1
Beyond his famous royal commission and his celebrated sculpture Anyanwu, he was a cultural bridge-builder. Educated in both Nigeria and Britain, he became one of the earliest Africans to gain international recognition in the Western art establishment without surrendering his African aesthetic roots. His paintings, often portraying dancers, masquerades, and elegant female forms, fused Igbo spirituality with modernist technique. At a time when Nigeria was defining itself politically after independence in 1960, Enwonwu was helping to define it visually. He was not simply producing art; he was shaping the image of a new nation.
THIS article will be presented in three parts. In this series, I reflect on how art helps preserve memory and shape a nation’s identity. It revisits the richness of Nigeria’s ancient artistic traditions from the remarkable works of Benin, Ife, and Igbo-Ukwu to the modern achievements of artists such as Ben Enwonwu. It also recalls personal encounters and friendships with cultural figures whose lives were deeply connected to Nigeria’s artistic and intellectual heritage, including Ekpo Eyo and Wole Soyinka. Through these reflections, the article seeks to remind us that art is more than beauty on display; it carries the memory of a people and helps define who we are as a nation.
There are certain stories in the life of a nation that must never be allowed to fade quietly into the background. They are stories that remind a people of who they are, where they come from, and what they are capable of achieving. One such story belongs to Nigeria, and at the centre of it stands a remarkable artist “Ben Enwonwu”. His life and work represent not only personal brilliance but also the continuation of a long and sophisticated artistic tradition that stretches back centuries across the Nigerian landscape.
More than half a century ago, in a world where the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth were filled with distinguished painters and sculptors, a Nigerian artist was chosen for an honor that few could have imagined at the time. Ben Enwonwu was commissioned by Buckingham Palace to produce a portrait of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. The commission required several sittings with the monarch herself moments that placed a Nigerian artist face to face with the British Queen inside the historic walls of the royal palace. From those sessions emerged one of the most memorable modern portraits of Queen Elizabeth II. The work, dignified and masterfully executed, found its place within the historic royal collection, among the treasured works preserved in the homes of Britain’s kings and queens. It remains a powerful symbol of artistic excellence and cultural intersection. Yet for many Nigerians today, the significance of that moment is rarely discussed. It is a piece of history that deserves far greater recognition than it often receives.
Around that same period in history, I found myself in London as a young student. Like many students arriving from different parts of the Commonwealth, we were introduced to the city through a series of orientation activities organized by the British Council. One of their strongest recommendations was that we visit the British Museum, an institution widely regarded as one of the world’s most important repositories of human history and civilization. I remember walking through its vast halls with curiosity, but without any clear expectation of what I might discover. What I encountered there, however, was nothing short of astonishing.
In one section of the museum, dedicated to African art and heritage, I came face to face with a collection that would leave a lasting impression on me. Displayed in glass cases were remarkable works from Nigeria, objects whose craftsmanship, complexity, and historical depth were almost unimaginable.
The famous Benin Bronzes stood prominently among them. These were intricate plaques and sculptures made primarily of brass and bronze, produced by artists of the ancient Kingdom of Benin as far back as the thirteenth century. For centuries these works adorned the royal palace in Benin City, documenting the lives of kings, warriors, and court officials. They served as visual records of history, symbols of power, and expressions of spiritual belief. The level of technical skill involved in their creation is extraordinary. Using the lost-wax casting method, Benin craftsmen were able to produce detailed images with astonishing precision. Historians and art scholars around the world have long acknowledged that these works rank among the greatest achievements in metal sculpture anywhere in the world.
Yet the story of the Benin Bronzes is also closely linked with a painful chapter of colonial history. In 1897, British forces invaded and destroyed the royal palace in Benin City during what became known as the Benin Expedition. Thousands of artworks were looted and later dispersed across museums and private collections throughout Europe and North America. Today many of these pieces remain in institutions such as the British Museum, although recent years have seen growing international efforts to return some of them to Nigeria.
As impressive as the Benin works were, they were not the only treasures that captured my attention that day. Nearby were the extraordinary bronze and terracotta heads from the ancient Yoruba city of Ife. These sculptures, created between the twelfth and fifteenth centuries, possess a naturalism that is almost breathtaking. The calm expressions, the balanced proportions, and the delicate detailing of facial features reveal a level of artistic sophistication that rivals the classical traditions of ancient Greece and Rome.
For many early European scholars who first encountered them, the realism of the Ife heads was so remarkable that they initially doubted they could have been produced in Africa. But history has since confirmed what Africans themselves always knew that the civilizations of West Africa possessed advanced artistic and technological knowledge long before colonial contact.
Equally fascinating were the artifacts from Igbo-Ukwu in present-day Anambra State. These objects, discovered in the twentieth century, date back to around the ninth century AD. The bronzes from Igbo-Ukwu are famous for their intricate decorative patterns; spirals, knots, and delicate surface designs that demonstrate astonishing metallurgical expertise.
What makes these works particularly significant is that they represent one of the earliest known bronze casting traditions in sub-Saharan Africa. Their complexity suggests the existence of a highly organized society with skilled craftsmen and a deep understanding of metalworking technology centuries before similar techniques appeared in many other parts of the world. Standing there in the British Museum, absorbing the depth of this history, I experienced a mixture of emotions that is difficult to describe. On the one hand, I felt immense pride. The creativity and intelligence of our ancestors were clearly visible in those works. They spoke of a civilization rich in knowledge, imagination, and cultural confidence.
And that was the beginning of my deep and abiding interest in the art of Nigeria; art that had already been judged by scholars and collectors around the world as among the finest anywhere. What began as curiosity inside a museum in London slowly became a lifelong engagement. By the time I returned to Nigeria in the mid-1960s, that curiosity had matured into conviction. I was no longer merely impressed by what I had seen abroad; I was determined to understand it at home. It was therefore no coincidence that many of the friendships I formed in those years were with men whose lives were connected with culture, heritage, and artistic expression. Men like Ben Enwonwu, Dr. Ekpo Eyo, Segun Olusola, and Wole Soyinka to mention but a few.
Each of them, in his own way, stood at the intersection of art and national identity.
Ben Enwonwu, whom I have already spoken about, was by then firmly established as the leading figure of modern Nigerian art. Beyond his famous royal commission and his celebrated sculpture Anyanwu, he was a cultural bridge-builder. Educated in both Nigeria and Britain, he became one of the earliest Africans to gain international recognition in the Western art establishment without surrendering his African aesthetic roots. His paintings, often portraying dancers, masquerades, and elegant female forms, fused Igbo spirituality with modernist technique. At a time when Nigeria was defining itself politically after independence in 1960, Enwonwu was helping to define it visually. He was not simply producing art; he was shaping the image of a new nation.
Dr. Ekpo Eyo, a man whose contribution to Nigerian art history cannot be overstated. Trained as an archaeologist, Eyo became one of the foremost authorities on Nigeria’s ancient art traditions. He played a crucial role in studying and interpreting the Nok terracottas – some of the earliest known sculptural works in sub-Saharan Africa, dating as far back as 1000 BCE. As Director-General of the National Commission for Museums and Monuments, he championed the preservation of Nigeria’s archaeological heritage at a time when looting and neglect posed serious threats. Dr. Eyo’s work helped place Nigerian antiquities within a global scholarly framework, proving through rigorous research that the artistic achievements of places like Nok, Ife, and Benin were part of a sophisticated and continuous cultural evolution. Eyo provided the historical and scientific foundation that validated our ancient genius.
II
Looking back at those FESTAC days, I remember the optimism that culture could anchor national development. We believed that art would not sit at the margins but stand at the centre of Nigeria’s identity. Enwonwu embodied that vision. He believed that modern skyscrapers and ancient drums could coexist, that international acclaim and indigenous pride were not opposites but complements. The NET Building may still rise above Lagos, but the absence of The Drummer leaves a visible gap. It is a reminder that heritage, like freedom, requires constant stewardship. Art is not self-preserving. It depends on institutions, policies, collectors, historians, and ordinary citizens who understand its worth
THIS is the second part of this article series. In this section, the story moves from the deep historical roots of Nigerian art to the people and cultural moments that helped carry that heritage into modern times. I reflect on friendships and encounters with individuals whose work shaped Nigeria’s cultural life, including Segun Olusola and Wole Soyinka. I also revisit the atmosphere and significance of Second World Black and African Festival of Arts and Culture, a historic gathering that brought artists and thinkers from across the Black world to Nigeria. Through these memories, this part of the article reflects on how art lived not only in galleries and museums but also in conversation, performance, and public space, and why the legacy of artists like Ben Enwonwu continues to matter today.
Segun Olusola represented yet another dimension of art – the power of media and performance. Though many know him primarily as a diplomat and public servant, he was also a pioneer of Nigerian television drama. In the early days of broadcasting, he created and produced cultural programming that brought Nigerian stories, values, and traditions into people’s homes. At a time when television was still new in Nigeria, Olusola understood its power as a cultural instrument. His work helped nurture local talent and promote indigenous storytelling, ensuring that Nigerian art was not confined to galleries and museums but lived in everyday conversation. He believed that culture was not an ornament of society; it was its heartbeat.
Wole Soyinka, playwright, poet, essayist, and later the first African to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature. Long before the Nobel recognition in 1986, Soyinka had already established himself as one of the most intellectually formidable voices of his generation. His plays, such as The Lion and the Jewel and Death and the King’s Horseman, drew deeply from Yoruba cosmology and traditional performance while engaging modern political and philosophical questions. Soyinka’s art was never detached from society; it confronted injustice, challenged tyranny, and examined the moral dilemmas of postcolonial Africa. In him, art became both cultural preservation and social critique. Through theatre and literature, he demonstrated that artistic expression could shape national consciousness as powerfully as any political speech.
Through those friendships, my involvement deepened beyond admiration and conversation. I became part of the team that worked on preparations leading into Nigeria’s great cultural showcase – the Second World Black and African Festival of Arts and Culture, better known as FESTAC ’77, hosted in Lagos in 1977. It was not just an event; it was a declaration. Nigeria, barely seventeen years after independence and emerging from the shadows of civil war, was announcing itself as a cultural capital of the Black world. Delegations arrived from across Africa, the Caribbean, the Americas, and Europe. Writers, dancers, sculptors, historians, musicians – they came not merely to perform, but to reconnect with a shared heritage fractured by centuries of displacement and colonial interruption.
Working within the preparatory circles of that festival exposed me to the seriousness with which culture was treated at the time. Committees debated symbolism, authenticity, representation. There was a sense that we were not organizing entertainment; we were curating memory. FESTAC became a moment when Nigeria positioned itself as custodian and convener of Black artistic excellence. It was during that period that my own commitment to cultural preservation took firmer root. I began collecting works that spoke to our history – sculptures, carvings, paintings, artifacts that reflected the layered story of who we are. I did not see myself merely as a collector; I saw myself as a custodian.
During the festival, many of the artists who travelled from countries across the Black world made it a point to visit the home and studio of Ben Enwonwu. His residence became something of an informal cultural embassy. There, conversations flowed about identity, decolonization, aesthetics, spirituality, and the responsibilities of the African artist in a postcolonial age. Enwonwu was already an international figure by then, but during FESTAC he became something more – a host to a global family rediscovering itself.
Among the many works that symbolized his presence in Nigeria’s public space, one stood prominently in Lagos: The Drummer. Installed at the iconic 35-storey NET Building, then the tallest building in the entire country and a bold statement of Nigeria’s economic ambition – the sculpture stood as a visual anthem. The NET Building itself was a symbol of modernity, of a young nation rising confidently into the skyline. And at its base stood Enwonwu’s drummer, poised in rhythmic motion, hands frozen in the act of summoning sound. The drummer, in African cosmology, is never just a musician. He is communicator, historian, and herald. In many traditional societies, the drum speaks. It announces births, warns of danger, calls communities to ceremony, preserves genealogies, and carries coded messages across distance. By placing a drummer at the foot of the tallest building in Nigeria, Enwonwu achieved something profoundly symbolic. He fused tradition with modernity. The upward thrust of the skyscraper represented economic progress; the drummer at its base reminded us that no ascent is meaningful if detached from cultural roots.
For decades, that sculpture stood quietly in Lagos, witnessing political transitions, economic booms and downturns, and the relentless expansion of the city around it. It became part of the urban memory something many passed daily, sometimes without fully grasping its significance. And then, recently, it was stolen.
The theft of The Drummer was not merely the loss of a sculpture; it was the removal of a cultural marker. It raised uncomfortable questions about how we safeguard public art and how seriously we take our heritage. How does a monumental work by one of Africa’s most celebrated modern artists disappear from the heart of a bustling commercial district? What does it say about our systems of preservation, our security priorities, and our collective attentiveness?
There is something deeply ironic about it. The very sculpture that symbolized communication and continuity – the drummer calling a people to awareness – was taken almost silently. It is as though the drumbeat was muted. Yet perhaps the deeper issue is not the act of theft itself, but what it reveals. Public art, especially art rooted in national identity, demands protection not only by law but by collective consciousness. When a society internalizes the value of its cultural symbols, vigilance becomes instinctive. The disappearance of The Drummer forces us to examine whether we have allowed familiarity to dull our appreciation.
In many cities around the world, sculptures by national masters are guarded, insured, catalogued, and monitored with precision. They are treated as irreplaceable assets. Enwonwu’s works fall into that category. His paintings command international attention at auctions; his sculptures are studied in universities; his legacy is discussed in global art history. Yet at home, one of his most symbolic public works could be removed without immediate national alarm.
Looking back at those FESTAC days, I remember the optimism that culture could anchor national development. We believed that art would not sit at the margins but stand at the centre of Nigeria’s identity. Enwonwu embodied that vision. He believed that modern skyscrapers and ancient drums could coexist, that international acclaim and indigenous pride were not opposites but complements. The NET Building may still rise above Lagos, but the absence of The Drummer leaves a visible gap. It is a reminder that heritage, like freedom, requires constant stewardship. Art is not self-preserving. It depends on institutions, policies, collectors, historians, and ordinary citizens who understand its worth.
Though I am not an artist in the formal sense; I do not sculpt, I do not paint, I do not carve my relationship with art and with artists slowly shaped the direction of my own life in ways I could not have predicted in those early years. What began as curiosity in a London museum, what deepened through friendships with men like Ben Enwonwu and others, what matured during the preparations for FESTAC ’77, eventually crystallized into a personal conviction: Nigeria needed spaces where its artistic heritage could live permanently, not temporarily. It needed institutions that were not waiting for government initiative alone, but were driven by private commitment. That conviction led to the establishment of what is now known as “Didi Museum” the first private museum in Nigeria. The museum was formally founded in May 1983 and was first located on Akin Adesola Street, Victoria Island, Lagos. It began modestly, but with a clear vision to create a space where Nigeria’s artistic heritage could be preserved, studied, and appreciated within its own cultural environment.
III
A nation that forgets its artists slowly forgets itself. To remember Ben Enwonwu is not merely to honor one man. It is to reconnect with a lineage of creativity, resilience, and intellectual depth that predates colonial interruption. It is to remind young Nigerians that excellence did not begin abroad. It has always lived here. History should not be something we discover accidentally in foreign museums. It should be something we carry confidently within our own consciousness.
THIS is the final part of this article series. Here, the focus turns to the personal journey that grew out of years of engagement with Nigeria’s artistic heritage. It reflects on the founding of Didi Museum and the motivation behind creating a space where Nigerian creativity and heritage could be protected and appreciated at home. This section also looks at the long and sometimes difficult conversation about the return of important works taken from the country during the colonial era, and why their presence matters for learning, identity, and cultural pride. In closing, the story returns to the lasting influence of Ben Enwonwu and what his life represents for future generations: a reminder that a nation’s spirit can often be understood through the art it produces and preserves.
From those early days in Victoria Island, the museum became more than a private collection; it became a cultural statement. It stood as proof that Nigerians could take responsibility for safeguarding their own history, rather than waiting for validation or permission from abroad.
The museum was named after my late sister, Edith Jibunoh, my only sister from both my parents. Her memory has always been at the heart of Didi Museum and, in many ways, inspired its creation. Edith was born on the 11th of May, 1941, in Akwukwu, in what was then Western Nigeria, which later became Bendel State and is today known as Delta State. She went to St. John’s School in Akwukwu and later to Government School in Agbor. But life was cruelly short for her; she passed away suddenly in May 1954, at just thirteen years old. At the time, there was no photograph of her. Years later, in 1971, I commissioned a portrait of her, painted by Lisk Carew, based only on description. What is remarkable is how much the portrait resembles my first daughter, who was born five years after it was made – a resemblance so strong it feels as if a part of Edith lives on through her.
Today, Didi Museum continues to operate from its original and primary location on Akin Adesola Street, Victoria Island, Lagos State, where it was first established. Over the years, the vision expanded beyond that initial space. As part of that growth, an extension of Didi Museum is now proudly housed within Nelson Mandela Gardens and Resort, located inside the perimeter of Asaba International Airport in Asaba, Oshimili South Local Government Area, Delta State, Nigeria. This location blends culture, history, and natural beauty. The museum’s presence in the gardens allows visitors to experience Nigeria’s artistic heritage in a serene, immersive environment, surrounded by greenery and space for reflection. It is more than a museum; it is a place where the past meets the present, where the works of our ancestors and modern masters coexist, and where Edith’s memory quietly guides every exhibition, every program, and every visitor experience. The location also offers room for growth, enabling the museum to host larger collections, cultural events, and educational programs – all in a space designed to celebrate Nigeria’s art and heritage in a way that is accessible to everyone.
Nigeria is now considered the third largest owner of Nigerian works outside the country, a sobering reality that reflects centuries of displacement. Germany ranks first, Britain second, and then Nigeria not by choice, but because of historical forces that moved our heritage far from home. In our sincere effort to bring these iconic works back to Nigeria, I was part of official delegations that travelled to those countries. We went not to lay claim out of anger or resentment, but to ensure that people coming to Nigeria – scholars, students, researchers, and everyday citizens would have the opportunity to see, learn from, and understand the many stages of our development, stretching back thousands of years.
Yet, time and again, we were met with resistance. Museums and cultural institutions in Europe repeatedly refused to release these pieces, arguing that they were part of their own histories of conquest, acquisition, and collection. They spoke of preservation, of universal access, of legal ownership but rarely did they acknowledge the cultural trauma of displacement or the deep loss felt by the very people from whom these objects originated.
Over the years, the campaign for restitution has continued unabated, championed by many of Nigeria’s leading art historians, culture custodians, and collectors. It became more than a political demand; it became a moral plea – a calling for justice, understanding, and a rebalancing of cultural narratives. For people like Dr. Ekpo Eyo, whose scholarship brought international respect to Nigeria’s ancient artistic traditions, and for private collectors who dedicated time and resources to preserving our indigenous works, the fight was deeply personal. They knew these artifacts were not mere curiosities to be displayed in foreign galleries. They were living histories embodiments of our ancestors’ wisdom, skill, and aesthetic genius.
Internationally, the conversation began to shift. Gradually, some institutions acknowledged the ethical weight of these calls. Countries like Germany initiated plans to return significant pieces. Museums in France and the Netherlands opened dialogues about co‑curation and long‑term loans. The British Museum, long viewed as one of the most resistant institutions, has faced mounting pressure from activists and scholars alike to rethink its holdings. Each small victory – a returned bronze here, a long‑term exhibit there – felt like a step toward cultural restoration.
Still, there is much work to be done. I remember standing in front of a case in a foreign museum a Benin bronze panel depicting courtly figures, cast in brass with such precision it seemed to breathe. I had seen similar works in Nigeria, I had studied their forms, and I had collected pieces inspired by the same traditions. And yet here it was, thousands of miles from home, admired by crowds who had no context of its origin beyond a printed placard. I felt a quiet ache in that moment not resentment toward the visitors, but a longing for shared ownership of our story.
Art, in every society, speaks to identity. It speaks of spiritual life and political life, of ritual and power, of everyday existence and transcendence. When those expressions are held outside their cultural context, they lose part of their voice. They become fragments of someone else’s story. Back in Nigeria, we understood this more deeply each passing year. Exhibitions at Didi Museum began to feature not just works we had collected, but dialogues about restitution, about memory, about what it means to reclaim heritage. We hosted conferences that brought students and scholars together, encouraging them to research, to publish, to challenge the old narratives that had long dominated art history.
And slowly, the world began to listen. Today, discussions around returning African art are no longer fringe topics relegated to academic circles. They occupy international forums, museum boardrooms, and global media. Major institutions now acknowledge that true universal access means being willing to share, to repatriate, and to collaborate with nations of origin on exhibitions, interpretations, and stewardship.
For Nigeria, this is more than symbolic. It is about restoring dignity to our ancestors and reaffirming our place in the story of human creativity. When a young Nigerian child stands before a bronze head from Ife in Lagos, instead of seeing it behind glass in Berlin or London, the experience is transformed. The child recognizes that this is not someone else’s treasure – it is ours, and it always was.
The campaign to bring these works home continues, not out of bitterness, but out of love; love for history, for identity, for education, and for future generations. And as long as there are scholars, artists, advocates, and institutions willing to carry that cause forward, there is hope that one day our artistic heritage will no longer be scattered across continents, but gathered where it belongs: among the people whose hands first shaped it.
A nation that forgets its artists slowly forgets itself. To remember Ben Enwonwu is not merely to honor one man. It is to reconnect with a lineage of creativity, resilience, and intellectual depth that predates colonial interruption. It is to remind young Nigerians that excellence did not begin abroad. It has always lived here. History should not be something we discover accidentally in foreign museums. It should be something we carry confidently within our own consciousness.
And that is why this story must be told – again and again.
