On the morning of June 18, 2024, three days after the Muslim feast of Eid al-Adha, a spectacular parade unfolded in the ancient commercial town of Ijebu Ode in southwestern Nigeria. The Ojude Oba, the royal forecourt where the festivities were held, was abuzz with cultural rituals performed in homage to the town’s monarch. In one scene, a parade of gaily caparisoned horses trotted across the wide expanse of the court amid sporadic gunfire, their riders performing tricks and spins on horseback, whipping the teeming crowd of spectators into a frenzy. As the equestrian display ended, the arena was taken over by a procession of hundreds of men and women, arranged by age and gender, accompanied by the throbbing rhythm of traditional drums and the blares of trumpets. But it wasn’t the music or the sheer volume of the crowd that drew the spectators to pull out their phones and start snapping away — it was the outfits. Each of the peer groups, called “regberegbe” in Yoruba, sported striking, matching attire — a hallmark of the celebration and of their shared family lineages. Here was a clutch of aunties in red, white and blue stripes and bold gold jewelry, their heads wrapped identically in the handwoven cloth; men in long, shimmering cream robes bedecked with coral necklaces perched together on the bandstand; a pod of women in rich purple and teal dresses, with matching sunglasses and feathered fans, maneuvered their way through the crowd together. This is “aso ebi,” or “cloth of the kin,” and it is, as the Nigerian documentary photographer Nimi Adeyemo, who captured the procession in 2023 said, part of the “supremacy of the Indigenous Yoruba dress.”
Aso ebi traces its origins to precolonial Yoruba societies, in which uniform attires were worn to symbolize kinship and mark fraternal bonds. In a women’s social club, for example, members would turn out for cultural ceremonies in dresses of matching fabric and similar style, typically customized with the emblem of the group. While this signified comradeship among the members, it also communicated a mutual sense of purpose for the group. Within family circles, the dress culture was practiced particularly during funerals, where children as well as members of the extended family donned outfits emblazoned with the portrait of the deceased as a portrayal of their respect for the departed. Over the course of the past century, the aso ebi dress practice has risen in status, transcending blood and ethnic boundaries to become the signature fashion of the Nigerian party. Not only is it seen at burial ceremonies these days but also at memorials, birthdays, weddings and any lavish occasion. Its presence at just about any ceremony or festival, said Adeola Adeoti, an academic at the Ladoke Akintola University of Science and Technology who has published a paper on aso ebi, makes it “a dynamic aspect of Yoruba custom and a symbol of solidarity, love and social connections in such occasions.”
But what originally began as a symbol of kinship within tight-knit groups and blood circles has evolved into a statement of social standing, a tool for shifting wealth and a canvas for all kinds of domestic drama. And there is no better place to see the social politics of aso ebi at play than at a Nigerian wedding.
At weddings across Nigeria, it is not just the bridesmaids who are expected to wear matching attire — every guest should sport an outfit from the same fabric to celebrate their unity with the bride and groom as part of the aso ebi custom. To achieve this effect, a bride starts months in advance, buying — or, in some cases, even custom-ordering — bolts of fabric in colors to match her wedding theme, before selling it to her family and friends, who take the cloth to be custom-tailored into extravagant outfits.
In a practice that is just as common these days, two different types of fabrics are selected, with one more expensive than the other. The bride then resells the preselected fabric in lengths of 3 and 5 yards to friends and well-wishers. “In a situation where the celebrant is all about making a profit,” explained Florence Onamah, a Lagos-based interior designer, “they go for a type of fabric and hike the price.” To coordinate sales of the aso ebi, the celebrant or wedding planner creates a WhatsApp group, adding all of her friends and expected attendants, who in turn pay for the expensive fabric from the bride without hesitation, in what is seen as an expression of goodwill and solidarity. “For celebrants who don’t have friends to sell to, they add random people they’ve met at other functions, places of worship or schools to their WhatsApp group and expect them to buy,” Onamah added.
Faith Nwachukwu, a matronly figure with a quiet disposition, found herself in one such WhatsApp group, named “Victoria and friends,” in September 2021. A former work colleague, whose eldest daughter was about to get hitched, had created the group, inviting old friends and acquaintances. “We hadn’t really stayed in touch since I left the school almost six years ago,” recalled Nwachukwu, who was surprised at the sudden request to buy the aso ebi of a bride she barely knew. Yet oblige she did. At first, she chose a lace material with gold spangles — one of the two options for the aso ebi — but flinched when she saw its cost. “They were selling 3 yards of the lace for 85,000 naira [$52],” Nwachukwu said. If she thought that was rather pricey for a few yards of cloth, not many in the group shared that sentiment. Before long, the lace material was said to be out of stock. “So I went instead for ankara” — also known as wax print, a cotton cloth patterned with batik-inspired prints — “that was 48,000 naira for the same 3 yards. But I still ended up spending more than 120,000 naira for everything,” she lamented, highlighting the additional costs of tailoring and accessories.
In the years when the dress practice first took off, a primary fabric of choice was the handcrafted “aso oke” (Yoruba for “top cloth”), which blends cotton and silk yarns in a labor-intensive production involving elaborate hand techniques. For women, the aso oke was traditionally sewn into three-piece ensembles — an ankle-length sarong skirt called an “iro,” a long-sleeved “buba” blouse and a headdress, or “gele,” which is wound intricately around the woman’s head in geometric patterns that resemble the floors of a skyscraper and pinned on one end. While less evident, male aso ebi fashion consisted of a tunic top, also called a buba; loose-fitting pants, known as “sokoto”; and the iconic “agbada” — an embroidered, voluminous robe, often paired with a distinctive cap referred to as a “fila.”
Despite the glossy appeal and durability of the native handwoven fabric, it struggled to keep pace with the soaring demand for aso ebi in the years after Nigeria’s independence, when celebrations lit up the country’s social scene and fashion magazines proliferated. Producing aso oke — from cultivating the silk moths to weaving the final cloth — was arduous and time-consuming. Consequently, families and wedding planners turned to wax print and other imported fabrics, such as French lace and Swiss voile, which mimicked the eyelets and perforations of the locally woven aso oke.
Among the most popular aso ebi fabrics on the market today are lace and wax print, Taofeekat Badmus, a fabric merchant in one of Lagos’ popular markets, told New Lines. Originally produced for the Indonesian market by the Dutch, wax print met with a strong reception in sub-Saharan Africa because of its low cost and vibrant collection of designs and colorways. Nevertheless, “lace gives this rich aunty vibes when worn,” Badmus added. In her research paper, Adeoti, the academic, also highlighted the prestige associated with lace that rubs off on its wearer, ranking them among the upper class during a social event. But this thought had never occurred to Nwachukwu as she turned up for the wedding one Saturday in late 2021 wearing her bespoke wax print gown.
An usher welcomed her warmly by the entrance and led her to a row of tables on one side of the ballroom, surrounded by guests dressed in the same fabric. Several minutes after she’d settled in her seat, the live band struck up a tune to announce the arrival of a new crew of guests. As Nwachukwu remembered, the all-female guests arrived in their finery, with headdresses that fanned out like the wings of giant butterflies and makeup that shimmered like their sequined luminous lace. The women danced to the stage, where the couple were seated, as “the live band continued singing their praises,” said Nwachukwu, who observed as several members of the lace crew sprayed freshly minted money on the dancing bride. The women would later take their seats at a different row of tables well stocked with exotic drinks.
At one particular moment, Nwachukwu recalls the team of ushers walking past her with trays laden with cocktails and an astonishing variety of snacks, even though her table contained nothing more than “a few cans of malt, bottled water and Zobo,” a tangy drink made from dried hibiscus leaves. When the food finally arrived, Nwachukwu and the guests in wax print were informed that the meat was finished. Feeling slighted, a handful of guests in wax print stormed out of the venue. “Imagine the shame of being given food without meat, when you are not a beggar,” she sighed, recalling what was the “biggest embarrassment” she had ever experienced. “As if that’s not worse, they shared gas lighters among us, while they gave the other guests printed bags and umbrellas as souvenirs,” she added.
Yet for the bride, the dazzling spectacle of friends and family in identical, tailor-made attire conferred a badge of honor, depicting her as a popular figure who wielded great influence. While not every member of the lace crew might have been as deep-pocketed as they appeared, purchasing the more expensive fabric managed to blur the class differences between them, giving each member some measure of inclusion and social significance. To evade the disparaging lens of public scrutiny, “some will prove that they have the means even if they have to borrow” to buy the cloth, remarked Onamah, the interior designer. It’s a steep price for an ensemble that will only be worn once.
A strong culture of mutual obligation adds to the dynamics. It’s a social norm that a bride who sells aso ebi to her social circles during her own wedding should expect to reciprocate the goodwill when it is the turn of other friends. By the same token, a member who declines to purchase another’s selected fabric, or haggles over its cost, is perceived as nursing ill will toward the celebrant and is treated as “the enemy number one that is slowly cast off,” as Margaret (not her real name), a bank worker living in Lagos, put it.
After her husband lost his tech job in April 2024 during a downsizing, Margaret found herself grappling to fend for her family while caring for her mother who had been diagnosed with Stage 4 ovarian cancer. “It was so overwhelming sometimes, I broke down a few times crying about everything,” she said of the ordeal. It was around this time that a friend reached out to Margaret with an invitation to attend a memorial service honoring the anniversary of her own mother’s passing. “The cloth was, like, 40,000 naira [$24], and it was ankara,” she said of her friend’s aso ebi. But Margaret, whose mother was due for surgery by the following month, was already crumbling under a heap of hospital bills. Her family’s needs were more urgent at the time and she couldn’t fork out the money for her friend, who “had been supportive when I was getting married,” she admitted. “Yet I felt that she would understand my situation.” As the weeks wore on, communication slowed between Margaret and her friend, and their relationship went downhill.
Yet a sense of guilt continued to plague Margaret, who hoped to patch things up. Not long afterward, she reached out to her friend for assistance on a delayed project. “She was in the best position to help me because she had connections with the group,” Margaret related. Her friend promised to call her back in a voice that Margaret recalled as cold and condescending. Days passed without any feedback from her friend. “She didn’t even pick [up] my calls anymore,” said Margaret, who would later delete her friend’s number from her phone in what was a “painful” decision to make. “But then it was like good riddance to bad rubbish. Can’t let anyone pressure me,” she added.
For many, Margaret’s ability to fend off the social pressures of aso ebi and sacrifice a cherished friendship would seem a rare act of courage. Short of money, many Nigerian women have reportedly diverted their children’s school fees into buying their friend’s aso ebi to avoid facing ostracism. In some cases, the buyers make arrangements to pay later, which inevitably creates a strain in the relationship when they don’t pay up when promised.
The idea of fundraising through the distribution of aso ebi among friends has also been noted in the Nigerian diaspora. At a summer birthday soiree held in London, a roomful of guests turned to the 70-year-old celebrant as she took hold of the microphone as if to make a speech of thanks. What followed instead was an angry outburst against partygoers who were enjoying her lavish feast without purchasing her aso ebi material. “Whoever didn’t buy clothes from me should leave unless they don’t want to live up to 70 years as well,” her voice rang out in a viral clip that drew mixed reactions from Nigerians on X.
A few years ago, the aso ebi trend nearly met its demise, as the COVID-19 pandemic put tight restrictions on social gatherings and many Nigerian couples resorted to the videoconferencing platform Zoom for their weddings, without all the attendant pageantry and frenzy. But by 2022, the dress custom had made its comeback, even as a cost-of-living crisis shrunk food menus and souvenirs at many Nigerian parties, to the dismay of guests. Even as aso ebi has broadened in appeal, it has not translated into any significant gains for the domestic textile industry. According to the Nigerian government, textiles’ contribution to the country’s GDP fell by 3% in 2023 and a further 1.75% in the first quarter of 2024. In addition to high operating costs, the industry is contending with surging imports of Chinese-made imitations, which are cheaper than those made within Nigeria.
Still, aso ebi continues to hold great sway in the popular imagination. Part of this enduring appeal is because “the fabrics used for aso ebi can adapt to fashion trends in any social event,” Adeoti said. As well as this flexibility, it has significant commercial value for a motley group of textile merchants, designers, photographers and makeup artists, including content creators who curate a rich gallery of stylish aso ebi fashion for millions of followers on TikTok and Instagram.
Alongside this mass appeal, transcultural influences from Western fashion also continue to adapt aso ebi to modern styles. The traditional iro-and-buba ensemble, while still fairly common, is passe by today’s standards, as creative techniques in design have come to be prized, said Esther Abejide, a Nigerian fashion designer. Younger women are commissioning corset-style dresses, nipped in tightly at the waist and highlighting wearers’ body contours. Will shifting fashion trends and social mores phase out this enduring dress practice in the future? “Aso ebi will always continue to be relevant in Yoruba culture and tradition,” said Adeoti, adding, “Yoruba people value their culture and social connections.” Indeed one of the clothing components hasn’t changed as the moods of fashion have shifted: the gele, or head tie, has stayed constant as a glorious crown proclaiming aso ebi’s cultural roots at both local and global festivals. Among the lineup of musical stars who strutted along the red carpet at the 2025 Grammy Awards ceremony was the Nigerian Afrobeats singer Yemi Alade, in a striking red velvet gown dense with beadwork, her hair nicely coiffed with a crown of coral beads, like a Benin bride. Alade’s cultural outfit at a high-fashion music ceremony got social media abuzz.
Late one Saturday evening in 2024, the unpleasant wedding experience now behind her, Nwachukwu sat in her bedroom, dithering about what dress to wear to church the following Sunday. If she wore the wax print aso ebi dress, which had been gathering dust in her closet, she risked being noticed for repeating her outfit by one of the attendees from the wedding. But the next available dress had been ruined by an amateur tailor she had contracted. The next morning, when Nwachukwu donned the aso ebi gown from 2021, she was taken aback by the flurry of compliments from church members. One even asked for the number of her fashion designer. “I kept thinking, ‘What stopped me from wearing the dress all this while?’”
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