With the launch of A Common Thread, Batch 3, badibanga enters a new phase of its journey — one shaped by continuity and connection. The collection reflects on what moves with us over time: shared skills, evolving ideas, small gestures, and the invisible bonds between people.

We spoke with Oscar Badibanga, Co-Founder and Creative Director of the brand, about the stories, memories, and human presence behind the work. Badibanga talks about restraint as strength, imperfection as intention, and why authorship is never singular. Even as A Common Thread grows to include tailoring, denim, and print, the collection remains grounded in what defines the brand — quiet gestures, thoughtful process, and the connections that hold everything together.

— What kind of kid were you, and what were you obsessed with long before fashion became a profession?

— As a kid, I was what people would probably call today an introvert-extrovert. I spent a lot of time in my own bubble. We moved from Congo when I was very young, around three, and arriving in a completely new environment naturally made me more withdrawn at first. New place, new faces, new codes. That kind of transition pushes you inward.

At the same time, I have always had an extroverted side. I could be shy, yes, but I was deeply creative. I was constantly inventing stories, travelling in my head, and building worlds. I was already creating what I would call the universe of Oscar.

Long before fashion, my real obsession was manga, anime, films — especially superheroes. I remember coming home from school and watching Superman and Zorro religiously, every single day, before doing my homework. Japanese manga had a huge impact on me, too. That is actually what pushed me to start drawing. I would recreate the characters I admired, then slowly transform them, and make them my own.

That obsession went even further. While most kids were playing football or basketball, I started practising martial arts — purely because of manga. It wasn’t about sport; it was about imagination, discipline, and identity. Looking back, all of that was already shaping the way I create today.

— Do you remember the first moment when you realised clothes could carry meaning — not just function or aesthetics, but identity, memory, power?

— It came quite early for me. I remember a conversation with my father when I was a kid. I was growing up in Belgium as a child from an immigrant family, in neighbourhoods where not many kids looked like me. I used to tell my dad all the time, “You always look good, you always look fresh.”

One day, he told me something that stayed with me. He said, “My son, unfortunately, you’ll walk into many rooms where you won’t always be welcomed.” Then he added, “But the way you carry yourself will always speak for you. It will always be your advocate.”

At the time, I didn’t fully understand it. But very early on, I realised how powerful clothes could be — not just aesthetically, but in terms of identity and presence. Around fifteen, it became clear to me that having an aesthetic that is different immediately places you somewhere else. It gives you space. It gives you power.

What is interesting is that it never felt forced. I never chased a look or followed a specific style. I admired certain people, but they were always individuals with singular worlds. That pushed me to embrace difference. And being seen as different, very early on, felt empowering.

— Before badibanga existed, before collections and recognition — who were you?

— Before badibanga existed, I was already Oscar Badibanga. I still am. I am someone who has been working in this industry for over twenty-five years.

I have been fortunate to work with great companies, alongside incredible colleagues and mentors who shaped how I think and work. I collaborated on many meaningful projects, and all of that slowly built the foundation of what I do today.

So yes, there is recognition now. But nothing feels sudden. It is a natural evolution. Every year, every experience prepared me to build my own world with confidence. badibanga didn’t appear out of nowhere — it is the result of a long road patiently walked.

— Your work often feels rooted rather than performative. How much of your personal history still lives inside the brand today, and how consciously do you protect it?

— A lot of my personal history still lives inside the brand, very consciously. First, I make sure the identity and aesthetic remain a true extension of who I am — how I dress, what I am drawn to, what I appreciate visually. If it doesn’t feel like me, it doesn’t belong.

Second, I anchor that history into the garments themselves. Every piece has a name — often the name of someone who inspired it or someone I had a real conversation with. It is my way of humanising the piece.

Some garments are born from conversations, others from places, songs, artists, moments in time. That is how I protect what is personal — by embedding memory directly into the clothes. It is not just about aesthetics; it is about giving garments weight and presence.

— Many designers start with self-expression, but at some point your work shifted toward something more collective. When did you realise that fashion, for you, wasn’t about self anymore?

— Fashion has always been both personal and collective for me. Collective because it exists in dialogue. Personal, because the process starts from within.

The shift didn’t feel intentional — it came naturally. As I started sharing my personal history, I realised it wasn’t about centring myself, but about giving context. The brand is a journey through my life — past, present, and even futures I haven’t lived yet.

Even the most personal stories carry something collective. My grandfather, being a tailor, is personal, yes — but it is also a message to anyone who feels limited by their surroundings. So even when the story starts with me, it is meant to be shared.

— badibanga challenges the idea of the designer as a lone genius. Where does this resistance come from — and what did you have to unlearn to embrace collective authorship?

— It was there from the beginning. Even the name badibanga was already a step away from doing things alone.

When we truly started, I turned to my wife and said, “This won’t work if you’re just supporting me. You need to be part of this.” Today, it makes complete sense. We complement each other perfectly.

Around us, there is a growing circle of collaborators — people I respect and love. And that collective energy is the strength of the brand. It is personal, but it is never about standing alone.

— You often speak about making as a shared act: watching, correcting, exchanging. How did this way of working change your relationship with control, perfection, and authorship?

— Making has always been shared for me. But it was never about control. Perfection, as it is usually defined, doesn’t exist to me.

I believe perfection lives in imperfection — in a messy wardrobe, in something slightly off. I don’t like straight lines all the time. I like disturbance. That is why the brand’s tagline is perfect imperfection.

I don’t like controlling people or processes. I prefer guidance. Staying composed. Keeping things together without breaking the energy around you. Less authority, more trust.

— Your designs are quiet, restrained, never loud — especially in a region that often celebrates spectacle. Why is subtlety such a powerful language for you?

— My designs are restrained, yes. And that is interesting because I come from cultures often perceived as loud. But when you look closely — whether in Congolese culture or in the Middle East — there is also a deep quiet strength.

Men in white kanduras. Women in abayas. Nothing screams, yet everything is powerful. That duality influenced me deeply.

For me, one colour, one piece, worn with intention, has power. The garment becomes a canvas. I want people to make it their own. Restraint doesn’t limit — it gives space.

— In A Common Thread, the most meaningful detail is hidden inside the garment. Why was it important that the core idea of the collection isn’t visible to everyone?

— Because not everything needs to be shown. The clothes already carry visible details. I wanted the core idea to be something shared only with the wearer.

The hidden stitch is a message. Almost a love letter. A way of saying, “We thought about you.” In a world of oversharing, some things should stay intimate.

Traditionally, those marks were always inside garments — left by the hands that made them. That felt like the most honest place for it to live.

— This collection expands into tailoring, denim, and print — without losing coherence. How do you know when expansion is evolution, not dilution?

— It felt like a continuation. Even the print is restrained — just a check. Everything stays within the same language.

I prefer evolution to change. Evolution adds layers without erasing who you are. Tailoring opens the conversation. Denim has always been an obsession — I waited until it felt right. Print is there to quietly stand out.

This isn’t dilution. It is growth.

— Fashion in the Middle East is still often measured against external validation. What does it mean to you to move fashion forward from within the region rather than borrowing authority from elsewhere?

— Fashion was historically validated in Europe. That is a fact. But today, we can lead the conversation.

For me, it is about bringing different traditions, techniques, colours, and ways of seeing together — without hierarchy. Badibanga could have started anywhere. It happened to start here.

So I take from here and give to the world. We are locally rooted, but globally minded. Authority isn’t borrowed — it is built.

— badibanga never leans on obvious cultural symbols, yet it feels deeply rooted. How do you approach identity without turning it into a costume or marketing?

— I once got asked, “Where is your brand from?” And I thought, why does it need to be from somewhere to be valid?

Identity doesn’t need announcement. With Common Thread, it is about unity rather than division. Africa, Europe, the Middle East, Japan — all of it lives in the work naturally.

I don’t use culture as marketing. I let the work carry it quietly.

— If someone looks at badibanga ten years from now, what would you want them to say the brand changed — not just in fashion, but in how people think about making, wearing, and belonging?

— I hope it changed how people think about fashion — as a language, not just a product.

I want perfect imperfection to live beyond clothes — into how people see themselves and others. Badibanga will bring more than garments: conversations, spaces, ideas.

If people remember that the brand stood for love, freedom, openness, and togetherness, then it will have done its job.

— What are you still afraid of losing as the brand grows — and what are you no longer willing to compromise?

— I am afraid of losing proximity to the process. Today, it is just my wife and me. I touch everything — fabrics, buttons, details. I will miss that someday.

But what I will never compromise on is integrity. The image, the values, the way we live and communicate. We didn’t take the easy route — and we won’t start now.

Growth can happen. Losing ourselves cannot.