It’s easy to dismiss fashion as frivolous. Surface-level. Vain. But when a Black man in a crisp, custom-tailored suit walks into a space that was never designed to make him feel comfortable, it becomes a statement. Not just of style—but of survival, presence, and quiet rebellion. That’s what Black dandyism has always been about: not the clothes themselves, but the audacity to wear them, and the world that must be negotiated while doing so. With the 2025 Met Gala adopting “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style” as its theme, Black dandyism is finally getting the mainstream spotlight it has long deserved—not as a trend, but as a tradition deeply embedded in both pain and pride.

At its essence, Black dandyism is about recovering the power of the gaze. For generations, Black people were seen but not allowed to be seen, in order to control the narrative of their appearance. The use of fashion has always been loaded, from enslaved Africans forced into opulent garments to serve their white masters to free Black men who risked their lives to assert their humanity in exquisite attire. Not simply decorative, but purposeful. The Black dandy flips the script. He looks directly into the camera, the mirror, or the street, daring you to categorize him. He is excess and elegance, contradiction and confidence. And he knows it

The tradition isn't new. It spans continents and centuries. Think of the Congolese Sapeurs—men who invest in bold, extravagant fashion to maintain their dignity in the face of economic hardship. Or Harlem Renaissance icons like Langston Hughes and Alain Locke, whose sharp looks were as significant as their intelligence. Or, even before that, Frederick Douglass, whose well-dressed appearance was not vanity, but a determined refusal to be dismissed. Every pocket square and polished shoe stated, "I know how you see me, but look again.".

The tension that exists within this tradition is what gives it such power. Black dandyism does not imply assimilation. It doesn't request permission. It plays with Western markers of refinement—top hats, velvet, silk, brogues—not to become what white society deems acceptable, but to disrupt it. It's a visual protest, a remix of colonial codes. And sometimes it is just for fun. For the joy of putting on something that feels wonderful on the body and powerful on the soul. As Monica L. Miller puts in Slaves to Fashion, it’s about "styling the self" in ways that are both political and joyful.

There's a reason why fashionable icons like Asap Rocky (the first creative director of Ray-ban), André 3000, Jidenna, Colman Domingo, Pharrell Williams, and Instagram influencer Wisdom Kaye exemplify this tradition so well. They understand that fashion is a language, and Black dandyism is adept at metaphor. It raises uncomfortable questions: what does it mean to be "well-dressed" in a world that constantly undresses you. Who gets to be quirky, flamboyant, or excessive without being labeled a threat? Why does it still stun people when a Black man with pearls or a fine-lined suit walks into a luxury event and takes over the room?

This year’s Met Gala theme is not just about aesthetics; it’s about recontextualizing power. By focusing on the sartorial history of the Black dandy, the event becomes more than a celebrity parade. It becomes a tribute to the way Black people have historically used fashion as a tool of self-definition. The timing couldn’t be more fitting. We live in a moment where identity politics are on everyone’s lips, but few are willing to sit with the complexity. Black dandyism doesn’t explain itself. It dresses up and dares you to catch up.

But let's not pretend this validation is sudden. This style has always existed—on the streets of Lagos, in the markets of Accra, and on the stoops of Harlem. Black dandyism didn't wait for Vogue's approval. It has always being part rebellion, part celebration. It's the young man at a wedding wearing a pink agbada. Or the boy who wears loafers to a party because sneakers are too predictable. It's all about standing out. It is about both standing out and fully embracing oneself.

In a world that frequently attempts to categorize Black identity into trauma or toughness, Black dandyism serves as a reminder that style can also be a form of resistance. That joy can be strategic. That clothing can be as much about armour as expression. When the red carpet rolls out this May, and the world turns its attention to The Met, it will be more than just a fashion moment. It'll be a reclamation. A declaration. A celebration of how Black people have always made the ordinary look extraordinary—and how dressing up has become a bold, revolutionary gesture.