The Devolution of Nigerian Men’s Fashion Over the Years

Men’s fashion used to eat. There was a time when every guy stepping out looked like he gave a damn. The ‘70s was: flared pants, silk shirts, gold chains, afros combed to perfection. The '90s? Baggy fits with flavor. Early 2000s gave us clean cuts, layered style, even matching durags and Air Force 1s. Today, half the boys are out here dressed like they just rolled out of bed and forgot what a mirror is.

Somewhere along the way, “minimalism” turned into bare minimum. A plain tee, ash-coloured joggers, and dusty sneakers are now a whole outfit. Normcore had its moment, sure, but now it’s giving lazy. The energy shifted from dressed to impress to “as long as I’m not naked.” Where’s the sauce? The effort? The flare?

Social media plays a role, ironically. While fashion inspo is more accessible than ever, a lot of guys still play it safe. Blame it on toxic masculinity or the fear of standing out, but it’s like the more fashion evolved, the more some men retreated. A bold outfit gets called “doing too much,” and suddenly, everyone is in black cargos and oversized tees. Again.

And don’t get us started on weddings. Men used to show up to owambes in drip-heavy agbadas with matching fila and polished shoes. Now it’s the same recycled senator set in 50 shades of meh. Meanwhile, the women are serving face, body, and custom beading like it’s the Met Gala.

But let’s be fair, some guys are still carrying the torch. The alté community is pushing boundaries, Gen Z stylists are experimenting with androgyny, and fashion-forward men are slowly reclaiming their drip. The problem isn’t that men can’t dress. It’s that many just don’t try.

The decline in men’s fashion isn’t just about clothes, it’s about confidence, creativity, and cultural pride slipping through the seams. We miss the drama. The colour. The risk.

Let’s take a quick drip journey through time, shall we? The 70s was pure iconic energy. Men wore wide-legged trousers, fitted shirts with huge collars, platform shoes, and afro combs proudly peeking out of pockets. Men weren’t afraid of colour or prints. Tailoring was sharp, and fashion was political, bold, and deeply cultural. They made sure to accessorise with statement pieces, and their confidence was through the roof. Enter the 80s, and everything got extra. The pants were still flared, but now we had shoulder pads, flashy sunglasses, shiny fabrics, and plenty of jerry curls. This was the era of disco, excess, and rich uncles in double-breasted suits with walking sticks—not for support, just for the vibes. Even traditional wear turned up, with richer fabrics and bolder designs. Everything about it gave power and presence.

Then came the 90s, and swag evolved again. Baggy jeans, oversized shirts, and baseball caps entered the mix. Hip-hop and Nollywood influenced a whole new style wave. Ankara started getting styled more casually, and street fashion became a thing. The tailoring got more relaxed, but the drip was still very intentional. Even the “Y2K Lagos big boy” had his own aesthetic with the tight jeans, loud belts, sunshades at night. Iconic in its own right.

Now? It’s complicated. Nigerian men today swing between two extremes: over-simplified streetwear or overpriced designer flex. It’s sneakers with everything, plain tees tucked into cargos, and the occasional dashiki when they want to “go cultural.” It’s almost as if they are afraid to have personal styles that make them stand out. Sure, the alté scene is doing bits, mixing tradition with global street fashion. And some guys do bring the heat. But let’s be honest, the average Nigerian man’s wardrobe is a rotation of neutral tones, denim, and that one kaftan his mum made him for Christmas.

In the past, Nigerian men dressed with intention, whether for respect, rebellion, or rhythm. Now, comfort seems to rule, with less creativity in the mix.

We’re not saying bring back the platform shoes (okay, maybe we are 👀), but the past showed us that Nigerian men can dress. So the question is—will the boys bring it back? Or are the glory days gone with the flares?

The Role of Society in Men’s Fashion

Every cargo pant, leather sandal, and oversized tee you’ve seen on the streets has been shaped by something deeper: society. From tradition to trend cycles to toxic masculinity, society has had its foot on men’s necks—and wardrobes—for decades.

Back in the day, fashion was a status symbol. In the ‘70s and ‘80s, Agbadas, flared trousers, stacked shoes, and gold accessories reigned supreme. Because society respected a man who looked powerful. Appearance was tied to authority, wealth, and masculinity. If you stepped out looking fresh, people automatically assumed you had your life together. Respect was woven into your outfit. But as time went on, society’s expectations changed. The ‘90s and early 2000s brought in hip-hop culture, Nollywood influence, and global media. Baggy jeans, chains, and sneakers became the uniform for the “cool guy.” Society no longer wanted men to look regal. They wanted them to look hard, untouchable, rugged. Looking “soft” or experimental? Automatic side-eye.

Then came the “be a real man” era. You know the one. Don’t wear pink. Don’t roll your jeans. Don’t care too much about your looks, or you’re “trying too hard.” Society built a box and threw Nigerian men inside, locking away their creativity under the label of masculinity.

Today’s men are starting to realize they can dress how they want, not how society expects. The rise of alté fashion, gender-fluid styles, thrift culture, and even skincare for men is society slowly being told to rest. Younger men are exploring fits that feel authentic, not performative. And social media is a fashion battleground, but also a source of freedom. Men are seeing how other guys around the world dress and saying, “Wait, I can do that too?”

Still, society’s voice hasn’t vanished. Some men are stuck between wanting to experiment and fearing judgment. Nigerian society especially still clings to certain fashion rules, and anyone who breaks them gets side-eyed at best, dragged at worst. But the tide is turning. Fashion is becoming personal again. Expression is replacing performance. And society is being forced to keep up with the drip, or get left behind.

Let’s talk about The Influence of Yahoo Boy Culture in Men’s Streetwear Fashion

If you’ve come across a guy wearing head-to-toe designer, I’m talking, Fendi cap, Gucci shades, Balenciaga tee, Amiri jeans, and red bottom slippers, you’ve already witnessed it. It’s giving “loud money, zero taste,” and it’s been running Nigerian men’s fashion circles for a hot minute. Now don’t get it twisted, nobody’s mad at a soft life or legit luxury. But what happens when money, not style, becomes the entire fashion statement? When the goal is to look expensive instead of looking good? Welcome to the Yahoo Boy aesthetic.

The rise of internet fraud culture didn’t just mess with the economy, it messed with the wardrobe. Young men, eager to flex their “arrival,” started rocking every visible logo known to mankind. But rather than build a cohesive look, it became a competition of “who can wear the most designer in one outfit?” The result being vibes that scream chaos, not class. Streetwear used to be about attitude, originality, and expression. Think skate culture, hip-hop roots, thrift finds, and unexpected layering, but it’s now often reduced to overpriced name brands. And let’s not forget the obsession with looking “foreign” as if style can’t be authentic unless it looks like it came from London, Paris, or the Explore page.

This lack of taste isn’t just about what they wear, it’s about why they wear it. For many, it’s about validation. In a society where masculinity is tied to money and status, men are pressured to show they’ve made it. Fashion becomes performance, and taste is left behind in the dust of designer receipts and Instagram drip posts. Alté boys, skaters, stylists, and creative rebels are showing that true streetwear doesn’t need a €600 price tag to be fire. They’re mixing thrift with vintage, Ankara with sneakers, and creating fits that feel personal, not performative. Streetwear should be more than an expensive costume. It should have character. Because at the end of the day, real drip isn’t bought—it’s built.