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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