My 20 Naira skirt. - by Laseeee

Before I start, I have a confession: I am a relatively new member of the online shopping community. For the first eighteen to nineteen years of my life, I was a proud physical shopper. This was largely my mother’s fault, though. She would find a vendor on Facebook or WhatsApp, confirm that an item was available, pay for it, and STILL insist on going to the shop to see it for herself, just in case it needed to be changed or didn’t fit properly. Apparently, pictures were not enough evidence in the court of quality control. I only started shopping online about a year ago, with Temu, 1688, Shein, and the works. But long before I discovered the joy of having packages delivered to my doorstep, I made what I consider one of the greatest purchases of my life. A black skirt. ₦20. In fact, this skirt has become a family celebrity. Whenever I wear it, someone will inevitably shout, “Ah! See this your twenty-naira skirt! It’s still existing!” And honestly, I understand their disbelief because this skirt has survived economic changes, fashion trends, and more career transitions than some employed people. Its story began in Aswani Market, Isolo, Lagos, when I was eight years old and in primary school. My mother had been buying things from a particular shop whose owner advertised her goods on social media, back when Facebook was still one of the major places to find vendors online. So, when I needed a black skirt for my school’s Career Day, my mother contacted the shop, made the necessary arrangements, paid for the skirt, and delegated the collection to me and my nanny. And that was how our adventure to Aswani Market began. My mother had instructed my nanny to take me in a taxi, but apparently, the universe had other plans. We couldn’t find one, so I ended up riding an Okada for the first time in my life. I was probably more excited about the new experience than concerned about the fact that we had deviated from my mother’s carefully laid plans. We eventually arrived at Aswani, where my nanny, who had other things to buy, took me around different shops. I don’t remember much about the other shops, but I definitely remember this one. It was a tent filled with clothes arranged in different sizes and colours. All the reds were together, all the blues were together. There were bras, underwear, and all sorts of things. But what caught my attention was a stack of skirts sitting on a mat on the floor. The woman brought out the skirt she had set aside for me, but it was too big. Apparently, she had expected me to be bigger than I was. And, to be fair, I had always been a big child, so I understood the confusion. I tried on other skirts. Some were too small, some were too big, and some just didn’t sit right. But I wasn’t leaving that market without a skirt. Then I spotted a black, stretchy skirt with stitched stripes running across it. It was long, it fit me, and it was exactly what I wanted. It cost ₦20. My nanny was quite shocked, but I didn’t understand what was happening. I was eight years old. I knew nothing about investments, inflation, or the long-term value of quality clothing. All I knew was that I had found a beautiful skirt I liked, and I wanted it. And I was going to get it, too. We returned home, and I was so exhausted from the day’s adventure that I fell asleep. When I woke up, my eyes were red. By evening, I had developed Apollo. My mother’s theory? She believed I had exchanged my clear eyes for a cheap skirt. Apparently, the bargain came with terms and conditions I hadn’t read. But the skirt was worth it. At least, to an eight-year-old. When my mother found out how much it had cost, she was just as surprised as my nanny. Even back then, ₦20 was remarkably cheap for a skirt of that quality. And once I understood just how good a deal I had gotten, something changed in me. I became insufferable. If someone at church complimented my skirt, I would thank them and immediately announce the price. Nobody needed to ask. Everybody knew that my skirt cost ₦20. My family even had to start hushing me. I carried that skirt on my head like I had personally discovered the secret to affordable fashion. I was so proud of the bargain that I had to tell everyone about it. And it was years later that I discovered my nanny had actually negotiated the price down from what the woman initially asked for. Imagine that. I had been advertising a product for years without even knowing the full story behind the bargain. The funniest part, though, is that I never saw the woman again. My nanny and I never returned to her shop, and I have no idea what became of her business. She probably went about her life, unaware that somewhere in Nigeria, a little girl had become her biggest brand ambassador without her knowledge or consent. But you see that skirt? That skirt had plans. Over the years, it went from being a long skirt to a shorter one. It became an underskirt for traditional attire during school celebrations, including Independence Day. And now, I wear it as a tube top. Yes, a tube top.<img src="/media/inline_insight_image/20260806171912_88318082.jpeg"/> Last week, I noticed that its colour was beginning to fade. Little hairs were appearing on the fabric, and its original form existed mostly in my memories. But I still own it, and I will still wear it. Because it is my ₦20 skirt. I’m almost twenty-one now. That means this skirt has been with me for more than half my life. It has survived my childhood, my changing tastes, and multiple wardrobe transformations. While other clothes have come and gone, this one has remained. And it will remain until it finally tears into pieces. (It’s very close to😭)<img src="/media/inline_insight_image/IMG_7678.jpeg"/> Somewhere in Aswani Market, a woman once sold a little girl a skirt for ₦20, completely unaware of the long-term impact of that transaction. She made one sale yet I have spent almost 14 years advertising the product. No sponsorship. No affiliate links. No discount code. Not even a thank-you message. Just a little girl who loved her skirt so much that she turned every compliment into a free advertisement. Well, not entirely for free. I did pay ₦20.

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