In October 2020, amidst the roar of the END SARS protests, the streets of Lagos were alive with the collective cries of a generation demanding justice. The air was thick with tension and hope, a fragile balance on the edge of change. The roads were blocked, and the tollgate symbolized the resistance. In the heart of this historic moment, I had an experience that taught me a profound lesson about judgment, understanding, and the fine line between ignorance and wisdom.

As the protests intensified, so did the noise online. Stories began to circulate, some accusing individuals of using the movement for clout, seeking personal gain in the wake of national tragedy. One story, in particular, caught my attention—a renowned photographer, someone I greatly admired, had shown up at the protests. But instead of documenting the rawness of the moment with natural light, he chose to use strobes. It was bold, perhaps too bold for my liking at the time.

I was caught in a heated discussion with a colleague, who happened to be his friend, and in a surge of emotion, I said something reckless: "The images were disgusting." That word hung in the air like a dagger, and unbeknownst to me, my colleague passed along my words to the very photographer I spoke of.

Days later, my phone rang. I was shocked to see his name on the screen. I hadn't expected him to call, certainly not because of my careless comment. He greeted me warmly, and we exchanged pleasantries. But then, with the grace of someone who had seen much more than I had, he said, "I heard you said my photographs were disgusting."

At that moment, my heart dropped. I stumbled over my words, trying desperately to explain that I wasn’t criticizing his entire body of work—after all, I looked up to him. I fumbled through an explanation, trying to justify why I had felt the use of strobes was out of place at a protest. But the more I spoke, the more foolish I felt. Every word seemed to dig the hole deeper, and I realized I had been speaking from a place of ignorance, not understanding.



Here’s what I’m grateful for: Uncle K was kind. Instead of letting me spiral into shame, he steered the conversation into a lesson. We discussed the history of criticism, and the days when critics held a respected role in society, offering thoughtful analyses of artists' work. In that conversation, I realized how little I knew and how quick I had been to judge without seeking to understand.

I share this story because that experience changed me. It was a wake-up call. When you critique something without truly understanding it, you’re speaking from the darkness of ignorance. And ignorance, I learned, can be more destructive than any criticism itself.

6th September 2024, I posted a body of work, and while many praised it, a few critics emerged in the comments. It reminded me of that time in 2020. I’ve come to realize that many Nigerian photographers have been conditioned by a certain ‘mob psychology.’

There’s a collective mindset that dictates how photographs should look—what’s acceptable, and what’s not. When something deviates from that aesthetic conditioning, it’s immediately deemed wrong. It’s easier to critique than to create, after all.

Here’s the thing: I’m not mad at the critics. I’m grateful. You see, those of us who push boundaries, who dare to create outside the lines of what’s ‘accepted,’ we’re doing it in your favour. We’re showing you that there’s room for creative expression in commercial photography. We’re proving that clients can and will embrace something different.

In fact, concerning the body of work that I posted, I had already taken the time to describe my vision clearly in the caption: ‘a contemporary twist of vibrant modern Yoruba culture and Neoclassical digital art.’ These weren’t just words thrown together for effect; they were intentional. They were meant to guide anyone curious enough to dive deeper into the meaning behind the images. Now, if you were genuinely curious instead of quick to judge, you’d have taken a moment to research those keywords—twist, neoclassical, digital art, among others. You’d have discovered that the word ‘twist’ itself implies a departure from the ordinary, something intentionally unexpected.

The term 'Neoclassical' wasn’t there by accident either. It draws from a rich history of art & architecture, from structured elegance and restraint, yet I infused it with vibrant, modern Yoruba culture, which is known for its boldness, and its energy. I wasn’t aiming for the images to be harmonious in a traditional sense. The images were meant to clash, to provoke thought, and to challenge aesthetic norms.



If you had dug into that, you’d have understood that the images were not just a reflection of what’s typically deemed ‘acceptable’ in our industry. They were a reflection of the artist’s mind—my mind—and where I wanted to take the narrative. It wasn’t about playing by the rules; it was about breaking them to create something entirely new.

When I first entered the industry, shadow in photography was considered taboo. People wanted flat images—no depth, no definition, no complexity. But I questioned that. Why should all images look the same? Why can’t we embrace shadows and light to create something more dynamic, and more expressive? Over time, people started to accept it. I’m not the pioneer of creative lighting, but the acceptance of creative lighting in the Nigeria photography industry stemmed from #TheFelixCrownEffect.

So here’s my conclusion: If you’re going to be audacious, don’t be audacious in criticizing someone else’s path. Be audacious in creating your own.

Be curious, yes, ask questions, challenge the norms, but don’t let ignorance guide your voice. There’s so much more to gain from understanding than from judgment.

Ire Oo!