LFW 25 hit me like a text from an old friend I didn’t know I needed. I sat on my couch with my laptop on my knees and watched Lagos do what it always does when it’s serious: show up loud, proud, and unbothered.
From the first look I felt it — this is not business as usual. Dimeji Ilori walked out with pieces that felt like home and future at once. The aso oke, the patterns, the way the cloth moved on real bodies made me want to clap even before the applause began. It was homage without museum dust. It was alive.
Emmy Kasbit’s set felt sharp and honest. His tailoring has always had teeth and poetry at the same time, and this season he pushed both. Those silhouettes sat on shoulders the way confidence sits on a person who knows their worth. I kept thinking about the men who will wear these pieces and how their whole gait might change because of a jacket.
L. B. Lumina brought calm force. Their pieces are quiet but they land. There is a patience in the cut and a polish that says someone thought about how the garment would live outside the runway. It felt like quality that could travel the world and still whisper where it came from.
Studio Imo surprised me with the softness of rebellion. There was an edge but it came through drape and fabric choice more than loudness. Hawa brought a diaspora heart to the runway. Her palette felt like Sunday morning, like prayer, like remembering. Watching her show I felt connected to other places at once.
NYA’s work arrived as a kind of celebration. Textures layered over textures. Colors bumped into one another but in a good way. It felt like a party where everyone finally agreed on the music. It felt joyful and intentional.
Lagos itself was the other main character. The city’s rhythm sits behind everything. You could see it in the models’ walks, in the tailoring, in the little improvisations that make a look feel like Lagos and not a copy of something else. The week is messy in the best way. There is grit and glamour, bargaining and ballroom. That mix is its charm.
I thought about the hands that make these garments while I watched. Not just the named designers but the tailors, the beadworkers, the seamstresses, the people who roll up their sleeves and translate an idea into a thing you can wear. When Dimeji’s aso oke caught the light, I thought of weavers in Abeokuta bending over looms, of vendors in markets folding fabric with tired hands, and I felt the scale of what this week connects.
There were moments that stopped me. A row of models in block patterns that echoed Yoruba motifs. The camera lingered. The audience breathed. That kind of collective silence says more than a standing ovation sometimes. It felt like recognition. Like the culture saying to the world, here we are and we have always been.
Fashion business kept pulling at my attention too because LFW 25 is not just art. It is an industry trying to grow in smart ways. I watched clips of talks and panels where people spoke about manufacturing, about export, about getting Nigerian labels into stores worldwide without losing the story. That conversation matters. It will determine whether the week is a one off spectacle or a real engine for livelihoods.
On a smaller scale the shows had tiny moments that stuck with me: a metallic stitch that caught the light just so, a model who carried herself like she was out for morning errands and also conquering a world, the way a hemline moved when someone turned. Those are the things that live with you after the stream closes.
I have a soft spot for menswear and I was proud of how menswear held its own this week. But what made me smile most was the range of bodies represented. Different skin tones, different silhouettes, people who looked like the Lagos I know. That matters. Representation is not a trend for us. It is life.
Watching from my living room I felt the pull between local and global. There were pieces that shouted Lagos, and pieces that whispered universal. That balance is the hard work. It is what will make these designers last beyond the moment of applause.
I kept thinking about risk. Putting out a collection is brave work. Showing up on a stage where the whole world can judge you is not for the faint hearted. And yet these designers keep returning, season after season, to try again. That persistence is a kind of national bravery.
When the models filed out for the final bows I felt proud in a physical way. Like my chest tightened a little. Seeing NYA, Dimeji Ilori, L. B. Lumina, Studio Imo, Hawa, and Emmy Kasbit on that same bill felt like watching siblings at a table: similar blood, different faces. Each had a voice and the week let them speak.
I am honest with you: there were rough patches. Not every look landed. Not every mix worked. But I prefer that. Fashion that tries and stumbles feels human. Perfection that has been sanitized for a press release feels dead. I want heartbeat, not a museum piece.
Beyond the runway there are the conversations. I scrolled through comments, saw threads of pride from the diaspora, and messages from young designers asking how they can step in next season. I thought about mentorship, about access to capital, about how to scale craftsmanship without losing the soul. These are real problems. If LFW 25 can be part of solving them, then we’re building something important.
I also thought about the audience. Lagos is watching itself and being watched. That gaze changes how designers show up. Some leaned into spectacle. Others stripped back. Both choices felt honest. I liked that the week held space for both.
There was a moment that made me laugh out loud. A model in a structured suit walked with such seriousness, then glanced at the camera like she knew she had everyone in her pocket. The crowd loved it. I loved it. Little human moments like that make the whole thing feel alive.
When everything wound down and the last lights dimmed I sat for a beat, not ready to interrupt the feeling. That quiet after a big show is where you digest what you saw. For me it translated into certainty: Lagos is no longer trying to convince anyone. It is writing its own rules.
If you asked me what the week gave me, I’d say a few things. It gave me confirmation that our designers can tell stories with clothes and be taken seriously. It gave me hope that fashion can be both commercial and soulful. It gave me the image of aso oke catching the light and refusing to be ignored. And it gave me the reminder that fashion is survival and joy and business all at once.
So I closed my laptop and walked around my room, feeling the echo of footsteps from the runway in my head. I thought about the little changes I might make to my own closet, the small ways I could carry that confidence into my day. That is what fashion is for me now: not just spectacle but instruction. It teaches posture and patience. It teaches how to show up.
Lagos has always been loud. This week felt like the city choosing what to shout about. It chose craft, history, strength, and softness at the same time. It chose designers who are not afraid to root their work in who they are. Watching that felt like watching a city remember itself.
We are at the start of what will be old stories in a new language. The designers who showed up this season will be part of that rewriting. I walked away feeling beat up in the best way, full of gratitude for the makers, and ready to carry a little of that runway posture into my life.
When I finally turned off the livestream I whispered something like thank you to the screen. Thank you for showing us that the world can look to Lagos and learn.
