There’s a new breed of furniture designers in Nigeria — self-proclaimed cultural revivalists who seem to believe that slapping a Yoruba name on a stiff wooden frame automatically turns it into heritage. Suddenly, everyone’s selling the Àlàárì sofa, Òrìsà chair, or Ìjápá side stool — none of which your ancestors would actually want to sit on for more than three minutes.

We’re told these pieces are “inspired by tradition.” But inspired how, exactly? By the discomfort of colonial benches or by the sheer audacity of selling pain wrapped in mahogany for ₦800,000? Because, let’s be honest — half of these designs look like they were built to impress Instagram, not the human spine.

Our forebears, for all their limited tools, understood something these modern “artisans” seem to have skipped in design school: comfort is not colonial. The woven chairs of the 60s, the cane recliners, even the simple hardwood stools — they were human. They embraced the body. They didn’t need cultural hashtags to feel authentic; they just worked.

Now, in this clumsy renaissance of “Afro-minimalism,” we’re losing that quiet brilliance. Instead, we’re getting mismatched hybrids — furniture that borrows the language of culture but forgets its grammar. Pieces that are loud about roots but mute on ergonomics.

What’s the solution? I honestly don’t know — maybe humility. Maybe a little less obsession with antique posturing and more attention to how a chair actually supports a back. Maybe designers should sit on their creations for a full hour before calling them functional art.

Until then, Nigerian design will keep mistaking nostalgia for innovation — and our backs will keep paying the price.