Cultural Appropriation in the Fashion Industry: Is it Good or Bad?

Few conversations spark as much heated debate in today’s fashion world as cultural appropriation. To some, it feels like outright theft; to others, it looks like a beautiful form of cultural exchange.

At its core, cultural appropriation happens when elements of a culture, be it clothing, hairstyles, music, or even sacred rituals, are adopted by people outside that culture, often without giving credit to the origin. And the fashion industry has plenty of these moments.

From the runways of Paris, Milan, London, and New York, designers frequently draw inspiration from African, Asian, and Indigenous communities. But the controversy begins when that inspiration doesn’t uplift or benefit the very cultures it borrows from, turning what could have been respect into exploitation.

One recent example sparking online debates is Temi Otedola’s wedding, where fashion choices reignited conversations about where appreciation ends and appropriation begins. When Temi’s wedding pictures landed online, the internet lit up. You didn’t even need to look for them; those wedding pictures were everywhere. The joy of the ceremony was undeniable, but so was the debate that followed. 

People weren’t only talking about her love story with Mr Eazi or the glamour of the event; they were zooming in on what she wore, and more importantly, who made what she wore. 

Some of those striking traditional outfits weren’t made by Nigerian designers, but by foreign names like Zac Posen and Miss Sohee. That single detail was enough to stir a storm.

In Nigeria, weddings are never just weddings. Weddings are statements, cultural showcases, and sometimes even political commentary without anyone saying a word. So when someone as high-profile as Temi, daughter of one of the country’s most influential families, steps out in Yoruba attire designed by outsiders, it feels bigger than fabric. It feels symbolic. To critics, it was a slap in the face of local fashion designers. Why send that money and visibility abroad when we have an entire ecosystem of talented Nigerian creatives fighting tooth and nail for recognition?

Honestly, it’s easy to see where that frustration comes from. Nigeria’s fashion industry is full of brilliant minds who produce magic despite limited resources, erratic power supply, import restrictions, and a lack of consistent global platforms. For many of them, a commission like Temi’s wedding would have been life-changing. So the disappointment wasn’t just about who sketched her aso-oke or stitched her iro and buba, it was about what it symbolized: another missed chance to spotlight Nigerian talent.

But then I read fashion designer Tessy Oliseh’s piece on TheCableNG, and it forced me to pause. Oliseh didn’t dismiss the criticism; she acknowledged it. Yet she suggested something deeper: instead of seeing Temi’s choice as a betrayal, maybe we should view it as a wake-up call.

That phrase stuck with me. A wake-up call. Because if we are honest, fashion has never been as local as we like to think. It has always been about cross-pollination. Fabrics, silhouettes, and motifs have traveled for centuries. Think about how Indian textiles shaped British tailoring, or how African prints that we proudly wear today were first mass-produced in Europe after colonial trade routes expanded. Culture has always been in motion.

Tessy Oliseh pointed out that Temi’s decision shows Nigerian fashion has entered a global conversation. When someone like Zac Posen or Miss Sohee takes on Yoruba design, it doesn’t erase Yoruba culture. Instead, it proves that the culture has grown so visible, so influential, that outsiders feel compelled to interpret it. That doesn’t have to be theft. It can be an appreciation if it’s done with respect.

Of course, the sting remains. Nigerians are tired of seeing our heritage borrowed, repackaged, and sometimes monetized by outsiders while local creators remain overlooked. We’ve seen international brands take Ankara patterns or Maasai beadwork without acknowledgment. We’ve seen turbans turned into expensive accessories on luxury runways without crediting the communities that gave them meaning. That’s the ugly side of cultural appropriation.

But there’s also another side. There are moments when cultural borrowing becomes cultural dialogue. When a designer from outside takes time to understand, to honor, to interpret rather than exploit, something interesting happens. It becomes less about stealing and more about expanding the reach of that culture.

Temi’s wedding sits somewhere in that tension. On one hand, it hurt to see local designers sidelined. On the other hand, it forced Nigerian fashion to ask itself a hard question: is it ready to compete on a global stage? Because, as Oliseh rightly pointed out, the monopoly is over. It’s no longer enough to say, “I can make agbada.” The real test is: can you make the world want to wear your agbada?

That shift is uncomfortable, but maybe it’s necessary. Nigerian designers can’t rely solely on cultural ownership anymore. They will need stronger branding, sharper storytelling, and technical excellence that holds its own against any atelier in Paris or Milan.

Nigerian designers will need to show versatility, not just in mastering Yoruba, Hausa, or Igbo or Benin attire, but in interpreting other cultures with equal care. Imagine a Nigerian fashion designer reimagining the kimono or the sari with an Igbo perspective. That’s the kind of ambition the global stage demands.

And this is where the debate gets personal. Because cultural appropriation isn’t a simple good-or-bad binary. It depends on context, intent, and execution. When cultural appropriation is careless, it reduces culture to costume. When it’s thoughtful, it creates bridges.

The Zac Posen and Miss Sohee moment wasn’t the same as a fast-fashion brand printing Ankara patterns for profit. It was simply two respected fashion designers interpreting Yoruba tradition for a Nigerian bride they were working closely with. That feels less like appropriation and more like collaboration.

Still, the outrage shouldn’t be dismissed. It reflects a hunger for homegrown recognition. We want to see our designers thrive, not just survive. We want to see them booked for elite weddings, featured in Vogue, showcased on Paris runways. That desire comes from a place of pride, not pettiness. The fear is that if our elite don’t champion local fashion, who will?

But perhaps Temi’s wedding wasn’t a rejection of Nigerian designers at all. Perhaps it was a reminder that the bar has shifted. That Nigerian culture is too big to be boxed in. That designers here can no longer think of themselves only as custodians of tradition, but as global interpreters of style.

Tessy Oliseh put it well: Temi didn’t shrink the runway, she expanded it. By wearing Yoruba attire designed by an outsider, she showed that heritage isn’t a closed circle. It can be opened, stretched, reimagined. And in that same breath, she threw down a challenge: Who among Nigerian designers is ready to become the Zac Posen of another culture? Who is ready to flip the script, to design for India, Brazil, or Japan with the same respect and skill?

Because fashion, at its best, is about bridges. It’s about fabrics that carry stories across oceans, about silhouettes that travel from one generation to the next, changing shape but keeping spirit. Cultural appropriation, when stripped of sensitivity, is dangerous. But cultural exchange, when done with respect, can be powerful. The line between them is thin, but it’s a line worth walking.

Yes, Nigerian designers are immensely talented, but talent alone is no longer enough. Global fashion demands precision, branding, consistency, and the ability to translate culture into universal appeal. If foreign designers are now interpreting Nigerian culture with respect and excellence, then Nigerian designers must rise to interpret global culture with equal brilliance.

This moment also opens a conversation about fairness. Appropriation is bad when it takes without acknowledgment. Appreciation is good when it builds bridges, creates opportunities, and adds value to both sides. The line between the two is thin but critical.

In Temi’s case, Zac Posen did not strip Yoruba attire of its meaning; he simply amplified it on a global stage. Miss Sohee didn’t diminish the Nigerian fashion; she placed it in a wider cultural conversation, infusing the Korean’s artistry. The challenge now is for Nigerian fashion designers to claim their place in that conversation, not as defensive gatekeepers but as fearless innovators.

Culture has always been fluid, and fashion has always thrived on exchange. From Indian embroidery in European couture to African prints influencing streetwear across continents, what we wear has never been confined to borders. What matters is how we treat the cultures we draw from. Temi’s wedding was not the end of Nigerian cultural ownership; it was a reminder that the world is watching, and the stakes are higher than ever.

So where do we land? Is cultural appropriation in fashion good or bad? The truth is, it’s both, and neither. It can harm when it erases, and it can heal when it connects.

Temi’s wedding simply reminded us that Nigerian culture has grown too influential to be kept at home. The world is watching, interpreting, and sometimes wearing it. That’s not something to fear. That’s something to leverage.

The real question is not whether outsiders should design Nigerian fashion, but whether Nigerian designers are ready to design for the world. Temi Otedola has just set a challenge for Nigerian fashion designers. The question is who among them is ready to respond.

And if Nigerian designers take that challenge seriously, then maybe, just maybe, the next viral wedding won’t spark a debate about lost opportunities. Instead, it will showcase a Nigerian designer dressing a foreign elite in their own traditional attire and doing it so well that the world applauds.

In that moment, the conversation will have come full circle.

Photo: Instagram/temiotedola