6 Nigerians share how they really feel about Second-Hand Clothes

Written By

AdetolaLifestyle writer

Reviewed By

Franklin IzuchukwuCrypto Writer, Business Writer and Radiographer

I used to be deep in the okrika trenches — Tejuosho, Aswani, even those 6 a.m. roadside drops. You’d see me dragging a Ghana-Must-Go, ready to fight aunties for vintage jackets. I loved the thrill of the hunt and the fact that you could find gems for cheap.

But my skin didn’t love it back. No matter how long I soaked, Dettol-ed or sun-dried, I’d break out in rashes after wearing them. Eventually, I had to stop. It was either my skin or my wardrobe. Do I miss it? Absolutely. I still window-shop sometimes. If you’re lucky enough not to react, please enjoy it. There’s no shame in okrika. Just wash it well and rock it with your chest.

I have zero issues with people who wear thrifted clothes. But for me? It’s a no. A lot of people pretend it’s about cutting coats to size and the affordability, but let’s be honest, they’re in Yaba hunting for old Tommy Hilfiger and LV shirts so they can look like they spent ₦200k at a store in Lekki. That’s where I draw the line.

It feels like performative fashion. Like flexing on a budget but pretending it’s not. If you can’t afford designer, that’s fine, just don’t pretend you can. I’d rather wear a basic tee from a random Nigerian brand than walk around in someone else’s old Gucci shirt.

Read More:

• How to create the perfect Good Morning Message as a Nigerian
• Message to my ex-Boyfriend that will make him cry
• 3 Middle-class Nigerians on the struggle to stay stylish in Tinubu’s Nigeria
• Easter Messages for Your Loved Ones

I didn’t choose thrift life. It chose me, or rather, poverty did.

During my uni days, my parents could barely send upkeep money. Clothes? Not even in the budget. Meanwhile, girls around me were dressing like they had stylists. I felt invisible. Until I discovered a thrift plug at Yaba who sold blazers for ₦800 and skirts for ₦500. She changed my life. I’d mix and match pieces, and people would actually ask where I got my outfits. I never told them.

Now that I earn better, I buy new clothes. But if I see a fine denim jacket on a rail, I’m not walking past it. Okrika taught me how to style myself. That’s not something I’ll ever forget.

I’m not even trying to sound deep; I just really believe okrika jeans are superior. New jeans feel stiff. Like they’re angry to be worn. But thrift jeans? Already broken in. Soft where it should be, snug where it matters.

There’s this faded pair I bought in Balogun market four years ago for ₦1,200. I’ve worn it to death. It still fits better than the ₦25k one I bought online last year. Shirts? Fine. I’ll buy new. But jeans? Miss me with retail stress. Let me find my faded Levi’s in peace.

I’ve tried, I swear. My friends have dragged me to Katangua, shown me IG thrift pages, even gifted me thrifted tops. But I just can’t. Something about wearing clothes someone else has worn freaks me out. I keep imagining who wore it, what they did in it, if they even washed it.

It’s a personal thing. I’m not judging anyone. I actually envy people who thrift effortlessly; they always look so creative. I’m just not built for that kind of risk.

I started thrifting and reselling in my final year of school, just to make extra cash. I’d buy in bulk from Yaba or Oshodi and flip them online. Before I knew it, I had regular customers and a mini business. The irony? I still keep the best pieces for myself. I’ve worn ₦600 skirts that look like ₦30k from a boutique. And I love that. I don’t hide it.

People need to stop attaching shame to second-hand clothes. Some of the finest people I know are rocking head-to-toe okrika and looking better than people in ₦50k Zara fits.