There is a special kind of joy associated with viewing beautiful art. It allows you to escape the clutches of your own messy, crazed and perhaps slightly pessimistic mind and enter that of the artist’s. To do so in a venue that is, in itself, a work of art is another experience entirely.
I am, of course, referring to the RMB Latitudes Art Fair that took place this past weekend at Shepstone Gardens in Houghton. Any Joburger with even a slight artsy-fartsy inclination would have most likely given you a lengthy debrief on this year’s edition of the fair, which continues to attract the most diverse of crowds. Whether gathering to purchase the art, appreciate the works or simply grab a glass of wine and gab with your friends, Latitudes has cemented itself as an art scene favourite.
Each year, as part of their International Focus programme, Latitudes highlights an African country and its artists through a curated presentation — developed to strengthen cultural ties, bridge markets and encourage dialogue across the continent. In 2025, their partnership with Botswana resulted in a sold-out presentation. This year, the focus turned to Nigeria.
The presentation was curated by Latitudes curator Boitumelo Makousu in partnership with Ugonna Ibe, the founder of Lagos-based Yenwa Gallery, and included over 30 participating artists. On the day of the fair, I managed to briefly meet the breathless, bright-eyed Makousu before she had to run off for the next interview.
“Nigeria felt like a very natural and necessary choice for us,” she said. “There is an urgency, confidence and complexity within the Nigerian contemporary art scene that felt important to engage with more deeply. Nigeria already has strong global recognition, but we were interested in creating a platform for more nuanced exchange.”
A few weeks earlier, Makousu had travelled to Lagos to launch the first leg of the presentation: a curated exhibition at Ibe’s Yenwa Gallery that allowed the artists to show their work in a local context before the final presentation at Latitudes.
“Despite how fast-paced Lagos is, there was such openness from artists and cultural practitioners who welcomed us into their spaces and conversations,” she said of the trip. “I was very moved by the resilience and ambition that exists within the ecosystem. There’s an understanding that creativity is not separate from everyday life — it’s embedded in survival, community and imagination.”
On the rooftop of Shepstone Gardens, the Nigeria Focus presentation occupied an atrium styled like a particularly chic person’s living room: deep emerald green and terracotta walls, pops of lush greenery, plush sofas. The artworks moved fluidly between mediums — bold, primary colours, expressive figures, a joyfulness that seemed to echo Makousu’s own experience of the city. “Lagos feels cinematic,” she said. “The movement, the colour, the sound, the layering of histories and contemporary life constantly stimulate you visually and emotionally.”
One work I kept returning to was a set of three portraits by Laju Sholola. Entitled Dark 1-3, they were created with black tea, ink, charcoal and conte on canvas. Their gentle, melancholy expressions drew me in almost as much as the layered shades and the faint, unmistakable whiff of Ceylon.
“The Nigerian art scene is deeply community-driven, intellectually engaged and emotionally expressive,” Makousu said. “The artists are thinking critically about identity, migration, spirituality, urban life, fashion, language, memory and the politics of visibility. At the same time, there’s joy, vulnerability, intimacy, humour, experimentation and softness present in the work.”
Tucked into a corner of the atrium, the work of photographer Jemiye Ugwujide seemed to embody exactly that. Born in the UK, Ugwujide moved between Nigeria and South Africa as a child before settling in Johannesburg in 2011. His three pieces were layered, vulnerable and shameless, the inner world of a young, black, queer artist made visible.
The largest, titled Big Man, features a beautiful young man standing against a brick wall. His lips are painted into an oversized faux pout, his eyes lowered sultrily beneath drag-queen makeup. His chin is held high. There is no shame.
Nearby, a multimedia collage titled Ikenga references the Igbo deity of the same name. Stark black and white in contrast to the vivid Big Man, it depicts Ugwujide himself — sitting almost naked on a stool, holding what appears to be a knife in one hand and a decapitated head in the other. Where Big Man reclaims the gaze, Ikenga turns it inward.
The third piece is an image of a handwritten letter, part of an ongoing project called Who Are We? Where Do We Belong? Ink blots and rushed words describe the musings of a queer immigrant Ugwujide met at a safehouse in Kensington; it was tender, unguarded and impossible to look away from.
Seated at a table in the Shepstone Gardens courtyard, surrounded by the gentle hum of Latitudes attendees, Ugwujide spoke about his work, his journey and what it means to make queer art within a Nigerian artistic context.
Tell me about the written work — the letter you have on display.
The work comes from an ongoing project called Who Are We? Where Do We Belong?, which I started in 2024. I visited a safehouse in Kensington for queer immigrants and people seeking refuge from hostile communities or countries. Through the project, aided by Ugandan photographer De La Vigua Gala, I was able to interview people, photograph them and ask them to respond in writing to a question about what it means to be an African queer person, given their experiences of having to seek refuge because of their identity.
The written piece shown at the fair was by Love Enda, a trans woman who spoke so beautifully about what it means to be queer and African. I’m really grateful the work could be shown because I feel like it’s a very universal experience — striving for what you want, continuing to be yourself, being truthful and never denying yourself to anyone.
I’ve had the work for two years and I haven’t touched it much because it’s very tender. There’s a very thin line between documentation and extractivism, so I’ve been very sensitive about how I work with it.
How does being black, queer and non-binary shape the way you approach photography?
It allows for fluidity. I’m a very intentional person, but I also like leaving space for sporadic action and expression that breaks convention. When I say intentional, I mean you need to know the rules to break them. I understand the technical foundations of photography, but I’m interested in how to shift those things into making something that really expresses difference.
I started my practice through self-portraiture. I never used to take photos of myself, but once I started, I wanted to create worlds where I could see myself. The intention is to create new ways of seeing while also understanding history and knowing the rules.
How did self-portraiture change the way you saw yourself?
It allowed me to see myself. My teenage years were very secluded, I didn’t really look at myself or take the time to get to know myself. Portraiture allowed me to see myself the way I wanted to see myself. It informed my style, the things I read, the things I watched and the kinds of spaces I wanted to exist in. I wanted to elevate myself, to see myself in the worlds I imagined for myself.
Photography is very alchemical. It makes inner turmoil visible without necessarily having to verbalise everything.
Tell me about the Big Man series.
I made it in 2024 while I was experimenting more openly with my gender identity: wearing skirts, makeup, crop tops and clothes that felt authentic to me. Moving through the world in that way, especially as a tall, dark-skinned person, attracts a lot of policing. People stare, laugh, make comments and throw slurs at you. Eventually I became really fed up with it.
“Big Man” is usually a term associated with heterosexual men who are seen as powerful, wealthy and untouchable. I wanted to reclaim that title and place it in queer hands. The work features a close friend of mine in drag, dressed in beautiful African garments and jewellery, photographed publicly in places like Braamfontein, Newtown and Parkhurst. The direction was very intentional: stand tall, take up space, be confident. Because to live truthfully in a society that denies your humanity takes enormous power.
The work became a way of repurposing masculinity and challenging the idea that femininity or queerness is weaker. In many ways, it was also just a “fuck you” to heteronormativity.
Your work feels very vulnerable. What is it like exhibiting it publicly?
The whole point of my practice is alchemy. Art, to me, is about healing, educating and expanding consciousness — not just selling something.
I naturally work from emotional excavation. Whether it’s anger, confusion, sensitivity or love, those are universal experiences. Even outside of being Black or queer, everyone understands moments of disappearance, discomfort, confusion or longing. That’s why people connect with the work. It reminds me I’m not creating only for myself.
How does it feel presenting your work within a broader Nigerian artistic context?
I feel really grateful, especially as someone visibly making queer work within a Nigerian-focused segment. Given the anti-LGBTQ+ laws happening across parts of West Africa, it feels significant to be able to present my work and my story publicly, and I recognise the privilege of being able to do that within South Africa.
It’s also important to me that Nigerian creativity is represented beyond stereotypes. Nigerians are often reduced to narratives around fraud or crime, especially here, and I think it’s powerful to have Nigerian artistry and consciousness represented in a different way.
