At the vibrant colours of the late ’90s and early 2000s, right there in our living room.
For the first ten years of my life, it was home. And the one constant, defining reality of those years was Lara, my mother.
We never called her Lara. Nobody ever did. It’s only her middle name.
It always intrigued me, however, because it made me feel something quietly unfamiliar about her. It belonged to a part of her that felt mysterious. Unrevealing. And when I began to reimagine my home in ways I had never done before, I knew it belonged there.
I found it even more befitting because these rooms aren’t mine. They’re for strangers with whom I want to share little pieces of my home.



So I
looked back.
At the textures of indigenous South-Western art on our walls and surfaces.
At the intricate and evocative textile works lining every street in Ilorin.





It was incredibly profound to walk into the idea of hosting guests in my reimagination of home.

04 — For you

