Inside Nigeria’s Thrift Industry: Its History, Drawbacks, and Positives

A woman photographed hawking thrift clothes by Adera Abdoulaye Dolo

Walk through the streets of Yaba Market, Lagos; Mile 1, Port Harcourt; Ogbe-Ogonogo Market, Asaba; or Karimo Market, Abuja, and you’ll see crowds hovering over piles of clothes laid out on the bare ground or black nylons. 

“One thousand last!” a seller shouts, and then they break into songs. Shoppers bend, dig, and bargain. Some leave with vintage denim jackets; others score Zara blazers for a fraction of the price. This is Nigeria’s thriving thrift industry, popularly known locally as ‘Okrika’ or ‘Bend-Down Select’.

But how did this culture start? Beyond aesthetics and affordability, is it actually good for Nigeria?

The Roots of Thrifting in Nigeria

The Nigerian thrift industry wasn’t always trendy. It all started with colonization and the need for Western clothing. All thanks to colonization, the need for traditional Nigerian clothing diminished, and the need for Western clothing skyrocketed. 

When ships carrying second-hand clothes and other items from Europe would come to Nigeria, they would dock at Okrika. This is a town in Rivers State, and that’s how they earned the name Okrika. 

Nigeria’s textile industry suffered a massive setback during and after colonial rule. Local production declined sharply following the structural adjustment programs of the 1980s, thus creating space for imported secondhand clothing to flood the market.

These secondhand clothes were often shipped in bales and became the go-to option for millions of Nigerians who couldn’t afford new or locally made garments. They were cheaper, more stylish, and ironically, sometimes more durable than the clothes made in Nigeria.

Over time, okrika moved from the margins to the mainstream. It went from being seen as “poor people’s clothes” to becoming a staple for the fashion-conscious, particularly among students, young people, and creative communities.

A Fashion Movement for the Youth

Today, thrifting is more than an economic necessity; it’s a fashion expression. Gen Z and millennial Nigerians have turned okrika into a creative movement. On Instagram and TikTok, thrift haul videos rack up thousands of views. People show off how they styled a ₦5,000 outfit better than a designer look.

Thrift has also given rise to an entire economy of resellers and million-naira businesses. 

Many young people who buy in bulk from places like Yaba, Tejuosho, or Aswani resell curated pieces online. Some people even order directly from Europe. 

Some have even built successful fashion businesses on Instagram, offering "UK grade" vintage, retro styles, or streetwear edits.

This grassroots fashion economy has empowered a generation to make money, build brands, and challenge the idea that looking good must come at a high price.

But Is It All Positive?

Na mumu dey go boutique. This has become the unofficial slogan for thrift shopping, and I believe it pretty much sums up how a majority of Nigerians feel about thrifting. 

However, for all its vibrancy, Nigeria’s thrift industry has a dark side.

First, there’s the impact on Nigeria’s textile and garment industry, which has been on life support for years. The influx of secondhand clothing makes it hard for local tailors, designers, and fabric producers to compete. Why buy a locally sewn dress for ₦15,000 when you can get a trendy, pre-loved Zara dress for ₦3,500?

Even more troubling is the environmental burden. A large percentage of secondhand clothes shipped into Nigeria are already near the end of their lifecycle. Many are unsellable and end up as waste. Lagos alone produces thousands of tons of textile waste weekly, most of which is dumped or burned, contributing to Nigeria’s pollution problem.

Additionally, thrift clothing imports are part of a waste system driven by the Western world. Countries like the UK, the US, and Canada overproduce and overconsume fashion, and Nigeria becomes one of the final dumping grounds for this excess. So while thrifting is often branded as “sustainable,” in Nigeria, it’s sometimes just fashion waste repackaged for survival.

The Colonial Undercurrent

There’s also a cultural and political layer to it all. The dependence on secondhand fashion reflects deeper issues about economic dependency and post-colonial trade systems. Nigeria, once home to thriving textile hubs in Kaduna, Aba, and Kano, now relies on used clothes from countries that once colonized it. 

It’s a subtle but sharp example of how neo-colonial systems play out, not just in policy or finance, but also in what we wear. 

Where Do We Go From Here?

Thrift is here to stay, but Nigeria needs to evolve the conversation. Instead of banning it (as was once attempted), Nigeria should invest in local garment production, promote creative upcycling, and encourage policies that strike a balance between affordability and local industry growth. 

The average person also has a part to play. While thrifting may have emerged as a response to overconsumption, it can just as easily become a contributor to it. Avoid buying clothes you don’t truly need. When garments become worn out or are no longer in wearable condition, repurpose them into cleaning rags, washcloths, pet bedding, or craft materials. 

Wearable clothes that were not purchased, whether from thrift hauls, giveaways, or other sources, should not be discarded, as this contributes to environmental pollution. Instead, consider donating them to those in need, such as the homeless, orphanages, or local charities.

Final Thoughts

Thrifting in Nigeria is beautiful chaos: a mix of survival, style, and systemic failures. It tells the story of a resilient generation making the most of what they have, while exposing the gaps in infrastructure, policy, and global trade. It may have started out of necessity, but it's become a lens into who we are, what we value, and how we resist.