Author name: Rahma Yusuf

For centuries, the way Africans dressed was a reflection of their environment, beliefs, and status. Kings and scholars alike were adorned in woven fabrics of gold-threaded cotton, while skilled artisans dyed clothes in pits that were renowned across the Mediterranean. Fashion was never just about covering the body—it was a statement of identity, craftsmanship, and culture. But then came colonization, and with it, an abandonment of indigenous dress. In cities, Western suits became the standard of respectability, while traditional garments were relegated to rural life or ceremonial occasions. Even after independence, the office dress code remained unchanged: starched shirts, tailored suits, stiff leather shoes. Wearing traditional garments to work was seen as unprofessional. Yet, tradition has a way of enduring. While the world turned its eyes to European fashion houses, African textiles and designs remained and passed down through generations. And now, they are making their way back out of the villages and special occasions to everyday urban life. The beauty of African clothing lies in its diversity. From the flowing agbada of the Yoruba to the richly embroidered boubou worn across West Africa, every piece tells a story. The Shwe Shwe fabric of Southern Africa, once associated with colonial uniforms, has been reclaimed as a symbol of cultural pride. The leso of East Africa, wrapped elegantly around the body, carries messages in its patterns and colors. The regal kente, reserved for Ghanaian royalty, now graces runways and red carpets. These garments are worn by presidents, by musicians, scholars, and everyday people who choose to embrace their heritage. In Lagos and Dakar, men wear kaftans to the office on dress-down Fridays. Women in Accra and Nairobi mix Ankara prints with modern silhouettes. Fashion designers across the continent are reinterpreting old techniques, using handwoven fabrics, indigo dyes, and intricate beadwork to create garments that bridge the past and the present. On the global stage, African fashion is impossible to ignore. Celebrities drape themselves in Kente and Aso-Oke. Runways in Paris and New York showcase designs inspired by the ancient weavers of Timbuktu. Young Africans in the diaspora look to their roots, choosing bold, bright prints over plain Western fabrics. Glossary ● Agbada – A flowing, wide-sleeved robe worn by men in West Africa, particularly among the Yoruba, Hausa, and other groups. It is often made of richly embroidered fabric and signifies prestige and authority. ● Boubou – A long, loose-fitting tunic worn by both men and women across West Africa, particularly in Senegal, Mali, and Nigeria. The male version is typically worn over trousers, while women wear it as a gown. ● Shweshwe – A printed cotton fabric popular in Southern Africa, particularly among the Xhosa, Sotho, and Zulu communities. ● Leso (Kanga) – A colorful, rectangular piece of cloth worn by women in East Africa, particularly in Kenya and Tanzania. It often carries Swahili proverbs or messages printed along its border. ● Kente – A woven fabric from Ghana, traditionally associated with the Ashanti and Ewe people. It features intricate patterns and bright colors, often symbolizing specific meanings such as wisdom, royalty, or unity. ● Ankara – A type of wax-printed cotton fabric popular across West and Central Africa. It is known for its vibrant colors and bold patterns, often used for dresses, skirts, and men’s shirts. ● Kaftan – A long, flowing tunic worn by men and women, particularly in North and West Africa. It is often made from silk or cotton and may feature embroidery along the neckline and sleeves. ● Aso-Oke – A handwoven fabric from the Yoruba people of Nigeria, often used for special occasions such as weddings and coronations. It comes in various styles, including Sanyan (beige and brown tones), Alaari (rich red), and Etu (deep blue).

The first time I attended the Osun Festival, I was eight years old. I had traveled to Osogbo to spend the long holidays with my Aunty Adeola, who had a way of taking me on adventures, so she was my favorite family member to spend the holidays with. She told me one morning that we had an outing to attend. Aunty Adeola had the local tailor make a stunning oleku for me—short-sleeved and cut just right—from a beautiful black Ankara fabric adorned with gold stars. I still remember how the stars seemed to dance under the sunlight. She had even thought ahead and had a scarf made for my head, sparing me the struggle of balancing a full gele. That scarf became my favorite accessory long after the festival ended. Her house was only a three-minute walk from the Osun River, so the journey to the festival grounds was short, but it felt like stepping into another world. As we approached, the air buzzed with energy. The rhythmic pounding of bata drums filled my ears, mingling with the people talking, and the occasional call of a vendor selling roasted corn or chilled sachets of water. Brightly dressed women swayed their hips to the drumbeats, their geles standing high in different styles. I clutched Aunty Adeola’s hand tightly, overwhelmed but exhilarated by it all. I did not want to get lost in the throng of people present. She led me to a spot near the river where we could see the main procession. Aunty Adeola pointed to a girl walking at the center, her movements graceful despite the weight of the large calabash balanced on her head. “That’s the Arugba,” she whispered, leaning down to my height. “She carries the prayers of the people to Osun. Look at her, so strong. It’s an honour to be chosen as the Arugba.” I watched her with wide eyes, her flowing white attire catching the sunlight, making her look ethereal. Behind her were priests and priestesses chanting as she led the group. People rushed forward to lay offerings by the river—kola nuts, honey, white cloth—each prayer whispered with urgency and hope. Aunty Adeola explained each part of the ceremony to me in hushed tones. She told me about Osun, the goddess of the river, of love and fertility, and how she had once saved the people of Osogbo during a time of drought. “Osun keeps her promises,” she said. “That’s why we keep ours.” She handed me a small basket with flowers and fruits we had brought from her garden. Together, we walked to the riverbank, where I timidly added our offering to the growing pile. Aunty Adeola closed her eyes, murmured a prayer, and I followed suit, though I didn’t know what to say. “Osun goddess, I want to be happy forever.” I whispered as I clutched my arms against my chest. After the procession, we explored the festival grounds. Dancers performed to which the crowd cheered. Vendors sold handmade jewelry, beaded anklets and necklaces, and wooden figurines. Aunty Adeola bought me a pair of earrings shaped like the crescent moon, saying they matched the stars on my dress. We made our way back home as the sun started to set, the drumbeats fading into the distance. I was tired but happy, my head buzzing with new stories to tell. As I remember that adventure, that day was more than just an outing. It was my introduction to the soul of Yoruba culture, to the stories and traditions that connect us to the past. The Osun Festival remains a cherished memory, a reminder of the beauty in our traditions and the strength we draw from our roots. And every time I hear the rhythm of a bata drum or see the flowing Osun River, I think of that day—my first Osun Festival, hand in hand with Aunty Adeola. GLOSSARY: ● Oleku: A traditional Yoruba outfit for women, typically a short-sleeved blouse and a wrap skirt, often styled with a headscarf or gele. ● Ankara: A brightly patterned fabric popular in West Africa, often used to make traditional clothing. ● Gele: A head wrap worn by women, usually made from stiff fabric, tied to complement traditional attire. ● Arugba: A virgin girl chosen to carry the sacred calabash of offerings to Osun during the festival. ● Bata Drums: Traditional Yoruba drums used in ceremonies and festivals, known for their distinctive rhythms that communicate with deities.