She walks in like a story already written, confident, tall, skin glowing like roasted almond, catwalking in cracked pavement heels, blouse hanging loose like it knows it’s cool, with that kind of smile that could start a revolution, or end a beef.
She’s not in Gucci. Not in Zara.
She’s not tagged on Instagram.
But Sis is slaying.
Guess what? She’s rocking Akube!
Her closet is a timeline of continents – somewhere between Stratford and Surulere. Her dress from a UK charity shop now turns heads at Naija weddings, and her boots hitting the floors of Oshodi BRT stations once stomped through French winter.
Yeah. Bend-down-select. BK. Second-hand. Okrika. First Grade, Grade A, Akube... names like secret handshakes passed down from one slay queen to another. The holy grail of broke-but-bougie Lagos fashion.
Let’s rewind. In the mythos of Lagos living, Akube is what you wear when you want to look like Paris on a Mushin budget. It’s what you rock when you want to give “international baddie” but you only have 2k in your aza and a dream in your heart. Ha-ha.
Once upon a time, somebody in New York or Milan or Birmingham decided to declutter – maybe they were Marie Kondo-ing their closet or maybe they just outgrew the fit, then enter the Akube pipeline. The shit gets packed, compressed into bales, kissed by customs, and shipped off to Nigeria like a gift from the gods of global style. Their loss? Our flex.
The bales arrive in the sacred temples of Yaba, Jankara, Katangua, Mandilas; and there you see the merchants of drip, mostly energetic Igbo boys and mama-dem hustlers unpacking these bales like it’s Black Friday. Lol. You’re about to find a Burberry shirt for ₦1,500, and a Levi’s jacket with a tag!
The Okrikamasters are not just selling second-hand, they’re finding a new home for the items, and you happen to be the next chapter. They deliver, you slay.
So what’s the beef?
There’s this unspoken snobbery that if it didn’t come from a boutique, it’s not valid. Some people think if you’re not unboxing your fashion on TikTok with soft lighting and saxophone music, then you’re not doing ‘big girl’. LOL.
Tell that to the Unilag babes shutting down the entire faculty week in ₦800 dresses, or that guy turning Mandilas denim into a full-blown photoshoot.
Truth is, most of your faves are in Akube, they just won’t loud it because we’ve been programmed to believe that second-hand equals second-best, or “Okrika” sounds like lack.
In reality, Akube is fashion with a past life, but now with a second-chance
to recreate history. Each piece once lived a life somewhere else – maybe on the hips of a London girl on her last summer trip, or in a New York closet that got too full, or on a Paris runway that blinked and moved on. But then, it found its way home – to Lagos – Mandilas, Yaba, or Jankara, gliding through Lagos on the back of a girl who knows exactly how to pair vintage denim with Balenciaga dreams. And in that journey, it became reborn.
Akube don’t die – they simply relocate. They cross oceans to get a second shot at slaying. And they aren’t always behind; sometimes, they are way ahead of you, rocked places you dreamed of, with history, stories, memories, and moments stitched into them.
And let’s be real – some boutiques are just well-lit Akube stalls with audacity and perfume. Many of them buy their stock from Akube bales, iron it, perfume it, and hang it with a price tag ×10! Same cloth, different location.
A glittery purse from Turkey, a Zara blazer from Peckham, or an Adidas hoodie that left New York in 2022, now rocking Lagos clubs and turning popes to rapists!
And yet… people scoff.
Akube has grades, baby, this ain’t your grandma’s second-hand.
Grade A is fresh outta London, no stain, no stress – sometimes with price tags. Grade B has a little history, a little mystery, and Grade C is for the rugged DIY kings and queens who can see potential in a puffer jacket with one arm.
The street says Akube is for the broke, or the fashion-backward folks, but that’s a lie Lagos told itself because half of this city was raised on Okrika. Your boss once negotiated a price over starched shirts at Mandilas! Bank CEOs wore it when they were still squatting in Ojuelegba face-me-I-face-you apartments; even today, top fashion stylists quietly mix Akube and designers for the perfect high-low blend.
Interestingly, the best Akube piece is the one you find after digging through 200 shirts. Lol. You bend, search, and dig through for that one Dior top that still has its tag. You find gold in the grime. That’s when you earn it. That’s when the drip gods reward your hustle.
Akube is the Lagos remix of fashion democracy, whether you’re dripping from Turkey, touching threads from Tokyo, or unboxing London bales in Oshodi.
Lagos is built on hustle, on remix, and street fashion that bends the rules, and Akube is proof that you don’t need a boutique to break necks.
If someone ever tries to downplay your outfit because it is Akube, just smile, flaunt your gap-tooth (if you’ve got one), and say:
“Na mumu dey go boutique.”
