Once, Nigeria’s identity was tied to oil — barrels, pipelines, and tank farms. It was the metric, it was the story. But oil, no matter how powerful, has nothing on the audacity of a people who live loudly. Today, what the world consumes from Nigeria isn’t crude, but culture: beats that shake stadiums, fabrics that shimmer across runways, films that crash Netflix servers, flavours that linger on foreign tongues, slang that slips into global playlists and timelines.
Culture is the new crude. And unlike oil, you can’t drill it, bottle it, or store it in a depot. It announces itself everywhere.
It’s the roar of 80,000 voices in London when Burna Boy steps on stage. It’s Tems, wrapped in elegance, lending her voice to an Oscar-winning soundtrack. It’s aso-ebi fabrics shimmering across Instagram before a bride even says “I do.” It’s a Surulere dance challenge escaping its street corner to reappear in Seoul. And it’s a young woman named Hilda Baci, apron tied tight, stirring her pots for 100 hours straight, turning egusi and puff-puff into global headlines.
What the world calls “trend” or “entertainment” is, at its core, something more profound: the Nigerian spirit. A mix of resilience, flamboyance, humour, and ambition, lived so loudly that the world has no choice but to listen.
The Beat Heard Around the World
If culture is the engine, music is the loudest horn. Afrobeats didn’t politely cross borders — it stormed through them like a Lagos danfo driver weaving through traffic.
From Burna Boy and Wizkid, who turn international concerts into carnivals, to Rema’s “Calm Down,” which clocks billions of streams, and Tems, whose voice found its way to the Grammys and Oscars, we don’t just make music; we export lifestyle.
And that’s the truth. Afrobeats is more than a beat; it’s choreography, swagger, slang, drip. It’s the sound of Nigeria insisting on its place in the world. And music, by nature, leaks. It bleeds into TikTok dances, into Instagram slang, into the way kids in Paris or Toronto now say “No wahala.” Afrobeats is the Trojan horse; inside it rides identity.
Cinema Without Permission
The screen is another massive frontier. Nollywood, once dismissed for shaky cameras and chaotic storylines, has become impossible to ignore. What critics called flaws, Nigerians called persistence. They filmed, hustled, and distributed on DVDs and now global streaming platforms.
Today, Nollywood is no longer background noise; it has become global soft power. Funke Akindele, with her mix of humour and hustle, has built an empire that stretches way beyond the cinema. Kunle Afolayan brings prestige productions that can stand anywhere. For the first time, Nigerian films have become global conversation starters, reframing how Africa is seen and insisting that our stories belong in the world’s living rooms.
Fashion That Speaks
Walk into a Nigerian wedding and you’ll see it instantly: fashion isn’t just clothing here; it’s vocabulary. Aso-ebi shouts allegiance. Lace whispers heritage. Ankara boasts of its roots. Even the cut of a sleeve can say, “I’ve arrived.”
Now, the world is fluent. Designers like Lisa Folawiyo, Tubo, Banke Kuku, Emmy Kasbit, and Hertunba aren’t serving “African exotica.” They’re commanding luxury, unapologetically.
Fashion weeks, such as Arise, GTCO, and Lagos Fashion Week, are permanent calendar fixtures. Buyers who once rolled their eyes now book flights.. Nigerian fashion thrives because it never asked for permission. It showed up dazzling, and the world had to lean closer.
Faces That Refuse to Hide
Nigerian beauty tells the same story — bold, defiant, loud. When Chichi Eburu’s Juvia’s Place hit U.S. shelves, it was one of the brands that forced the beauty industry to make space for darker palettes. Back home, we also have brands like Zaron, Oríkì, and Dabota Cosmetics that bottle the same audacity, exporting high-arched brows, sculptural geles, and the obsession with glow. Nigerian beauty doesn’t whisper “natural.” It beams. It demands flash photography. It walks into a room and makes blending impossible.
The Taste of Spectacle
Culture is also on the tongue. When Hilda Baci’s cook-a-thon went viral, it wasn’t just about stamina. It was also about flavour.
Restaurants like Ikoyi in London and Shakara London reimagine Nigerian staples as haute cuisine. NOK by Alara in Lagos merges fine dining with cultural storytelling. Nigerian-born Michelin-star Chef, Adejoke Bakare, plates food as art, proving Nigerian cuisine is not an “ethnic” side-note but a headline act.Taste has become performance. Food is no longer comfort alone. Its content, capital, culture.
Beyond the Glamour
But culture isn’t only sequins and spotlight. It’s resilience, dressed up and exported. The Super Falcons remain Africa’s most decorated women’s football team. Asisat Oshoala, with her five Ballon d’Or nominations, is rewriting football history in Barcelona. Rena Wakama made history as the first woman to coach Nigeria’s basketball team — and promptly delivered AfroBasket gold. Victor Osimhen’s boots carried Napoli to Serie A glory.
Then there’s Tunde Onakoya, turning a chess marathon in Times Square into activism, raising voices for children back home. Or Silas Adekunle, whose robots made global tech firms look twice. Or Lagos’s fintech start-ups, exporting apps, memes, and slang all at once.
Detty December
And then there’s December. Once just a holiday season, now a phenomenon. Detty December has grown into a global pilgrimage.
Flights booked months ahead. Lagos becomes one endless runway of sound, sequins, and sweat. December isn’t just about nightlife anymore; it’s about the industry. It rivals Rio’s carnival, Ibiza’s summer, and Coachella’s desert glamour. Except this is Lagos — chaotic, dazzling, unfiltered. December is Nigeria’s cultural calling card, stamped with fireworks and basslines.
Culture as Capital
Culture-driven tourism doesn’t end with December. There’s Art X Lagos, now a global art fair. Ojude Oba in Ijebu Ode, where horse riders in aso-oke parade for royalty. The Osun-Osogbo Festival, a spiritual carnival by the river. Design Week Lagos, a playground for architects and dreamers.
Digital creators beam it all further. From Enioluwa’s charm to Taaooma’s skits, to Kiekie’s humour, Nigerian influencers have hacked global attention with nothing more than Wi-Fi, wit, and ring lights.
Everyday Nigeria, Everywhere
Perhaps the most powerful export is the one that is not staged. Everyday life. The flamboyance of an owambe. The banter of Twitter NG. The reckless joy of a Lagos nightclub.
What happens on a Surulere street tonight could be tomorrow’s TikTok trend in New York. A slang dropped on Twitter can find its way into London schoolyards. Nigerians don’t live culture quietly. They live it in surround sound.
The Diaspora Effect
Of course, the diaspora amplifies it all. From Peckham to Houston, Nigerians abroad act as cultural megaphones. They open restaurants, throw watch parties, wear aso-ebi in Atlanta, and turn house parties into global movements.
They don’t just consume Nigerian culture; they broadcast it. Diaspora communities are both audience and amplifier, ensuring that Nigeria’s cultural voice is never silenced.
What the Future Demands
But abundance doesn’t guarantee security. Nollywood stars are underpaid. Designers can’t scale without power supply. Musicians battle piracy. Beauty entrepreneurs struggle to finance growth.
If this wave is to last, culture must be treated as industry. That means robust copyright laws, manufacturing hubs for fashion, financing for films, and culinary institutes to train the next generation of Hildas. And it means the government, finally, recognising culture as the capital it is. Because, unlike oil, culture never runs out.
In the future
The world is learning what Nigerians have always known: culture here doesn’t ask, it declares. It doesn’t fade; it mutates. It doesn’t end; it expands. It keeps spilling, reshaping, and refusing to be contained. This is not a wave to ride until the next thing comes along. It is the thing. The current. The pulse. A living, breathing export that grows louder the more it travels.
