A certain primal vitality was unleashed among Nigerian practitioners in the years preceding independence. The century-long rule of colonialism was coming to a close and the population of Nigeria, with its numerous tribes and ebullient energy, were positioned for a different era in which they would determine the context of their lives.
Those who most articulated that dual stance, that paradox of contemporary life and custom, were artists in all their varieties. Practitioners across the country, in continuous conversation with one another, produced works that evoked their traditions but in a current context. Artists such as Yusuf Grillo in the north, Bruce Onobrakpeya from the midwest, Ben Enwonwu from the east and Twins Seven Seven from the west were reinventing the dream of art in a rigorously Nigerian context.
The impact of the works created by the Zaria Art Society, the group that congregated in Lagos and showcased all over the world, was deep. Their work helped the nation to rediscover its ancient ways, but modified to contemporary life. It was a innovative creative form, both contemplative and joyous. Often it was an art that alluded to the many facets of Nigerian legend; often it incorporated common experiences.
Deities, ancestral presences, rituals, masquerades featured centrally, alongside frequent subjects of dancing figures, representations and vistas, but rendered in a special light, with a color scheme that was totally different from anything in the European art heritage.
It is essential to emphasize that these were not artists creating in solitude. They were in touch with the movements of world art, as can be seen by the responses to cubism in many works of sculpture. It was not a response as such but a reclaiming, a recovery, of what cubism appropriated from Africa.
The other area in which this Nigerian modernism manifested itself is in the Nigerian novel. Works such as Chinua Achebe's seminal Things Fall Apart, Wole Soyinka's The Interpreters and Amos Tutuola's The Palm-Wine Drinkard are all works that portray a nation simmering with energy and societal conflicts. Christopher Okigbo wrote in Labyrinths, 1967, that "We carry in our worlds that flourish / Our worlds that have failed." But the opposite is also true. We carry in our worlds that have failed, our worlds that flourish.
Two significant contemporary events confirm this. The eagerly expected opening of the art museum in the ancient city of Benin, MOWAA (Museum of West African Art), may be the single most important event in African art since the notorious burning of African works of art by the British in that same city, in 1897.
The other is the upcoming exhibition at Tate Modern in London, Nigerian Modernism, which aims to focus on Nigeria's role to the larger story of modern art and British culture. Nigerian writers and creatives in Britain have been a crucial part of that story, not least Ben Enwonwu, who resided here during the Nigerian civil war and crafted Queen Elizabeth II in the 50s. For almost 100 years, artists such as Uzo Egonu, Demas Nwoko and Bruce Onobrakpeya have influenced the visual and cultural life of these isles.
The legacy continues with artists such as El Anatsui, who has expanded the potential of global sculpture with his impressive works, and ceramicist Ladi Kwali, who transformed Nigerian craft and modern design. They have extended the story of Nigerian modernism into modern era, bringing about a revitalization not only in the art and literature of Africa but of Britain also.
For me, Sade Adu is a excellent example of the British-Nigerian creative spirit. She combined jazz, soul and pop into something that was distinctively personal, not copying anyone, but producing a fresh approach. That is what Nigerian modernism does too: it produces something innovative out of history.
I came of age between Lagos and London, and used to pay frequent visits to Lagos's National Museum, which is where I first saw Ben Enwonwu's sculpture Anyanwu. It was compelling, elevating and deeply connected to Nigerian identity, and left a memorable effect on me, even as a child. In 1977, when I was a teenager, Nigeria hosted the landmark Festival of Black Arts and Culture, and the National Theatre in Lagos was full of specially produced work: art glass, sculptures, impressive creations. It was a developmental experience, showing me that art could narrate the history of a nation.
If I had to choose one piece of Nigerian art which has impacted me the most, it would be Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. It is about the Nigerian civil war in the 60s, which divided my family. My parents never spoke about it, so reading that book in 2006 was a foundational moment for me – it articulated a history that had molded my life but was never spoken about.
I grew up in Newcastle in the 70s and 80s, and there was no familiarity to Nigerian or British-Nigerian art or artists. My school friends would make fun of the idea of Nigerian or African art. We pursued representation wherever we could.
I loved finding Fela Kuti as a teenager – the way he performed without a shirt, in dynamic costumes, and confronted establishment. I'd grown up with the idea that we always had to be very guarded of not wanting to say too much when it came to politics. His music – a fusion of jazz, funk and Yoruba rhythms – became a accompaniment and a call to action for resistance, and he taught me that Nigerians can be confidently vocal and creative, something that feels even more pressing for my generation.
The artist who has influenced me most is Njideka Akunyili Crosby. I saw her work for the first time at the Venice Biennale in 2013, and it felt like returning to roots. Her concentration on family, domestic life and memory gave me the confidence to know that my own experiences were enough, and that I could build a career making work that is unapologetically personal.
I make human form works that explore identity, memory and family, often using my own Nigerian-British heritage. My practice began with exploring history – at family photographs, Nigerian parties, rich fabrics – and transforming those memories into paint. Studying British painting techniques and historic composition gave me the tools to combine these experiences with my British identity, and that blending became the expression I use as an artist today.
It wasn't until my mid-20s that I began discovering Black artists – specifically Nigerian ones – because art education mostly overlooked them. In the last five years or so, Nigeria's cultural presence has grown considerably. Afrobeats went global around a decade ago, and the visual arts followed, with young international artists finding their voices.
Nigerians are, essentially, hard workers. I think that is why the diaspora is so abundant in the creative space: a natural drive, a committed attitude and a group that encourages one another. Being in the UK has given more opportunity, but our aspiration is grounded in culture.
For me, poetry has been the primary bridge connecting me to Nigeria, especially as someone who doesn't speak Yoruba. Niyi Osundare's poetry has been developmental in showing how Nigerian writers can speak to universal themes while remaining strongly connected in their culture. Similarly, the work of Prof Molara Ogundipe and Gabriel Okara demonstrates how innovation within tradition can produce new forms of expression.
The duality of my heritage shapes what I find most important in my work, managing the multiple aspects of my identity. I am Nigerian, I am Black, I am British, I am a woman. These intersecting experiences bring different concerns and interests into my poetry, which becomes a realm where these effects and outlooks melt together.
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