Fashion, for us, was never just about clothes. It was about expression, identity and sometimes, childhood chaos. My sisters and I still laugh at the fashion battles we fought growing up, but back then? It was war. Stylish war.
There was a period in our childhood when “new” didn’t mean brand new. It meant new to us, hand-me-downs packed in nylon bags from our cousins. My mum would receive them with pride, like she was unboxing designer wear, all smiles as she laid them out for us to try. “See what your auntie gave you girls! Fine clothes!” she’d say, as if we had just won the fashion lottery.
But we knew better. The moment we saw those clothes, our hearts would sink. They were always one thing or another too big, too outdated, too strange-looking. We’d stare at each other in horror, then back at the clothes, and cry out in unison, “Mummy, we can’t wear this!”
“It’s not giving!” we’d protest. “It’s not stylish, not trendy… just not IT.”
Of course, our mum wasn’t having it. “You people don’t appreciate anything! Do you know how much this suit cost? Four hundred thousand naira! It’s Italian! It’s from Turkey!”
She’d pull out a blazer with pride, claiming it was once worth a fortune, while we tried to picture ourselves in it without looking like extras in a retro movie. We didn’t care if it was Italian or Turkish, we just didn’t want to look like we time-traveled from 1993.
Our only hope? Daddy.
Now, my dad was a whole different fashion spirit. Quiet but stylish, the real fashion plug in the house. Where mum could wear anything and move on with her day, daddy had taste. He valued fit, color, style, he got it. So whenever we felt attacked by mummy’s clothing choices, we ran to him.
He’d sit in one corner of the house, calmly observing the chaos, a soft grin playing on his face. “You people don’t want to wear it?” he’d ask, and when we nodded frantically, he’d whisper our salvation: “Just fold it and put it back in the wardrobe. She won’t remember.”
That was our escape plan. We’d quickly stash the clothes and act like nothing ever happened. Crisis averted.
Funny enough, the clothes we loved the most weren’t expensive or “foreign.” We adored the thrift pieces mummy bought from the market, random finds that somehow made us feel cool or the already-maxed, on-trend clothes daddy would surprise us with. Those outfits made us feel confident, made us feel seen. Even as kids, we wanted to feel stylish, to turn heads, to collect compliments like candy.
Now, every once in a while, we stumble across one of those old clothes hiding somewhere deep in our wardrobe, and the memories come rushing back. We still don’t like them, honestly. Probably never will. But those clothes, those moments, they shaped our love for fashion. They taught us the power of knowing your own style, even when the world (or your mum) is telling you to wear something else.
From hiding Italian suits to finding our own aesthetic, it’s been a journey. One filled with laughter, rebellion, and a little wardrobe mischief.
And to be honest? We wouldn’t change a thing.
Reading this gave me such a warm nostalgia feeling, like flashback to those hilarious childhood fashion we all took away too seriously. Now we look back and laugh at the chaos we called style. Miracle Chibuzor is doing well with her writing! She dived deep into my childhood and spark my imagination in ways I didn’t expect. This is really good!
Exactly, guyyyyyy those years 😂😂