When fashion designer Veekee James announced that her baby registry was open to the public, the internet reacted exactly as one would expect. There were congratulations, of course. There was excitement from fans who have followed her rise from emerging designer to bridal powerhouse. But there was also vocal discomfort. Why, people asked, should strangers be invited to buy gifts for a woman who is widely considered wealthy and well-connected? In the middle of an economic crunch, the gesture struck some as unbecoming and tone-deaf.
But the backlash misses something important. Veekee James could boldly make her registry public because she understands the nature of her audience. She can count on her fans to participate, not out of charitable obligation, but out of a cultivated attachment. This attachment is parasocial, yes, but it is also aspirational. It is built on proximity to perceived success. If I can send a gift, if my name can appear on the list, if I can contribute to this milestone, then I am not just a follower; I am part of the story.
In truth, the registry makes sense within the larger architecture of Nigerian aspiration — an ecosystem where wealth is revered and access is carefully packaged for sale.
Over the past few years, a distinct ecosystem of aspirational consumption has solidified across leisure, beauty and real estate. It is visible, influential and culturally dominant. Consider the now-infamous $5,000 annual bowling membership attached to a Lagos leisure space opened by the son of billionaire industrialist Razaq Okoya. Bowling is not rare. Yet once influencers like ChiomaGoodHair began promoting the space, the conversation shifted. Online comments fixated on “networking,” on the calibre of people likely to frequent the venue, on the possibility of being seen within a certain social orbit. The price tag was reframed as an investment in access.
Similar logic drove the frenzy around Diana Eneje’s brand, The Shine Cartel, and its ₦105,000 “12 Days of Christmas” advent calendar. The promotion was bubblegum pink, deliberately playful, saturated in “for the girls” branding. It looked like Diana’s Instagram feed materialised into a box — soft, coordinated, intimate. The contents, which included small beauty tools and accessories, sparked debate over value for money, but that debate only partially slowed the product’s traction. What buyers were responding to was coherence. Diana has built a carefully managed aesthetic of aspirational girlhood, and the advent calendar offered a tangible entry point into that world.
The real estate sector reflects the same structure at a larger scale. Lagos’ luxury property market continues to expand, with homes priced at hundreds of millions and even billions of naira. Yet constant critique suggests that price often does more marketing than the design of the properties themselves. On a viral clip from ISWIS podcast, hosts joked about house-hunting in Lagos and the features marketed as premium: automated lighting, functional plumbing, basic kitchen fittings. The humour resonated because it exposed a cultural truth — the word “luxury” has been stretched to accommodate almost anything sufficiently expensive.
Nowhere is that reliance on price signalling clearer than in the viral property tours that have dominated social media. Steven Ndukwu’s widely circulated tour of a ₦1 billion property in Pinnock Beach Estate sharpened that point. The house lacked outdoor space and a garage, and its proportions felt misaligned with its valuation. When he juxtaposed it with a similarly priced property in Houston, Texas, the contrast underscored how loosely the luxury label operates locally. The Lagos property comfortably occupied its place in the luxury bracket, buoyed merely by location and perceived exclusivity.
Across these examples — the bowling membership, the pastel advent calendar, the billion-naira mansion — a consistent pattern emerges. Nigeria’s dubious luxury market is not marginal or accidental. It is thriving because it taps into a powerful social undercurrent: the desire to feel close to visible wealth.
In a country marked by stark inequality, affluence carries amplified meaning. It signals insulation from institutional instability, distance from everyday precarity and, in many cases, moral validation. Wealth becomes proof of competence, favour or exceptionalism. As a result, proximity to wealth takes on emotional value. To be seen in the right space, to own the right object, to share in the right milestone can feel like participation in that insulation.
This is why Veekee James’ public registry fits so neatly into the broader picture. Her followers have watched her build a fashion brand, design high-profile bridal looks and cultivate relationships with other visible figures. She represents upward mobility in real time. Opening her registry to the public does not simply invite gifts; it invites affiliation. It reinforces intimacy. It offers fans a chance to inscribe themselves into her narrative at a personal moment.
That invitation is commercially astute. The same parasocial bond that persuades someone to purchase a shoddily curated influencer advent calendar can persuade them to buy a baby gift for a celebrity they have never met. The emotional logic is consistent: closeness to success feels meaningful. In an attention economy, that feeling is convertible.
This is not to say that consumers are naïve or that aspiration is misguided. The desire for comfort, beauty and elevation is universal. Nor is it to argue that every high-priced Nigerian product lacks substance. Rather, the point is structural. The current luxury ecosystem disproportionately rewards those who already command visibility. Influencers and celebrity entrepreneurs can transform attention into revenue with remarkable efficiency because the culture places such high value on access.
The goods themselves, whether a pastel box of beauty tools or a membership card to an exclusive leisure space, are often secondary. What matters most is the aura surrounding them. Craftsmanship and long-term value occasionally recede behind branding and association, but that observation supports a larger truth: the market thrives less on material excellence than on aspirational storytelling.
And that storytelling has clear beneficiaries. The celebrities, moguls and developers at the centre of this ecosystem are not merely participants in Nigeria’s wealth culture; they are architects of it. They curate content, collaborations and life events that can easily be monetised. They understand that admiration is an asset and that proximity can be priced.
Veekee James’ registry, then, is not an isolated misstep or a bold social experiment. It is a logical extension of a system in which wealth is revered and access is transactional. She can ask because the culture has made it normal to give. The bowling centre can charge because exclusivity has market value. The advent calendar can trend because aesthetic intimacy feels purchasable. The billion-naira house can sell because expense itself confers prestige.
At the centre of it all is a simple, consistent equation: aspiration fuels spending, and spending consolidates power among those who already possess visibility and capital. As long as proximity to wealth remains one of Nigeria’s most potent social currencies, this exploitative market will continue to expand — not merely because of what it offers materially, but because of what it promises symbolically.
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