Wardrobe, Speak My Truth: A Diary of Outfits and Identities

An hourglass filled with buttons; time slipping while deciding what to wear.

You ask me for truth? Fine. Pull up a chair, not the one buried under last Tuesday’s outfit, and listen. Every time you open my doors, you look at me like I hold the answer to everything, your mood, your day, even your destiny. But make we clear one thing: I no be magician. I be your wardrobe, and trust me, I don see everything.

Look well. That slip dress? Still carrying its tag like fresh gossip. You promised to wear it on a night you would “finally feel like it.” The night never came. Those skyscraper heels? Bought for the version of you that was supposed to show up last summer. That woman never reached. And that oversized jacket? You wore it once, not because it fit but because it swallowed your doubt and made you feel like Beyoncé on tour. Omo, I keep all your what-ifs and future plans in fabric form.

You think I have not noticed? You dey run multiple characters here. The minimalist who swears neutrals mean discipline. The magpie who sees sequins and says “why not.” The romantic who believes florals can heal heartbreak. The gym babe whose leggings are multiplying faster than her push-ups. The serious professional who pinned all hope on one blazer. And the vacation self who keeps buying linen for trips that never happen. You no get signature style. You get reality show cast.

And every time you stand in front of me, sighing “I have nothing to wear,” I just laugh small inside. You are not looking for clothes. You are looking for clarity. You want to know who you are today. But life no dey work like that, so you try three outfits, throw two on the chair, and storm out in the third like nothing happened. I see you.

And let us talk about that chair. Poor thing. It catches all your rejects, the outfits you swear you will hang back properly “later.” Later never comes. The chair has seen more drama than any runway: skirts sulking, blouses pouting, trousers abandoned mid-decision. And yet, by evening, you gather them all up and toss them back at me as if I will not remember the betrayal.

Still, I no vex. I know fashion is not about getting it right. It is about trying, playing, pretending, laughing at yourself in the mirror before you finally find what clicks. That is the joy. That is the confession.

So keep coming back. Bring your church whites, your Friday night jeans, your wedding aso ebi, your lazy-day wrappers, your Monday blazers. I will keep holding them all, side by side, like a patient friend. I am here, pressed or wrinkled, zipped or hanging loose, keeping your secrets and waiting for the next dramatic sigh.

Closet Confessional*