where are you really from?”, I let my clothes answer for me.
They say, “I am from somewhere.”
They say, “I am cold, but I am still golden.”
They say, “I can adapt, but I do not need to disappear.”
And that, my friends, is how I built my wardrobe — not just around the weather, but around my truth.
