As a child with an active imagination of the glitz and glam, growing up in Nigeria would trigger my longing to live in London as a fashion designer, or a model, or work in the creative industry. It was a dream I didn’t know would come true. During my tentative and informative years, I never felt at home as a constant feeling of restlessness accompanied my time living there. I was a small girl with big dreams, I still am.
Whenever I was with my mum at the hair salon, I would flick through the dated catalogue of Vogue, Vanity Fair, GQ, Tatler and I would find myself overcome with the desire to attend the glamorous parties, getting photographed with the likes of Naomi Campbell, Victoria Secret Angels, Designers and Editors. I was habitually pining for a chance to live that dream. But then everything changed. My mum got married to my step-dad, three years later after her move to London, I joined her.
My relationship with fashion has been my most committed relationship.
Aside from the bullying I experienced during my secondary school straight to college years, assimilating to fit in, I felt at home as I was in the country filled with opportunity to live my dream. I fell head over heels for the city. Just the like the way Americans gloat about living in New York, that was me gloating about the London life. I was a cliche come true.
The high price of leaving in a tiny council flat, which we moved out of years later, was small when the reward is being in London. I was paying to be in the most incredible, exciting city on earth. I was in the middle of everything, still am. I have the world at my fingertips from the theatres to fashion week to central London to the electric nightlife. Everything you desire is a train stop away.
During my first year at University, I can recall being on the phone with a girl I went to secondary school paying for my first ticket to attend fashion week. I was content, and I was finally home. Surrounded by like-mind people, stepping foot in places that showcase my favourite designer’s collection, meeting and talking to models and bloggers, sighting celebrities as they walk in and out of shows, it was exciting and cemented my love for the fashion industry. My relationship with fashion has been my most committed relationship.
My status as a Fashion Week attendee was one of those things I was sure of, an indisputable fact of life. No matter what happened, long hour of working behind the scenes of fashion shows while interning, the early mornings of commuting for work and fashion shows as a blogger I had an unbreakable bond that would stand the test of time.
Over the last two years, things with fashion week have taken a turn for the worst. The atmosphere surrounding the event has left a feeling of discontentment that has the weasel in my heart. Perhaps the intense, exciting energy that once fueled my heart has started to wear me out. The loud noises and crowds are now just annoying hassle I don’t want to deal with as the world of Social media intertwining with fashion week has made the event primarily focus on the number game. With London Fashion Week canopy drastic change of atmosphere, it feels tacky and unorganised, packed with pretentious people that wear outrageous outfits trying their best to get photographed by paparazzi wondering around aimlessly without attending the shows and celebrating the event, seeing months of hard work into fruition. And it’s breaking my heart to accept my state of mind. I don’t want to fall out of love with fashion week.
Perhaps, my soul is taking a break to recharge and regain that adoration that felt like my kindred spirit and soulmate. Hopefully, soon, my be-all and end-all attitude towards Fashion Week will awaken, leaving me desperate and hungry for that joy that would thrill me. Until then, I’ll keep myself occupied with different areas of the fashion industry that I’m still loving.
River Island Bag | Miss Selfridge Dress | Ego Boots