Journal Entry 29th March '24: From Dusk Till Dawn

Living room of the Vaughan-Richards House, built in the 1960s at Ikoyi, Lagos, by and for architect Alan Vaughan-Richards. Credit: Courtesy Remi Vaughan-Richards

As the sun hangs high and unrelenting in the sky above the city of Lagos, its rays searing the world below and the heat smothering everything in its embrace, my mind drifts to the essence of tropical architecture. A movement birthed from the womb of Afrocentricity, seeking to respond to and harmonise with the sweltering climates of the tropics. Soaring temperatures, blinding sunlight – they are not mere obstacles but inspiration for solutions laced into the fabric of buildings through shade, heat dissipation, natural ventilation and more. How ingenious, I think, that these challenges birthed an architectural philosophy in British West Africa as the world emerged from the unrest of the Second World War.

My thoughts turn to the University of Ibadan, a testament to the vision of Maxwell Fry and Jane Drew, built in the twilight years of colonial rule in Nigeria. There, amid the vestiges of imperial ambition, modernism and Afrocentricity entwined, resulting in a curious blend of experimentation and aspiration. One question does gnaw at me: were such designs merely the work of architects pursuing an essentially European modernist agenda, rejected by the British and now adapted for colonies in the hopes of making a name for themselves, neglecting the daily lives and cultural heartbeat of the locals?

Designed by Tosin Oshinowo and completed in 2022, the housing of Ngarannam draws on Kanuri/Islamic culture. Shading and cross-ventilation are integral to the design. Credit: Tolu Sanusi, for UNDP Nigeria.

How then do we weave the threads of our traditions into the tapestry of our future? The answer lies – and will always lie – in the soil of our land: the sand, mud, wood and thatch that sheltered our ancestors. These materials, rich in history and sustainability, offer not just a blueprint for design but also a way of living. In north-west Nigeria, the Ngarannam village masterplanned by Oshinowo rises from the ashes of recent conflict, a true testament to resilience and community. Here, architecture becomes a dialogue between people, place, past and future.

In this context, a Yoruba proverb reassuringly unfurls in my mind: ‘Ilé lá ti ń ko èkó òde òni’ – charity begins at home but should not end there. It speaks of starting points that beckon us towards expansive horizons. This wisdom, beyond my years, still stands as a beacon to navigate the intricate tango of tradition and modernity within the Nigerian context. It reminds us that, while our architectural roots are embedded in the rich soil of our cultural heritage, the vision must extend beyond the confines of home. The essence of our journey lies in harmonising lessons of the past with the possibilities of the future, ensuring that the sustainability and community innate to traditional Nigerian architecture imbue the projects of today. The proverb, therefore, is not merely to remember where we come from but to carry the best of our heritage into the world, crafting spaces that reflect our collective identity while appreciating the innovations that propel us forward. From the colonial relics that still stand as sentinels of a bygone era to the modern-day edifices, the need for a humanised and sustainable future couldn’t be clearer.

As the day’s heat softens into the cooler embrace of dusk, my thoughts meander to the indelible marks of colonisation on the lands of west Africa, and Nigeria, my home. There is a spirit of resilience and relentlessness within us, born from the ashes of subjugation, which shows our ability to always redefine and rediscover who we are as people. This re-emergence or reclamation, mirrored in our engagement with architecture, is a testament to our unyielding sense of self amidst the sprawling narratives imposed by others. The educational system, typically rooted in Western methodologies, has long showcased styles and philosophies of many cultures, but barely touched on west Africa and Africa at large. Yet, as we stand on the precipice of cultural reawakening, I look to a day when our architecture can demand a place for itself in these curriculums. It is not just about adding another chapter to a textbook or, as we say, for ‘audio’; it is about affirming our place in the world and demonstrating that our contributions and our visions of space and community are not confined to the borders of our continent but will transcend outwards and show us that the roots we nurture at home, have the strength to flourish far beyond us.

This is the dream of African architecture, a vision of development that pulls from the well of African philosophy and adopts the threads of foreign practice. It is not a return to the past but a bridge to the future, a synthesis of design that speaks to the heart of what it means to build, to live and to be African.