Some primal energy was unleashed among Nigerian artists in the years leading up to independence. The century-long reign of colonialism was nearing its end and the people of Nigeria, with its over 300 tribes, its ebullient energy, were poised for a new future in which they would determine the shape and context of their lives.
And the people who most articulated that double position, that paradox of modernity and tradition, were artists in all their stripes. Artists across the country, in constant dialogue with one another, created works that evoked their traditions but in a contemporary 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 remaking the dream of art in a rigorously Nigerian context. The effect of the works created by the Zaria Art Society, the generation that congregated in Lagos and exhibited all over the world, was profound. Their work helped the nation to reconnect with its ancient ways, but adapted to modern times. It was a new art, brooding and celebratory. Often it was an art that hinted at the many dimensions of Nigerian mythology; often it drew upon daily realities. Spirits, ancestral presences, rituals, masquerades featured prominently, alongside popular subjects of dancing figures, portraits and landscapes, but rendered in a unique light, with a palette that was utterly unlike anything in the western tradition.
It is important to stress that these were not artists creating in isolation. They were in touch with the currents 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 taking back, a retrieval, of what cubism took from Africa.
The other area in which this Nigerian modernism revealed 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 depict a nation fermenting with energy and cultural tensions. 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 important contemporary events bear this out. The much-awaited 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 infamous burning of African works of art by the British in that same city, in 1897.
The other is the Tate Modern in London’s upcoming exhibition, Nigerian Modernism, which aims to spotlight Nigeria’s contribution to the wider story of modern art and British culture. Nigerian writers and artists in Britain have been a vital part of that story, not least Ben Enwonwu, who sojourned here during the Nigerian civil war and sculpted Queen Elizabeth II in the 50s. For almost 100 years, figures such as Uzo Egonu, Demas Nwoko and Bruce Onobrakpeya have shaped the visual and intellectual life of these isles.
The tradition continues with artists such as El Anatsui, who has expanded the possibilities of global sculpture with his monumental works, and ceramicist Ladi Kwali, who alchemised Nigerian craft and modern design. They have extended the story of Nigerian modernism into contemporary times, bringing about a renewal not only in the art and literature of Africa but of Britain also. Ben Okri
For me, Sade Adu is a perfect example of the British-Nigerian creative spirit. She fused jazz, soul and pop into something that was entirely her own, not copying anyone, but creating a new sound. That is what Nigerian modernism does too: it makes something new out of history.
I grew up 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 powerful, uplifting and deeply connected to Nigerian identity, and left a lasting impression 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 newly commissioned work: stained glass, carvings, monumental installations. It was a formative experience, showing me that art could tell the story of a nation.
Nigerian modernism is, in many ways, about identity – about how to live with the legacy of colonialism and create something that feels both contemporary and connected to the past. That question has shaped my own work, too. Being British-Nigerian means you are constantly navigating both worlds, which is ripe for creative opportunity. This is why the Tate exhibition is so important. For too long, African art has been viewed through the lens of European artists who were influenced by it, such as Picasso. This exhibition centres Nigerian artists on their own terms.
I think part of the reason that British-Nigerians are so overrepresented in the creative industries is because, for many of us, success was the only option. Your parents certainly didn’t bring you to the UK to fail, so there is that cultural drive and discipline which breeds ambition.
Gave voice to history … Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Photograph: Fredrik Sandberg/TT/Shutterstock
If I had to choose one piece of Nigerian art which has affected 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 separated my family. My parents never spoke about it, so reading that book in 2006 was a seminal moment for me – it gave voice to a history that had shaped my life but was never spoken about.
I grew up in Newcastle in the 70s and 80s, and there was no exposure to Nigerian or British-Nigerian art or artists. My school friends would make fun of the idea of Nigerian or African art. We sought out representation wherever we could.
There’s a dynamism in Nigerian culture that I think was suppressed for decades by a lack of opportunity and acceptance in the UK. It was only when I lived in Lagos in the early 2000s that I saw the incredible range of Nigerian artists. Their work was so alive, and it also revealed the blandness of European artists like Picasso’s take on African visual expressionism.
Some of my favourite artists are featured in the Tate’s exhibition, including Yinka Shonibare. I remember seeing his early works in London Underground stations more than 20 years ago – his depictions of historical European figures wearing west African cloth were extraordinary. They brought together two worlds that seemed separate but were deeply connected through colonialism and slavery. Bruce Onobrakpeya’s use of materials like circuit boards also resonates with me as a trained engineer, too.
Historian Alayo Akinkugbe on Fela Kuti
I loved discovering Fela Kuti as a teenager – the way he performed shirtless, in vibrant costumes, and spoke truth to power. I’d grown up with the idea that we always had to be very cautious of not wanting to say too much when it came to politics. His music – a fusion of jazz, funk and Yoruba rhythms – became a soundtrack and a rallying cry for resistance, and he taught me that Nigerians can be unapologetically outspoken and creative, something that feels even more urgent for my generation. With the huge #EndSars movement which took place in Nigeria in 2020, protesting against police brutality, there has been a new wave of political activism among young people, and it’s useful to have the blueprint of someone like Fela.
Similarly, Ben Enwonwu’s work was everywhere when I was growing up – his Africa Dances series, with its elegant, dancing figures, perfectly captured the post-independence mood. My grandfather was a friend of his, so we had his paintings at home. Yusuf Grillo was another formative influence – his monumental crowd and market scenes have stayed with me since childhood and shaped the way I think about colour and scale.
A turning point in the recognition of Nigerian modernism came in 2018, when Enwonwu’s portrait Tutu sold at Bonhams for £1.2m. Suddenly, Nigerian art was being taken seriously by the global art market.
Questions of ownership inevitably come up in the British-Nigerian context. The Benin bronzes are the most famous example, but there are thousands of looted works in European collections. The Tate exhibition will inevitably reopen these questions, as will the landmark opening of MOWAA in Benin. There will be a major cultural institution in Nigeria ready to house repatriated works, which forces us to ask: who should these objects belong to?
Artist Joy Labinjo on Njideka Akunyili Crosby
Focus on family … Njideka Akunyili Crosby. Photograph: Graeme Robertson/The Guardian
The artist who has inspired me most is Njideka Akunyili Crosby. I saw her work for the first time at the Venice Biennale in 2013, and it felt like coming home. Her focus 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 figurative paintings that explore identity, memory and family, often drawing on my own Nigerian-British heritage. My practice began with looking backwards – at family photographs, Nigerian parties, rich fabrics – and translating those memories into paint. Studying British painting techniques and historic composition gave me the tools to fuse these experiences with my British identity, and that fusion became the language 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 largely ignored them. In the last five years or so, Nigeria’s cultural presence has grown significantly. Afrobeats went global around a decade ago, and the visual arts followed, with young diaspora artists finding their voices.
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Nigerians are, fundamentally, hustlers. I think that is why the diaspora is so prolific in the creative space: a natural drive, a strong work ethic and a community that supports one another. Being in the UK has given more access, but our ambition is rooted in culture.
Wole Soyinka … first African writer to win the Nobel prize. Photograph: Thomas Samson/AFP/Getty Images
Yinka Shonibare is an artist who continually inspires me, as do Caleb Femi’s interdisciplinary practices, which have been formative. In terms of music, Sunny Ade and Fela Kuti transport me across time and space. Contemporary artists such as Victor Ehikhamenor inspire me – his abstract, symbol-charged work feels like African morse code. I still search for meaning in it, even when it feels incomprehensible, and that search is satisfying. I also have to mention Wole Soyinka’s Death and the King’s Horseman, which demonstrates the power of storytelling to address post-colonial politics. The play is now a staple for the Black and west African literati, but it was so far ahead of its time in the themes it discussed. Soyinka was the first African writer to win the Nobel prize for literature in 1986, and he is still probably the most influential Nigerian writer alive today.
From an early age my creativity was shaped by the clothes my parents wore – tailored fabrics, bold colours and patterns that fused Nigerian and Muslim aesthetics. I remember wearing my mother’s blue wrapper over a T-shirt emblazoned with my name and running around calling myself “Nigerian Superman”. Those early experiments in cloth, colour and storytelling formed the foundation of my artistic sensibility.
Moving to the UK, my sense of identity became inseparable from the immigrant experience. Living under Theresa May’s hostile environment policy and anti-immigrant rhetoric made it impossible to claim full Britishness. I clung to Nigerian culture while negotiating a space within Britain’s creative landscape.
Nigeria is a particular hotbed of pressure and hustle mentality, which forces creativity. There is also so much creative exchange within the diaspora, and that collaboration fills the creative coffers creators draw from. Rising incomes for second-generation Nigerians have also meant that their parents stopped insisting they become doctors or lawyers and began encouraging creative endeavours.
Novelist Diana Evans on Mary Evans
If there was one artist who has inspired me the most, it would be my sister, Mary Evans. She is a fine artist, explores colonial history and the transatlantic slave trade in her paper works. Her piece Hold, with its tiny, intricate figures, is subtle, poignant and political, and it hangs on a wall in my house. It’s a representation of the hold of a slave ship, and is incredibly evocative but in a very quiet way. She has always been a huge inspiration to me, and it still feels like a huge privilege to have her work in my home.
I see a parallel in Nigerian modernism and the way I approach my work as a novelist. The modernists’ ability to fuse African traditions with western techniques mirrors my own approach to narrative: blending British literary forms with Nigerian diasporic experience.
I first encountered Nigerian literature seriously in my early-20s through Ben Okri. His dreamlike, bold storytelling opened a world of possibility – just the complexity, the richness, the boldness of it. He showed me these fantastic landscapes and worlds you could take the reader into, just through the power of sentences.
Visual art also continues to inform me. Chris Ofili’s No Woman, No Cry, dedicated to Stephen Lawrence, is a work I return to again and again. Music is another constant influence. Nigerian artists such as Wizkid, and British-Nigerian musicians such as Tinie Tempah and Dave, bring an energy and confidence that I try to bring to my writing.
Ezra Collective trumpeter-composer Ife Ogunjobi on Skepta
A song which has particularly influenced me is Energy (Stay Far Away) by Skepta and Wizkid. Beyond the music itself, it represents collaboration and unity between London and Nigeria – Skepta is always outspoken about his Nigerian heritage, and makes a big deal about going back to visit. The music video too, which is filmed partly in Nigeria, highlights the dialogue between our two worlds.
Nigerians are very proud, outspoken, loud people. If a Nigerian has something to say, best believe you’re going to hear it, whether you like it or not. And I think that has a lot to do with why there are so many of us across the creative sphere. Particularly in London, there’s a huge Nigerian influence – everything from restaurants to fashion to music. We all have something to say, and we’re impossible to escape. And rightfully so, because our culture is so beautiful and diverse.
My music is a fusion of the sounds I grew up with: Nigerian highlife, Fuji, Afrobeats. Artists such as Ebenezer Obey and King Sunny Adé, alongside modern influences such as Wizkid and Burna Boy, and British sounds such as grime and UK rap. I also see Nigerian influence a lot more in fashion and visual art – I love Yinka Ilori’s work, for example.
Deeply rooted … Niyi Osundare at a recital in Colombia, 2010. Photograph: Raúl Arboleda/AFP/Getty Images
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 formative in showing how Nigerian writers can speak to universal themes while remaining deeply rooted in their culture. Similarly, the work of Prof Molara Ogundipe and Gabriel Okara demonstrates how experimentation within tradition can generate new forms of expression.
In my work, I draw heavily on Yoruba literary forms, particularly the Oriki, a traditional praise poetry form, and Yoruba proverbs. Oriki are names, phrases or poetic expressions passed down through generations, often used to honour lineage, celebrate achievements or preserve memory. These forms provide a rhythm, structure and depth that English alone cannot capture, and they have become a language for me, a way to inhabit Nigerian heritage even without speaking the language fluently.
The duality of my heritage informs what I find most urgent in my work, navigating the multiple aspects of my identity. I am Nigerian, I am Black, I am British, I am a woman. These intersecting experiences bring different urgencies and curiosities into my poetry, which becomes a space where these influences and perspectives melt together.
Nigerian Modernism is at Tate Modern, London, 8 October to 10 May.
