On June 1st, 2025, three strangers and I stormed a live-in facility in Abeokuta, armed with luggage, journals, and a wrap sheet of experience points no shorter than the Niger River. There were no “how are you?” or “we brought you X and Y?” Just the palpable energy of minds on a mission, and a tingly unease about the future. The following day, we’d begin our stint for the CLF Bootcamp, but that night, we waited quietly, pulling out PCs, outfits, and stationery–weapons of impact. It was setting the tone for what would be the most beautiful, exhausting, and somewhat rewarding two weeks of my life. We had strolled in early like the second coming of Basquiat, if he had rolled in with a duffel bag and on his lips a tang taste for cultural revolution. In the weeks to come, the real work would happen, but before that, some backstory. The Creative Leaders Fellowship (CLF for short) was designed to equip emerging creative leaders with essential mindsets for the unsexy-but-crucial work of creative administration, professional development, and impact-making in a rapidly evolving meatgrinder world. Made possible by a joint handshake between the Kuta Arts Foundation, the African Creative Hubs Network, and a fat sponsorship hug from the Goethe-Institut’s Residency Resource initiative, the program was intended to stretch us. Not physically–despite breaking a sweat and rethinking my entire career choice midway–but mentally, from a problem-solving perspective. It brought together artists, arts and culture workers, and community builders under one roof for fifteen days of what I can only describe as an incubator for rebel creators/managers. For me, it was a pause from the long, ambidextrous hustle I’ve come to know as life in Lagos. It was my way of taking a long-needed breather right before a major next move as a thinker and writer-director.  

    For two weeks, we converged at NestbyKuta for our 9:00 AM meetings. It was a dizzyingly fiery experience, pulling tables together for some reflective war-room-level strategizing. In there, we unpacked our individual histories: who we were, what we did for work, why we were here, and where we were headed, career-wise.  There, we trashed ideas, biases,  casting light on recurring opportunities and backroom con-games going on in the creative arts and culture world, each person reaching for their pie of rollercoaster stories to hand out to a group of salivating minds. There’s just something delicious about diverse minds tabling their experiences before a jury of ears. It’s raw, atrocious, and disturbingly satisfying. We also pored over literature from Kuta’s growing library, assigning which books to whom, based on their career goals. My favorites were RESEARCH FOR PEOPLE WHO WOULD RATHER CREATE & THE SOURCE.   

      When we weren’t plotting revolutions around the round table, we took strolls. We’d walk from Oke-ilewo to Jide Jones, around Housing Estate, G.R.A., taking photos of Eid parties (Eid Mubarak was ongoing), inhaling the spirit of a quiet but culturally robust suburban area. You could sense it in your bones, the scent of freshly cut grass, the structures of ordinary houses, and, especially, their sight-for-sore-eyes appeal. It all screamed, ‘This is RockCity! Nowhere else,’ and I just wanted to cry. It was such a come-to-Jesus moment for me as I recalled the chaotic, soulless, copycat architecture eating at Lagos’ real estate. Amid the Eid celebration, we had some team exercises. All that walking around wasn’t for show. We were scouting, spotting communal problems, and documenting them. We would eventually have dialogues about our findings, pitching projects that could address observed issues. It felt like being thrust in the middle of a maze and told to find your way. Scary at first, but you get the dance eventually.  Fast-forward to Saturday.    The whole street feels like a defrosted freezer, icy smoke cradling the air. We grudgingly grab shovels and plastic bags, marching towards Tegoe Street. ‘Grudgingly’ because it had rained and sleep was still, well, deep in our system. Our task that morning involved clearing out the trash-laden stretch of Tegoe Street, the very community where NestbyKuta is situated.  This was the day after the Eid celebration, so there was enough trash to deal with.    The smell hit before anything else: sour leftovers, old nylons, broken ceramics, wet paper, all triggered by the long, unconscious habits of residents in need of a little spanking. Not that I wasn’t an indirect participant. I had walked that road a few times, and somehow, I had stared at the same trash a couple of times and not noticed it, nor thought to do jack about it. What do I call that? Willful ignorance? Cognitive avoidance? Therapists in the house, drop a light bulb, would you? And so, we shoveled and bagged, throwing bants, some grooving to music, others canvassing to get other residents involved. Here we were, creators, culture producers, laughing through the stench. It was a cleansing ritual. We managed to get a resident involved.  That evening, having freshened up, we had a potluck masquerading as a watch party. There we saw a livestream of the Global Leadership Summit 2018, featuring fascinating takes on vision engineering like ‘focusing on why you started’ (Dr. Nthabiseng Legoete, Quali Health), ‘cutting your vision to the continuity of a human need’ (Strive Masiwa x T.D. Jakes), and how leaders ‘see what others don’t see’ (John Maxwell).  One of my biggest takeaways from the fellowship was something the facilitator mentioned on the first day of the program. Something along the lines of: creators on the lookout for patrons need to rethink what/how they create. Collectors of art aren’t just looking for something fancy to add. They’re thinking legacy. Investment. They’re thinking posterity pieces  (heavily paraphrased).   This thought has haunted me since the last time I revisited my notes.  As creators and producers of culture, it’s too easy to get swept into the I-want-to-just-express-me-for-me narrative. And there’s really nothing wrong with that. But it’s also crucial to ponder the cumulative impact of one’s work on a mind, a collective, or a generation. Of course, this has the risks of having our creative expressions commodified, but again, maybe that isn’t entirely a bad thing. Perhaps, we know we’ve contributed to culture when our work leaves a mark on how people consume or experience the world. Perhaps, having our work become ‘mainstream’ strips it of its shock value, of its thought-provoking-ness. Objectively speaking, though, this is neither a good thing nor a bad thing. It’s just a result, like 2+2 and 3  + 1 and 1+1+1+1. They all equal 4. The trick is in using that result for our own purposes, whether it’s culture-shaping, adding a few more zeroes to your bank, or setting the world on fire. The point is: it’s a phenomenon. Use it (for the good of the world, hopefully).   During those two weeks, we visited the alchemist lab of artist and environmentalist, Konboye Eugene, who turns trash into hand-stitched eyecandy installations made out of discarded footwear. We saw the Adire Mall in Sapon and made a stop at the National Museum. There, we had a crash course on African traditional history, assessing the tools, archeological finds, and the political regimes that have shaped our beloved Greenland. To wrap it up, we travelled all the way to Ibadan (by road) to the take-my-breath-and-butter away amphitheatre that is the New Culture Studio, designed and self-funded by the legendary visionary, Damas Nwoko.   

    This trip was the highlight for me.  We were ushered in by Damas’ grandson and theatre director, Rufus, who gave us a tour of the maverick building. When you walked through those walls on a sunny day, you’re instantly hit by its cool internal environment. Rufus would explain it had to do with the laterite-centric brick the building was built with. Latrite is a type of soil with a high concentration of iron and aluminium. It’s distinctively red, typically found in tropics and subtropical regions. The building was made with a mix of laterite and concrete, giving the interior of the amphitheatre a conducive, self-regulating internal environment regardless of harsh weather conditions. We would learn of the many tales that went into the making of the New Culture Studio, some of Damas’ lesser-known contributions to Nigeria’s political terrain, as well as the pressures from famous commissions opposing Damas’ contributions to national projects.  

  We saw blueprints, unfinished constructions, and the backlog of spare wood on-the-ready for use should one of the several furniture be in need of a facelift. Pondering the whole experience, you had a sense that Damas thinks 6 moves ahead, making the most out of limited resources. An alchemist, rare and fleeting in a time like this. Rufus explains that his grandfather created work that was functional. Not that he had anything against ornamental works, but the beauty of a piece, Rufus explains, was in its utility. And his works, while seemingly ordinary, are designed to survive wear and tear. He’d said this, pointing at a long, wavy bench just behind us, a bench that’s just as old as the amphitheater, like the chairs we were sitting on. By the end of the tour, I couldn’t take my eyes off the skyline. Standing on the edge of the cliff, watching the horizon divide sky and land, you are left with the feeling of wanting something of this place for yourself. I definitely looked forward to returning.   

    The last week of the fellowship seemed like a drag, but even downtime had its own poetry. There were quiet afternoons when we dove into personal work, others cooked or napped or held spontaneous couch summits, kitchen symposiums about nothing and everything. Mealtime debates over jollof and fried rice— some takeouts, others crafted by our in-house culinary maestro (shout out to Bunmi). We had our palettes serviced with some banger cuisines, from bowls of smoky beans to protein-ridden porridge, to moi-moi, amongst others. If the work didn’t fill us, the food certainly did.   But what excites me is the people. Diverse in practice and geography, yet somehow connected by a deep hunger for change. Each fellow came with a unique toolkit — artists, photographers, curators. Some worked with children virtually, others were talented people caught up in corporate and its red tape. But no matter our job description, we all ached for something more. We cut our teeth on problem-spotting, thinking up solutions. We laughed at our own contradictions, reaching into each other’s silence, and, somehow, finding ourselves.   And then there were the sparks.    Ideas that didn’t just stay scribbled in journals but danced across the room. Two artists are scheduling interstate studio visits. A community manager reconnecting with her muse. A  marketing expert getting a better angle on working with creatives. A writer finding the drive to pursue a new medium. And slowly, seeds were planted. Not all will bloom at once,  or at all, but maybe that’s OK. I didn’t come to the fellowship searching for a breakthrough. I was burned out. Lagos had become a blur. I needed a break from…everything. But what I left Abeokuta with was more than a pause. It was a push. I’ve always known that what we create (or fail to) shapes culture. I knew it mentally, but it just didn’t connect. I found that connection here.    Shout-out to some of the attendees: Rotimi Godwin, Paul Anyihwu, Esther Isokariari, Iyanu Ipadeola, Omolade Aminat, Sanni Maryam, Ademola Aderinale, Adedamola Adebukola, Obadimu Janet, Winner Ehimen, and ultimately, the convener and facilitator, Benita Nnachortam and Oluyomi Akinnagbe.    There’s a strange joy in being cared for by people who began as strangers and now feel like fragments of a tribe you didn’t know you needed. People who, like you, want to do something substantial with their lives, no matter how ordinary, or messy, or layered it gets. And as I return to my corner of the world with some oyster of clarity and the ache of ideas forming, I know this much: I’m not alone. I know I’ll still get caught up in that occasional mental ballet of self-doubt and misdirection, but I know it’s a necessary pause… a sort of buffer for ideas… ideas waiting to mature with the right partnerships, at the right time and place. This is my experience, and I dare say that of others. Because when creators gather with one mind…    The world takes a breather.   This article is written by Benjamin (Kings) Ogundele