Dress Codes of the African Hustle: A Peep into Fashion and Occupation

 

By Rose Chukwudi 

In the early morning chaos of Lagos, you’ll see the Danfo drivers—the unsung kings of urban transportation—draped in faded jerseys, dusty jeans, and sometimes, a yellow polo that has survived one too many engine splashes. Their style isn’t about aesthetics, wetin kon sain dem sef; it’s pure functionality. Add a face towel draped around the neck, perfect for wiping sweat or flinging at annoying conductors, and you’ve got a look straight out of "Blackass" by A. Igoni Barrett or the gritty world of "Graceland" by Chris Abani. These drivers may look like they’re wearing hand-me-downs from three brothers ago, but trust me, they’re serving raw Lagos vibes.

While the drivers are battling traffic, the market queens are tying gele that could rival architectural blueprints. Their wrappers are ankara masterpieces, cinched tight enough to declare “I’m the boss here.” You’ll find them in books like "The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives" by Lola Shoneyin or "Stay With Me" by Ayọ̀bámi Adébáyọ̀, where the women’s fashion is as loud and confident as their personalities. Don’t let the rubber slippers fool you; they’re probably gold-trimmed. Market queens believe fashion is war, and they must slay their enemies in both price negotiations and outfit excellence.

Now shift to the open-plan offices of Yaba, Lagos or Nairobi’s Silicon Savannah and you’ll meet the tech bros. They’ve mastered the minimalist uniform: branded T-shirts in shades of many colours, slim-fit jeans rolled at the ankle, and sometimes, spotless white sneakers. Hoodies are worn even in 35-degree heat, because “the AC is cold.” It’s giving "Nearly All the Men in Lagos Are Mad" by Damilare Kuku vibes, where modern Lagos men juggle dating chaos and startups while dressed like they might pitch to a venture capitalist at any moment. 

Meanwhile, bankers walk around in suits so sharp you’d think they moonlight as knife salesmen. Crisp white shirts, shiny shoes, and red ties for senior staff—the unwritten dress code of the financial industry. They’re characters you’d find striding through "Welcome to Lagos" by Chibundu Onuzo, exuding my-job-is-better energy, even while secretly counting down to their jollof rice lunch break.

Then there’s the army of street hawkers, hustling under the sun with simple T-shirts, wrapper skirts, and slippers barely holding on for dear life. Their trays balanced on their heads are both merchandise stands and gym workouts. You’ll glimpse them in books like "Born on a Tuesday" by Elnathan John or "Children of the Street" by Kwei Quartey, which capture the hustle and survival coded into every torn shirt and quick smile.

Civil Servants in Nigeria are a fashion phenomenon all their own. Come Friday, entire ministries transform into oceans of matching Ankara “uniforms,” all cut from the same roll of fabric. ID cards dangle from their necks like medals of national service. They could walk out of the pages of "Anthills of the Savannah" by Chinua Achebe, carrying briefcases that might be stuffed with either documents or peppered meat for afternoon snacking.

Let’s not forget the secondary school teachers, who wear plain shirts tucked into long skirts or tailored trousers, sandals built for eight-hour days on their feet, and reading glasses that make them look wise even if they’re just 30 years old. They appear in stories like "Purple Hibiscus" by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, embodying both authority and quiet exhaustion.

On Sundays, the fashion baton passes to church ushers, who come through in colourful uniform suits or dresses, and shoes stylish enough for the Lord yet comfy enough to patrol the sanctuary for gum-chewing sinners and those possessed by sleep. Lol. Their aesthetic is captured in "Americanah" by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, where Nigerian church fashion is practically a competitive sport.

Finally, there’s the rising breed of bougie influencers, flouncing around in flowy chiffon, giant sunglasses, and designer handbags worth more than some cars. They’re also captured hilariously in "Nearly All the Men in Lagos Are Mad", living the soft life while casually staging “random” photoshoots at petrol stations. Their outfits are statements: “I’m thriving, darling. Take notes.”

All these hustlers, in their diverse wardrobes, remind us that fashion in Africa isn’t just about looking good—it’s about sending messages. Who you are. Where you’re from. Whether you’re here to sell, slay, or simply survive. Books like "Blackass", "The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives", "Born on a Tuesday", and "Nearly All the Men in Lagos Are Mad" weave these vibrant styles into their stories, proving that in Africa, the hustle and the wardrobe are always linked.

So the next time you’re stuck in Lagos traffic or wandering through Accra’s Makola market, pay attention to what people are wearing. Because every piece of fabric, every rolled-up sleeve, and every gele twisted to the heavens is telling a story. And in the African hustle, style is never just style: it’s part of the plot.