Makeda Nyongé

The casting call was like hundreds before it, a slot on a Thursday afternoon squeezed between fittings. Makeda walked into Regalia Productions expecting the usual—a quick look, a few shots, then a long wait for a rejection email. But the panel didn’t see her as just another option. They looked at her as if she were the only one. “The bone structure is there. We can work with that,” one said, her voice sharp and to the point. Another murmured, "It’s not just her walk. It’s the way she holds the clothes. Like they belong to her." Two weeks later, her agent’s call was different. “Regalia wants you to headline the Zaphora line.” Makeda knew the name. A designer whispered about in the industry for her avant-garde fusion of African heritage with gothic severity. It wasn’t Makeda's personal style, but fashion was her craft. She would own it. The studio was not what she expected. Not a gleaming white space, but a cavern of atmosphere. Black drapes covered the windows, and bolts of fabric—wine-dark, indigo, onyx—were stacked like relics. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and something ancient. Then she saw her. Zaphora stood in the center of it all, a vision of beads and velvet wrapped around her like armor. Her gaze was neither kind nor cruel; it was a sculptor's gaze, measuring Makeda's form, already imagining what she could become. Zaphora circled her slowly, watching how she moved, how she held herself. “You’ve got the look,” she said finally. “But your style… Afro-goth isn’t about copying—it’s about owning it. Show me it’s yours, not someone else’s idea of it.” Makeda met her gaze. “I will.” A slow, deliberate smile touched the corner of Zaphora’s mouth. It wasn’t a gesture of welcome but of recognition, a silent acknowledgment that the perfect piece had finally arrived.