Reviving our local scent industry
Sir: There Is Something Unsettling In The Air, And It Is Not The Perfume. It Is The Quiet Surrender Of a nation’s identity, bottled and shipped away in exchange for
Sir: There Is Something Unsettling In The Air, And It Is Not The Perfume. It Is The Quiet Surrender Of a nation’s identity, bottled and shipped away in exchange for foreign labels. Walk through any market in Ibadan, or linger in the glittering shops of Lagos, and one truth hangs heavy like an overused fragrance: we have learned to wear the world, but forgotten how to smell like ourselves.
Nigeria spends billions of naira each year on imported luxury goods, perfumes included. In a country where foreign exchange scarcity has become a recurring storm, where the naira has staggered under pressure since the policy shifts following the 2023 Nigerian currency redesign, it feels almost poetic, and tragic, that even our scents must be imported. What is more intimate than smell? What is more quietly political than what we choose to wear on our skin?
The irony is not hidden. Long before French houses refined their roses and oud into global empires, scent was already a language here. From the earthy whisper of shea-infused balms to the smoky allure of local resins, a fragrant heritage was lived, not manufactured. As Chinua Achebe once warned in Things Fall Apart, “until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.” Today, until we bottle our own scents, the story of fragrance will continue to glorify foreign hands while ours remain invisible.
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It has often been argued that local industries fail because of quality. That argument feels too convenient. Quality is rarely born in a vacuum; it is nurtured by investment, policy, and patience. In France, the perfume capital of the world, the industry is not merely art. It is science, agriculture, and national pride stitched together. Grasse did not become a global name by accident; it was built through deliberate cultivation of flowers, research funding, and export strategy.
So one begins to wonder, almost painfully: what would happen if even a fraction of such intentionality were poured into Nigeria’s fragrance potential? Imagine fields of botanicals grown not just for subsistence, but for scent. Imagine chemistry departments in universities not starved of funding, but tasked with building a national fragrance identity. Imagine young entrepreneurs not merely reselling imported bottles, but distilling oils that carry the story of this soil.
The truth is uncomfortable. It is easier to import prestige than to build it. It is easier to sell what already carries a foreign name than to convince a sceptical public that “made in Nigeria” can mean excellence.
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Yet nations are not built on ease. They are built on stubborn decisions that seem inconvenient at first and inevitable in hindsight. There is also the matter of dignity. When a country cannot produce what it consumes, even at the level of luxury, a subtle dependency is formed. It is not just economic; it is psychological. Fragrance becomes more than a product. It becomes a quiet admission that what is ours is not enough. And that thought, once it settles, spreads like a lingering note that refuses to fade.
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Policy must not remain silent. Reduced import duties for raw materials, grants for small-scale perfumers, and partnerships between agricultural and scientific institutions could begin to shift the tide. These are not abstract dreams. They are practical steps, seen in countries that have transformed niche industries into national assets. As argued in The Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith, industries flourish where there is both freedom to operate and strategic support. Nigeria must decide if fragrance is merely consumption, or a sector worth cultivating.
Yet policy alone cannot carry the burden. Consumers hold a quiet power. Every purchase is a vote, a whisper of what we value. When we reach for imported scents without question, we reinforce the very system that side-lines local creativity. When we pause, even briefly, to ask for Nigerian-made fragrances, something begins to shift. Markets listen. Traders adapt. Producers emerge. Identity abandoned becomes weight carried. So here lies the question, quiet but insistent: must we always smell like somewhere else to feel worthy? Or can a nation, bruised yet unbroken, learn again to distil its own essence and wear it with pride?
•Hauwa Tanko Yakasai, Abuja.
