Designing Chaos: How Daniel Obasi Turned Lagos into a Studio
Few Nigerian creatives have bent as many disciplines to their will as Daniel Obasi. A self-taught graphic designer turned stylist, photographer, and filmmaker, he first earned global attention with Fashion Eye Lagos for Louis Vuitton (2022), a book-length visual ode to his city’s layered realities. In 2024 he opened AMAH, an independent members’ club, studio, and residency space in Lagos that hosts exhibitions and supports emerging talent. Its first artist-in-residence programme debuted in March 2025, signaling Obasi’s ambition to build an ecosystem rather than a solo career. Speaking from AMAH’s rooftop studio, Daniel Obasi reflects on the unlikely path that led him from reception desks and DIY newsletters to styling fashion week runways, shooting editorial campaigns, and dreaming of a six-month-on, six-month-off life between Lagos and Paris.
So how did design enter your life?
Out of necessity. My mom had an accident, and I had to delay university for two years to support the family. I found a job as a front-desk assistant. It wasn’t glamorous: I was welcoming guests, signing people in… but I started redesigning the company newsletter in my spare time. They had no designer, so I learned Photoshop on YouTube. That newsletter caught the attention of management and eventually launched me into branding, visual communication, even customer strategy. That’s when someone said to me, “You have an eye for advertising.”
Out of necessity. My mom had an accident, and I had to delay university for two years to support the family. I found a job as a front-desk assistant. It wasn’t glamorous: I was welcoming guests, signing people in… but I started redesigning the company newsletter in my spare time. They had no designer, so I learned Photoshop on YouTube. That newsletter caught the attention of management and eventually launched me into branding, visual communication, even customer strategy. That’s when someone said to me, “You have an eye for advertising.”
What happened next?
I enrolled at Orange Academy, an alternative creative school in Lagos, where I studied copywriting and art direction. I couldn’t draw, but I could write, and I could think visually. That led me to university, where I studied French. I thought, Okay, maybe literature is still part of this story. I started doing freelance design jobs while in school, trying to make enough money to cover tuition. I was still trying to figure it out.
I enrolled at Orange Academy, an alternative creative school in Lagos, where I studied copywriting and art direction. I couldn’t draw, but I could write, and I could think visually. That led me to university, where I studied French. I thought, Okay, maybe literature is still part of this story. I started doing freelance design jobs while in school, trying to make enough money to cover tuition. I was still trying to figure it out.
So fashion came later?
Way later. In fact, I actively resisted it. It seemed superficial. But one day, friends told me about an internship opening at Lagos Fashion Week. I was skeptical (no pay, long hours) but I applied. They asked us to wear black to the interview, like it was a secret society. I had no experience in fashion. I told them, “I don’t know anything, but I’m hardworking.” Somehow, I got the job.
Way later. In fact, I actively resisted it. It seemed superficial. But one day, friends told me about an internship opening at Lagos Fashion Week. I was skeptical (no pay, long hours) but I applied. They asked us to wear black to the interview, like it was a secret society. I had no experience in fashion. I told them, “I don’t know anything, but I’m hardworking.” Somehow, I got the job.
What was that first fashion week like?
Total chaos. I was assigned to shoe duty backstage: no glamour, just figuring out shoe sizes, arranging pairs, helping models. Then I met Funmi Fagbemi, a stylist who changed everything. She had this tall, commanding presence, with pink locks, oversized polo shirt, lace socks, boots. Androgynous, powerful, soft, and sharp at the same time. I was struck by how she managed the madness with elegance. I introduced myself. She gave me her number. The next day, I was running errands for her editorial shoot, and soon after, she brought me into Hours magazine as a researcher. That’s how I entered the world.
Total chaos. I was assigned to shoe duty backstage: no glamour, just figuring out shoe sizes, arranging pairs, helping models. Then I met Funmi Fagbemi, a stylist who changed everything. She had this tall, commanding presence, with pink locks, oversized polo shirt, lace socks, boots. Androgynous, powerful, soft, and sharp at the same time. I was struck by how she managed the madness with elegance. I introduced myself. She gave me her number. The next day, I was running errands for her editorial shoot, and soon after, she brought me into Hours magazine as a researcher. That’s how I entered the world.
How did your creative identity evolve from there?
I started writing again. I was visiting exhibitions, researching stories, learning how to build a visual world around a concept. That led to styling, and eventually, to photography; again, out of frustration. I couldn’t find photographers who understood what I was trying to say, so I picked up a camera. It was trial and error, but I learned by doing. The storytelling came first. Technique followed.
I started writing again. I was visiting exhibitions, researching stories, learning how to build a visual world around a concept. That led to styling, and eventually, to photography; again, out of frustration. I couldn’t find photographers who understood what I was trying to say, so I picked up a camera. It was trial and error, but I learned by doing. The storytelling came first. Technique followed.
You’ve developed a very distinctive visual language. What influences it?
Literature, definitely. Lagos, always. And the women who raised me: my mother, my aunts, my principal. There’s also a strong pull toward mythology, surrealism, and the aesthetics of rebellion. I’m fascinated by androgyny, vulnerability, dream logic. My work often explores masculinity in flux. But it’s always grounded in local reality: the dust, the colors, the heat, the resilience.
Literature, definitely. Lagos, always. And the women who raised me: my mother, my aunts, my principal. There’s also a strong pull toward mythology, surrealism, and the aesthetics of rebellion. I’m fascinated by androgyny, vulnerability, dream logic. My work often explores masculinity in flux. But it’s always grounded in local reality: the dust, the colors, the heat, the resilience.
What role does Lagos play in your work?
Lagos taught me how to produce. It taught me structure through chaos. You can’t wait for things to be perfect here. You make them work. You learn to be scrappy, strategic, poetic. That’s how I managed the Fashion Eye: Lagos shoot for Louis Vuitton. We were in the middle of a pandemic, and I had to figure out logistics, safety, storytelling… all at once. It was wild. But Lagos had prepared me for that.
Lagos taught me how to produce. It taught me structure through chaos. You can’t wait for things to be perfect here. You make them work. You learn to be scrappy, strategic, poetic. That’s how I managed the Fashion Eye: Lagos shoot for Louis Vuitton. We were in the middle of a pandemic, and I had to figure out logistics, safety, storytelling… all at once. It was wild. But Lagos had prepared me for that.
You’re vocal about the economic realities of being an artist in Nigeria. What’s your biggest concern?
That we’re losing the infrastructure for serious artistic work. There are no magazines anymore, no long-term commissions, no ecosystem for photographers, stylists, or art directors to thrive. Everything lives and dies on Instagram, and that’s not enough. Likes are not a career. We need platforms. Collaboration. Sustainability. That’s why I created AMAH.
That we’re losing the infrastructure for serious artistic work. There are no magazines anymore, no long-term commissions, no ecosystem for photographers, stylists, or art directors to thrive. Everything lives and dies on Instagram, and that’s not enough. Likes are not a career. We need platforms. Collaboration. Sustainability. That’s why I created AMAH.
What is it exactly?
A hybrid space: part studio, part agency, part co-working, part gallery. It’s a test. Can we build an art ecosystem from scratch? We host residencies, produce short films, shoot content, stage exhibitions, and help brands find visual language. I fund it myself. No grants, no sponsors. Just belief and hustle. But it’s working. We’re bringing in other artists. We’re growing together.
A hybrid space: part studio, part agency, part co-working, part gallery. It’s a test. Can we build an art ecosystem from scratch? We host residencies, produce short films, shoot content, stage exhibitions, and help brands find visual language. I fund it myself. No grants, no sponsors. Just belief and hustle. But it’s working. We’re bringing in other artists. We’re growing together.
What kind of artist are you, in your own words?
I’m an artist who knows there’s a business to run. I care about longevity, not flash. I care about community, not competition. I’ve been doing this professionally since 2018. I’ve learned that to last, you need to value your own time and demand that others do too. That means: don’t work for free. Insist on credits. Break down your fees. Structure is resistance.
I’m an artist who knows there’s a business to run. I care about longevity, not flash. I care about community, not competition. I’ve been doing this professionally since 2018. I’ve learned that to last, you need to value your own time and demand that others do too. That means: don’t work for free. Insist on credits. Break down your fees. Structure is resistance.
Is there a generational shift happening around that mindset?
Slowly, yes. I’ve had stylists come up to me and say, “You’re the reason I raised my rate.” That means a lot. Not because I want to be seen as a mentor, but because it shows the value of transparency. When you invoice clearly, when you define your worth, you force people to take the work seriously. That’s how change begins.
Slowly, yes. I’ve had stylists come up to me and say, “You’re the reason I raised my rate.” That means a lot. Not because I want to be seen as a mentor, but because it shows the value of transparency. When you invoice clearly, when you define your worth, you force people to take the work seriously. That’s how change begins.
You’ve mentioned Paris several times. What’s the connection?
Paris feels like a spiritual home. When I launched Fashion Eye: Lagos there, I was met with openness. No gatekeeping, just kindness. I shot for GQ France, walked around with a sense of possibility. I’ve always said: if I could afford it, I’d do six months in Lagos, six months in Paris. That’s still the dream.
Paris feels like a spiritual home. When I launched Fashion Eye: Lagos there, I was met with openness. No gatekeeping, just kindness. I shot for GQ France, walked around with a sense of possibility. I’ve always said: if I could afford it, I’d do six months in Lagos, six months in Paris. That’s still the dream.
So what’s next?
I want to shoot couture. I want to direct a film. I want AMAH to become a model for alternative creative ecosystems; not just in Nigeria, but anywhere that needs one. And I want to keep telling stories that matter. Stories with depth. Stories with roots.
I want to shoot couture. I want to direct a film. I want AMAH to become a model for alternative creative ecosystems; not just in Nigeria, but anywhere that needs one. And I want to keep telling stories that matter. Stories with depth. Stories with roots.
Originally published in CITY MAGAZINE INTERNATIONAL #1