There are moments in life when a space no longer fits. And this has nothing to do with the design being poor or not work for you prior to this moment, but because something has shifted. Maybe a new job. A move to a different city. The end of a relationship. The beginning of one. Loss. Growth. A child. A pet. A season of stress or stillness.

Change rarely announces itself loudly in a home. It shows up quietly, in the way a room feels slightly off.

Or in other words: you don’t need to apply every beautiful material to the maximum.

In the age of endless inspiration boards and picture-perfect interiors, it is easy to fall in love with a striking tile and imagine it covering every surface of a space. The reality, however, is that interiors are meant to be lived in - by humans without an endless budget. Materials must withstand daily routines, constant cleaning, humidity (the Sub-Saharan one hits different!), (curry) spills, and wear. If a finish cannot handle that reality, its beauty becomes short-lived.

Good design cannot only consider great taste and what makes the most impressive picture. The responsibility rather lies in choosing materials that continue to work long after the photos have been taken.

This does not mean sacrificing character or visual richness. In fact, the most successful interiors balance both: finishes that are durable enough for daily life while still contributing personality and atmosphere. The key lies in where and how a material is used.

Interior designers spend years training their eyes. We learn about proportion, materials, composition, and how spaces communicate visually. But there is an uncomfortable truth within the profession that is rarely said out loud: designers are not always right.

Before I could design spaces, I had to learn how to see them.

Not how they photograph, but how they hold life within them: how they age, how they respond to light over time, how they feel when no one is watching and could hold up the real life conditions by which it is tested. Taste is rarely instinct alone. While intuition plays a role, preference and discernment are learned skills. They are trained through exposure, curiosity, and the humility to study the work of others without attempting to become them.

This Blog is not a list of favourites. As much as this list exists in my head, I want to reflect on influence.

Islamic garden design is rooted in something far deeper than aesthetics. It is shaped by Quranic descriptions of Jannah (paradise), imagined as an enclosed, serene sanctuary defined by shade, flowing water, symmetry, and abundance. These gardens were never meant to impress from afar; they were meant to hold you, to cool the body, quiet the mind, and gently turn your heart inward.

You don’t have to be Muslim to feel their power. You don’t need to share the faith to understand the intelligence behind them.

Last Thursday, I was invited by a friend to an exhibition titled “Life, Memory & Beds” by Helen Gebregiorgis and Dabesaki Mac-Ikemenjima, held at Lisa Suites, Asokoro. I confirmed attendance without reading further, expecting, perhaps, a pop-up moment of textiles, a bed linen collaboration softened by some art pieces. Something gentle and pleasant, and most likely overpriced.

What I walked into was something else entirely. And it hit me in the gut.

I particularly enjoy sourcing. It feels like a big playground of endless possibilities linked with the vision I would eventually have for the brand to grow into: featuring curated, well crafted pieces that you cannot just buy off the shelf. Think about the late nights scrolling through vintage Italian lighting archives or the bookmarked images of sculptural brass sconces from Parisian flea markets. Thinking myself back to London Design Harbour in Chelsea or roaming through 1Dibs latest listings online. Or simply sieving through my personal design library of countless design books. Globally, inspiration is endless. The references are rich, the ideas are refined.

And then… you land back in real life. In-country. On-site.

Sustainability is often spoken about in numbers: energy ratings, certifications, percentages saved. At AD Design, it begins long before a specification sheet or a sourcing list. It begins with how we see a place.

There are many movements within interior design that come and go, but biophilic design - design that intentionally connects people with nature - has never felt more relevant.

In a world where our lives are increasingly dominated by screens, sealed buildings, and artificial environments, the desire to bring life indoors is almost instinctive to many. 

Years ago, during an interview I did at Strobie Café with Ahmed Mohammed as part of his YouTube series “Creative Lounge”, we talked about this very idea: that every space deserves something living.

In interior design, inspiration is practically everywhere. Sometimes it arrives in conversation, sometimes in a hotel lobby or museum corridor, often it derives from fashion.

One constant source for me and non-negotiable when trying to develop a common language with a new client, are interior design books. These coffee table books are great for styling surfaces obviously. But they also serve as portals and design archives.

As the year winds down, I find myself drawn to palettes that feel grounded and full of depth. There’s something about the final weeks of the year that makes rich colours feel especially right. This season, I’m leaning toward hues that feel like a warm embrace: cognac, burgundy, deep purple, dark green, and those velvety reds.

There is a moment each day, quiet, nearly invisible, when the noise looses its grip and the house exhales. This is the hour when we retreat inward, when routines become rituals, and the bedroom becomes far more than a place to sleep. It becomes the room that holds the parts of us the world never sees.

This photograph by Andrew Esiebo has been saved in my gallery for almost ten years. It has travelled with me across seasons and cities, and yet, every time I look at it, it still stops me.

For me, it epitomizes what Lagos truly is.

Sundays are my quiet ritual.

Sometimes it’s a slow morning with coffee, sometimes it’s while cooking, baking, or simply resetting the house - and more often than not, YouTube is playing in the background.

There is a quiet moment in every project when the paint is dry, the furniture is in place, and yet… something still feels missing.

It’s not about spending more. It’s about finishing well - giving your home that layered, lived-in feeling where comfort and character finally meet.

- On collecting, creating and celebrating what you already have.

Art should be personal and speak to you. There are art collectors who partly view art as an investment, and that’s understandable. But even they, at their core, only buy what moves them. Art must whisper something deeper and resonate with you.

Every original piece I have ever collected came from that moment of connection.

“I don’t want a house full of stuff,” my client said. “But I still want it to feel special.”

That statement captured the quiet paradox of modern design: a craving for calm, yet the desire for character. The need for space to breathe and ease of organization, yet the yearning for something memorable.

There is something deeply captivating about walking into a room where the building itself tells a story.

Brick walls that have aged gracefully and beams that have borne decades of weight.

If design is emotion made visible, lighting is the language that gives it life.

Among all styling tools, lighting is the most fundamental — the invisible artist that defines how we experience a space.

At AD Design, we absolutely love designing for children.

There is something profoundly joyful about creating spaces that nurture curiosity, imagination, and a sense of belonging — places where children can explore, create, and feel safe all at once.