Fro n’ Boots: A Black Woman’s Everyday Armour
Written by Erel Onojobi
So, I just created an eight-piece fashion collection, the designs, not the physical clothes.
I’ve always had some sort of creativity within me, though it has very few outlets now. I used to draw fairly well as a child and later became very interested in how clothing works, how it wraps, covers, but mostly how it decorates and signals.
The process of designing was always fun and satisfying. Getting something out of your head and into the real world, not always exactly as imagined but real all the same, is good. Maybe it’s the backbone of who I am now, able to visualise something and then create it in the real world. That has to be a superpower.
My interest in clothing and design came out in strange ways and places. During my Management and Spanish degree, I wrote my dissertation on semiotics in fashion and the modern bondage of immodesty for women. That wasn’t the title, but it was very much the argument.
Later, during my MA, instead of finding an organisation for my required final placement, I founded one, Set Fashion Free. The main premise was using fashion as a hook to get young people of African and Caribbean descent to explore their roots, culture and heritage, rather than buy into the constant media barrage of criminality and street life as identity and belonging. I wanted them to know who they were.
They learned to construct garments, the meaning of symbols and patterns in West African cloth, and some uncomfortable truths about colonialism through Dutch wax. We looked at a specific print and followed the thread properly, how something marketed to us as purely “ours” is often tangled up in colonial trade routes, industrial production and rebranding, including links to Indonesian batik patterns that were adapted and resold.
The young people designed, constructed and showcased their collections, complete with presentations about their journey, learnings and inspiration. They produced work of an exceptionally high quality at the end of a six-week programme, and I was immensely proud of them. A few went on to design and own their own boutiques.
But I have always loved West African fabrics, bold, vibrant and colourful. My mum regularly wore the traditional top and wrapper ensembles in ankara or lace to church, or as a quick and easy covering to move around at home. It was a specific type of cultural dress, familiar and purposeful. But it was never everyday wear here.
On my first and only visit to Nigeria (Nigerian friends and colleagues, don’t come for me, it’s complicated), the ankara sunshine was everyday and everywhere, and that had a big effect on me. This was before Set Fashion Free, and it fed directly into that work.
I thought that such a big part of our culture and heritage shouldn’t be hidden, but celebrated, even if modified to account for our British context. I encouraged the young people to create British and West African fusions, that was the brief, before it was a thing, just saying.
Over the years, my own ankara and lace moved from Sundays and occasions only into skirts, blazers, tops and jumpsuits. And people would and still ask,
“Where are you going?”
“Here,” I reply. “Like, I’m at work, outside of my house, I needed to wear clothes.”
I know what they mean though. It’s not usual. Not from here. A bit statement-y. And that question carries more weight now because I increasingly occupy spaces where there are fewer people who look like me, and even where there might be, experience has told them that blending in, the cloak of invisibility, is the better option.
But that isn’t really me. I don’t know how to code switch well. The invisibility power never worked for me. So as my role and visibility heightens, and is likely to continue in this vein, this collection is really an expression of the complex feelings and tensions I have about my context as a Black woman in a senior role.
Designing was enjoyable. It was expressive. It was good to get it out of my head. But once the looks were laid out, the social commentary became impossible to ignore.
Now it doesn’t even matter if anyone sees the collection, although a lucrative side hustle would be great. The reality is that this will probably be my power wardrobe for 2026, if I can find the time and money to get it created.
Tell you what, invite me to your panels if you want an interesting aesthetic on stage and to liven things up a little. If not, I’ll be at multiple events, just somehow finding myself in the photographer’s path, having gently moved a few people out the way. Yep, that’s how you get free professional photos!
The collection is called Fro n’ Boots, The Power Collection. I almost called it All Superheroes Wear Boots, then Nubian Powerhouse, then Afro n’ Boots. Fro n’ Boots stayed because it names the whole body, identity at the top, foundation at the bottom. Who you are, and how you move through the world.
At its core, this is about everyday armour. Not metaphorical armour. Practical, social, emotional armour. What you put on when your right to be powerful is questioned, and you find yourself fighting a battle you didn’t choose, but still have to win.
That’s why the head-to-toe language matters. Not every look has a high collar, but the neck is still a theme, sometimes through a collar, sometimes through a gold choker. If you know anything about military systems or ceremonial dress, you know why. You protect what is vulnerable and vital. The throat is voice. The neck is posture. Those details force a certain way of holding yourself. Chin up. Shoulders back. Gaze forward. The right to be here, embodied.
Leather followed naturally. Black, grounding, resistant. Whether it is real or faux leather is less important to me than what it does. Paired with ankara, it creates a visual metaphor I recognise well. The print is the heart and identity. The leather is the protective shell. Colour and identity as offence. Structure as defence. The print says, I am here. The leather says, I am not easily moved.
The waistline became non-negotiable. Not just for beauty, though it is flattering, but for command. In superhero design, the belt is the utility centre. It is the pivot point. Cinching the waist creates an architectural centre of gravity and gives the wearer balance, intention and control.
The boots were always going to matter. This collection was nearly called All Superheroes Wear Boots for a reason. Boots carry military and working histories. They are about readiness, endurance and ground contact. They say you are prepared to walk through any environment, boardroom, school gate or stage. And I wanted chunkier heels because I’m grounding these women. In the superhero genre, footwear is often the most unrealistic part. Mine needed to survive pavements and long days, and still feel like power.
Colour became the most deliberate act of offence. Black superheroes are so often dressed in muted tones. Ankara refuses that. It removes the comfort of invisibility, a superpower I’ve never been granted or wanted. It demands to be seen. That visibility comes with risk, which is exactly why the armour has to be thoughtful and complete.
The hardware finishes the uniform. The cuffs are not decorative. They echo bracers used to deflect blows. The black leather cuffs with gold buckles feel like field armour, something you consciously put on. The gold cuffs are ceremonial and reflective. They catch the light and return the gaze.
There is tension running through all of this. I reference Wakanda and superhero iconography intentionally, the symbolism and discipline of those costumes. But I am also aware of the Strong Black Woman trope, the expectation that we are always ready, always resilient, always armoured.
This collection sits inside that contradiction. It reinforces power while acknowledging the cost of it. Sometimes the armour is chosen. Sometimes it is required. Most times it is simply thrust on us.
And then there is one piece that doesn’t belong on the front line. The teal jumpsuit with the power cape.
That piece works as a centrepiece because it represents claimed space. It is what you wear when you are no longer in armour, when you are not at war. If Fro n’ Boots is about the fight, this is the outcome.
The structure is still there, the command waist and the Ankara identity, but the cape signals something else. Regal. Elegant. Sovereign. A space where defence is no longer necessary because presence alone sets the boundary.
I keep saying it to myself as motivation, we will see if I make it all the way through all the pieces and through the year to get to the teal jumpsuit.
If you want to see the collection, DM me.
