World Photography Day is more than a date on the calendar — it’s a reminder of the power of
images to preserve memory, shape identity, and carry culture forward. In Nigeria, one of the
voices leading this charge is Sope Adelaja, a photographer whose lens moves between fashion,
lifestyle, portraiture, and deeply cultural storytelling. From documenting rural women and the
land in his solo exhibition In Her Hands, to co-founding Recreate Africa, a platform reimagining
how African stories are told, Sope’s work continues to bridge the personal and the collective. In
this conversation, he reflects on the role of photography in safeguarding heritage, the
responsibility of authenticity in an AI era, and the timelessness of images that hold truth.
World Photography Day is all about the power of the image. For you, how can
photography keep culture and heritage alive in a world that’s changing so fast?
For me, photography keeps culture and heritage alive because it turns memory into something
tangible and shareable. It holds on to what might otherwise slip quietly away. In today’s rapidly
changing world, shaped by digital transformation and globalization, photographs become living
artifacts, preserving traditions, stories, and cultural practices on the edge of being forgotten.
You started out shooting lifestyle, fashion, and portraits. How did those early days shape
the way you see and capture culture now?
Those early days shaped my eye in ways I still carry with me. Shooting lifestyle, fashion, and
portraits trained me to notice the small cues — posture, gesture, texture, light — that
communicate identity without words. Fashion taught me how style can be both personal and
cultural, while portraits demanded patience, the discipline of waiting until someone’s true self
emerged. So when I turned more intentionally to culture and heritage, I didn’t have to unlearn
my way of seeing; I simply widened the frame. The same instincts that guided me in a studio
now move with me into public spaces, festivals, rural and indigenous communities, where I pay
attention to the textures of culture, the choices people make to express themselves, and the
quiet rituals that carry meaning.
A lot of your work highlights people, traditions, and even spiritual spaces. What pulls you
toward those kinds of stories?
Before I see myself as an artist, I see myself as human, and that remains at the center of my
work. Through photography, I examine both myself and the world around me, seeking to
understand how identity, memory, and heritage shape the ways we live. That perspective,
deeply personal yet outward-looking, is what continually draws me to people, traditions, and
spiritual spaces. They carry traces of the past while shaping how we imagine the future, offering
a kind of continuity that fascinates me.
With AI now creating and altering images, do you feel photography has a new
responsibility when it comes to protecting authenticity and legacy?
Yes, absolutely. The rise of AI-generated imagery has transformed the landscape of
photography. Photography’s responsibility hasn’t shifted, but the stakes have. AI can now
produce strikingly realistic images in seconds, blurring the line between what’s captured and
what’s fabricated. But what it cannot reproduce is the human element: the emotional intent,
ethical choices, and lived context that shape a photograph. That human touch — the
imperfection, the intuition, the creative journey — remains irreplaceable.
Your trip to Senegal gave us such rich images of people, art, and spirituality. What
moments from that trip really stayed with you?
Honestly, so many moments from Senegal stayed with me. Meeting people from all over the
world who now call Senegal home, and seeing people not just living but thriving, expanded my
sense of community. One place I can’t forget is Saint-Louis, the former capital. The buildings,
the fishermen heading out, the everyday rhythm of life — everything felt like a living archive. It
was beautiful and grounding. Another striking discovery was how strong the surf culture is in
Dakar. I met people who had relocated there from across the world, just to be close to the
waves. In a city surrounded by water, that scene built its own community. It reminded me that
when culture is nurtured, it transforms places and brings people together.
When you’re photographing a community or tradition, how do you strike that balance
between making it visually striking and keeping it authentic?
For me, authenticity always comes first. I begin by listening, spending time, and allowing people
to guide how they want to be seen. The visual strength grows out of that trust. The balance
doesn’t come from adding something “extra,” but from paying close attention to what’s already
extraordinary. That way, the photograph can strike the eye while remaining honest to the story it
holds.
You co-founded Recreate Africa. How has that platform helped you tell African cultural
stories in fresh ways?
Recreate Africa was born out of a desire to challenge the single story often told about the
continent and to show Africa beyond stereotypes. Founding it with like-minded peers gave us
more than a platform to display work — it became a space to experiment with form, dialogue,
and collaboration. Designers, artists, filmmakers, writers, researchers, and community members
from across Africa all contributed their own angles. That collective mix created layered
narratives with a freshness and depth that one person alone could not achieve. For me, it meant
I was no longer working in isolation. I could test new modes of presentation — digital archives,
exhibitions, campaigns, community conversations — ensuring stories didn’t just speak about
people but returned to the spaces they came from. Most importantly, Recreate Africa has shown
that African culture is not frozen in the past or limited to tradition. It is alive, inventive, and
constantly in motion.
Your work is part of Iconic Women: From Everyday Life to Global Heroes at the
Muhammad Ali Center. What does it mean to see African women’s stories on such a
global stage?
Seeing African women’s stories honored on a global stage at the Muhammad Ali Center is
deeply meaningful. These photographs, chosen from over 470 submissions across 65 countries,
go beyond aesthetics. They celebrate women whose everyday lives and extraordinary
achievements are too often overlooked. For me, it’s a way of carrying those narratives forward
with honesty and dignity. I’m grateful for the recognition, but even more encouraged that these
images can travel, teach, and open space for more voices to be heard.
The exhibition runs until 2026 — what do you hope people walk away thinking or feeling
after seeing your images there?
When people step out of the exhibition, I hope they leave with more than an image lingering in
their minds. I want them to carry a quiet recognition, the kind that reshapes how we see. Too
often, the stories of African women are reduced to headlines of struggle or silence. Instead, I
want visitors to remember them as I encounter them: bearing traditions with grace, imagining
change with courage, and sustaining communities in ways both visible and unseen. If they walk
away with the fuller truth — that African women are not defined by absence but by presence,
resilience, and vision — then these images will have done their work.
Your recent solo exhibition, In Her Hands, focused on rural Nigerian women and the land.
How do you see the link between environmental stories and cultural preservation?
Environmental stories and cultural preservation are inseparable, especially in rural African
contexts where land, women, and tradition converge. The environment is not only a resource
but a living archive: farming practices, harvest rituals, and the knowledge women pass down
preserve culture as much as they sustain life. These narratives keep memory alive, practiced
daily, carried in stories, and felt across generations. When landscapes change, those practices
— and the wisdom they hold — are at risk. In Her Hands documents this fragile link, showing
how the care women extend to the land is also the care they give to heritage, safeguarding both
what is lived and what must be remembered.
In a world overflowing with images, what makes a photo feel timeless — something
future generations might look at and feel?
A photograph that feels timeless often reflects the photographer’s mindful presence — that
stillness or quiet reflection before clicking the shutter. Such images capture honesty, emotion,
and universal human experience. Nothing in them feels trendy or accidental; every detail
belongs. Even if future generations don’t know the place or context, they’ll recognize the truth in it, they’ll feel something that lasts.
For photographers who want to move past “pretty pictures” and really tell stories that
honor heritage, what’s your best advice?
Put the camera down first. Heritage isn’t only in monuments or archives; it lives in daily rituals,
gestures, and stories. Begin with research and patience. Talk, listen, and ask, “What matters to
you?” not “What looks good?” Slow down and build trust. When you finally raise the camera, let
dignity and authenticity guide the frame. That’s when images move beyond “pretty pictures” to
become records of lived truth, carrying meaning that endures long after the moment has
passed.
What cultural or artistic stories are still on your bucket list, and where do you see your
journey going next?
I don’t want to give too much away just yet, but you can expect more stories from Africa and
beyond — stories rooted in real people and real places, told with the intimacy of lived
experience.
