There was a time, not posted, not filtered, not announced, a time you felt before you ever spoke about it.
You knew it by scent.
YSL Kouros. YSL Jazz. Polo Ralph Lauren. CK Eternity. Davidoff Cool Water. Azzaro. Giorgio Armani.. .. & so many of them then now classics!
Perfumes then were not just accessories; they were declarations- this made me remember Declaration by Cartier or even Santos de Cartier…dunhill, etc. They announced your arrival before your shadow crossed the door. One spray could command a room.
One bottle could define a season of your life.
Men… how time has flown, chai!!! Not gently, violently.
Those were the days before life became needlessly complicated. Before validation needed witnesses on the social media. Before enjoyment needed documentation. The world moved slower than today’s Formula-1 pace, yes, but it was fast enough to thrill, & slow enough to savour. Fun had rhythm. Style had rules. Excess had elegance.
Late ’70s. The ’80s. The gentle glide into the ’90s.
An era where music wasn’t just noise, it was memory. Soundtracks that raised goosebumps & shaped nights….It may be winter outside, but in my heart it’s spring ❤…
We laughed hard, partied well, & still carried ourselves with a certain decorum. Madness existed, but it hadn’t yet lost its mind.
Back then, status didn’t shout, it rolled in.
A VW Santana easing into the school compound.
A Mercedes 190 or V-Boot glinting in the sun.
A Golf GTI for the confident. A VW Corrado for the daring.
And the royal line of Peugeots-504 GL, GLE, SR, 505-cars with presence, not pretence.
Rolls-Royce? A distant rumour. Not yet common, not yet diluted. If you wanted to signal elevation beyond the regular, you brought a Benz, sometimes stretched if you wanted a bit more attention, sometimes understated, always respected.
Fashion then was not fast. It was intentional.
To stand out, you wore your YSLs, Polo Ralph Laurens, Hugo Boss, later Tommy Hilfigers, with a touch of Armani, & you wore them properly. Colourful Polos rotated for weeks without repetition. Karl Kani, Cross Colours, Pepe Jeans, Valentino, names that didn’t beg for unnecessary attention, they earned it.
Belong to a social club?
You weren’t just popular, you were somebody. You commanded respect without raising your voice. Presence was enough.
Ikoyi & Victoria Island held the crown for parties that mattered.
Ikeja GRA & Adeniyi Jones followed closely.
Surulere? Too accessible. A great leveller. Good, but not elite.
And then there were the people, the tastemakers.
Names that carried weight. Personalities that defined cool before “cool” became overcrowded. Friends like Seun Somolu, tall, handsome, bespectacled, draped head-to-toe in Hugo Boss, exuding what we now cheaply call steeze, but what was then simply natural dominance. No effort. No noise.
The DJs were kings. Bunmi, & then Jimmy Jatt, commissioned from Lagos to Ilorin like royalty. Convoys stretched long. Nights bled into mornings at Allen Avenue, Murphy’s Plaza, Pachinos. Real nights. Real memories.
And the final divider, the silent one.
Once school broke or ASUU struck, some dusted their passports within days & disappeared to London. Parties abroad became casual conversation. Mainland boys stayed sharp. Island kids remained ajebutters. Everyone knew where they stood, & strangely, there was peace in that clarity.
But above all…
it was the scent.
That sharp, unapologetic Polo in the green bottle with the gold cap, the classic not the now reformulated.
The authority of BOSS.
The elegance of citrusy Armani.
The forever of Eternity.
And YSL Jazz, a fragrance so soulful it feels like a song that ended too soon.
Many are gone now. Discontinued. Reformulated beyond recognition. Victims of modern compromise.
I still hold on to my Kouros, Cool Water, Eternity, CK One, small bottles of time travel.
What wouldn’t I give to reclaim the Azzaro of then, Jacomo de Jacomo, Jazz, BOSS, the originals, the uncompromised, the real.
What a time to have lived.
What an era to remember.
Some ages don’t just pass.
They linger,
in memory,
in music,
in scent.
Omoba Rare Abiola Olatunde Aloba…
What a dream
