FEDERICA ZAMBELETTI / KOOZ I would like to start our conversation by inquiring about your approach to site. Your practices are situated between Senegal and Nigeria. What does site mean for you, and how do the contexts within which you operate inform the way you practice architecture?

NZINGA BIEGUENG MBOUP The first thing we look at is geography. We define ourselves as a practice specialising in bioclimatic architecture, and the first thing that informs our work, particularly when it comes to building, is geography. By geography, we understand two separate things. One is climate — understanding the four basic elements. The sun, for example, and the amount we get. In our particular climate, we often aim to protect ourselves from it, while in other climates, you might want to harness it, depending on the season. Air involves looking at wind directions, deciding whether to protect ourselves from harsh winds or harness beneficial ones. For water, we examine rainfall patterns. We consider how to collect rainwater or keep the building safe from water, which is especially important with climate change. And then there's soil — understanding the geology of a site provides crucial information about what we can do there. This knowledge often comes from geotechnical reports. More and more, soil also serves as a resource. We analyse how all these elements present opportunities or constraints and respond accordingly.

The second component of geography is materiality. This includes the types of materials available in a particular context, such as vegetation or biogenic materials, and geogenic materials like soil and stone. Understanding what's locally accessible informs our design process and helps us harness these resources. The human component is equally important. It includes the people occupying the site — whether it's the specific site or surrounding communities. It also involves considering the client or community that will inhabit the project. We examine spatial practices, rituals, and other cultural elements.

ADEYEMO SHOKUNBIOur work is really influenced by context. I relocated to Nigeria quite a while ago, and most of our projects have been based in Lagos, particularly reclaimed areas. The soil conditions, which are determined by the timing of reclamation, significantly influence how we intervene. The soil bearing capacity, climate conditions, and planning laws all play essential roles.

Topography is another factor — undulating land, for instance, can significantly influence architectural response. We are currently working on a project outside of Lagos, in a town called Ilase in Osun State. The client approached us because of our interest in preserving history and working with local communities. They wanted to demolish an existing building, but we are trying to convince them to preserve and revitalise what already exists.

Our approach is evolving, considering aspects beyond straightforward client demands. Initially, clients would bring us high-value plots of land focused solely on maximising return on investment. But we now stress the importance of incorporating cultural and historical context into our designs. As architects, we have a responsibility to nature, to history, and to the communities we work with, even when clients may not prioritise these aspects.

NBM I just wanted to add something by stressing the importance of culture and history — even to challenge the notion of a vacant site. When you truly examine a site through all its various layers, you realise there is no such thing as a vacant site. I sometimes find it frustrating that architecture has taught us to overlook these deeper layers. Recently, there was a competition for a regional project under UEMOA (the West African Economic and Monetary Union), where we were provided with what they called a 'blank piece of land.' Through some investigation, we discovered it was actually in the city centre of Dakar, on a site with a building over 100 years old. But for the competition, they just told us to design a tower with a lot of parking spaces as if it could be anywhere. That kind of approach is deeply problematic.

It’s a stark reminder that no site is truly blank. When we approach a project, we aim to consider all the layers — history, culture, and even elements beyond the physical aspects. This pushes us to go beyond simply meeting the programmatic needs of a project. Instead, we try to enrich it by integrating these contextual dimensions into the design brief.

KOOZ I feel it boils down to one key word: responsibility. It’s about standing firm and saying, “This is what we represent, how we build, and what we prioritise.” You’ve mentioned approaching sites by examining their material qualities and working with what’s already there. Could you elaborate on how you assess and utilise existing materials? Additionally, we are often trained to see bio-based materials as inexhaustible, yet every act of using them — be it raw earth or stone — is a form of extraction. How do you balance the environmental and social impact of sourcing materials locally for your projects while remaining mindful of the broader implications?

AS For us, materiality plays a vital role in shaping our architectural responses. It often forms the soul of a building, deeply influencing the way we approach our projects. As I mentioned earlier, most of the projects we’ve worked on are located in the city — materials are typically brought to the site rather than being found locally. Many of our projects are on plain land, with sharp sand being the most commonly available material on-site. In recent projects, our material palette has leaned heavily on laterite, wood, and textured finishes. The introduction of textured finishes came from our early attempts to achieve perfection, which was challenged by the skill level of artisans. Instead of hiding imperfections, we embraced them, making textures a way to showcase the beauty in imperfection. It has since become a defining feature in all of our projects.

In Nigeria, the predominant materials for construction are cement and sharp sand — ubiquitous and well-suited to the expertise of local artisans. However, when we introduce alternative materials, it often requires upskilling artisans to meet our expectations.

NBM This has increasingly become one of the central challenges of our practice — how to provide training and ensure, first and foremost, that we ourselves have the expertise to realise the designs we create. Without a deep understanding of processes and the science behind how things are made, it's impossible to innovate, even in the most basic ways. I think this is a struggle many architects face, but it’s also part of working within these human ecosystems we’ve been discussing. Responding to your question, what stands out to me is the idea of balance — remaining critical in our choices and resisting the temptation to rely on fixed formulas. If the goal is to truly work with what’s already there, adaptability is key, but it must be weighed against specific realities. For us, that means assessing environmental impact — questions like whether a material is highly polluting, reusable, or sustainable throughout the full life cycle of the project.

For example, in Senegal, cement is a highly local material — we export it and have several factories near Dakar. However, we’re acutely aware of its environmental toll, from air pollution near production sites to its thermal discomfort in certain applications. It's not that cement is inherently bad, but it requires critical thought about its use in specific contexts. History and research can be helpful here, teaching us how past approaches prioritised climate responsiveness. Concrete structures built in the 1960s and 70s, for example, often incorporated climate-responsive strategies to enhance thermal comfort — an approach that seems to have been largely forgotten today. When we work with biogenic and geogenic materials, we aim to apply this same critical lens. For instance, we’ve started using Typha, an invasive plant species with excellent thermal properties. Though it poses ecological challenges, it’s well-suited for insulation panels in buildings exposed to the sun. Similarly, timber, though scarce in Senegal’s Sahel region, has proven durable in certain conditions. One example would be a house we built in a coastal environment. Marine air is aggressive toward metals and so we chose to use timber in openings, because salt can’t attack timber in the way that it corrodes ferruginous (iron-rich) metals.

Equally important is the economic dimension. Sustainability must always be balanced with affordability and accessibility. If local materials require specialised experts, costs can become prohibitive, especially in markets where people build independently with minimal resources. As a result, we’re exploring lower-tech processes and traditional methods, such as hand-moulded clay bricks, to make materials more approachable for contemporary use. Ultimately, our goal is architectural empowerment — finding ways to rely less on imported materials and more on local ones, empowering both the community and our practice.

KOOZ Nzinga, in a previous conversation, you mentioned how working with raw materials engages not just intellectual understanding but also intuition and the body. Could you expand on this idea and how working with the “ready made” helps activate and preserve these knowledge systems — ones that have endured for generations but are now at risk of being lost?

NBM Yes, so throughout 2024, there was a significant shift in our practice. We were fortunate to receive a grant with the Practice Lab at re:arc institute to develop a proposal for a project aimed at contributing to planetary well-being. One of the first things we identified was that, even when we had designed and built many projects using compressed and stabilised earth bricks, the projects hadn’t reached a level of wide accessibility. This was primarily because these projects relied on technology requiring machines, specialised knowledge, and the heavy involvement of architects and engineers.

In Senegal, only about 7% of what is built involves an architect, so advocating for widespread change with methods that depend on such involvement is impractical. This realisation led us to consider how we could pivot towards more low-tech, highly local building systems and construction techniques. We decided to position the project in a city outside Dakar called Sebikotane, which is fascinating for many reasons. It has historically been an industrial and artisanal hub, a crossroads city between regions with a mix of immigrant communities. Its geology is particularly notable, as it contains abundant clay-rich soils in various forms. The city also has a history of ceramic production. We envisioned creating a space dedicated to learning about sustainable construction. The first step in our process was to explore the materials already present in the area. We studied existing buildings, conducted site visits, collected samples, and sent them to a lab in Dakar, which is itself an artisanal training center. We chose to work there primarily because we lacked a dedicated space for experimentation in Dakar. Discovering this center, just five minutes from our office, was a pivotal moment. Founded in the 1960s, it trains individuals in a variety of crafts. We hadn’t been aware of its existence until we engaged with its leadership, who expressed concerns about the decline in craftsmanship. Enrollment has been dwindling because the market for these trades is shrinking — ceramics, for example, only saw three students enroll last year, and even they chose it by default.

Our goal is to create one-to-one prototypes using the materials we’ve identified in the Sebikotane area while working with as little cement as possible. The process of engaging directly with the ground — testing it, making bricks, and sending them to the lab — has allowed us to refine techniques and understand material properties deeply, as well as calculate costs accurately. The next challenge is scaling these systems from smaller prototypes to larger applications. This hands-on approach has centered us within the ecosystem of local materials and crafts, re-engaging our bodies and senses in ways that industrial materials never allowed. When working directly with soil, intuition plays a big role — observing cracks, feeling the texture, and testing with touch can reveal whether the soil contains clay or sand. These sensory insights, combined with iteration and testing, guide adjustments, such as mixing different soils to create plasters. While it might sound like alchemy, these processes are grounded in intuition and confirmed through lab tests or prototypes, allowing us to assess material performance over seasonal cycles like the rainy season.

The collaboration with the training center has also allowed us to tap into human ecosystems, renewing interest in disappearing knowledge systems like ceramics and carpentry. It’s striking how fundamental these trades are, yet they’re at risk of fading away. Ceramics, for instance, remain valuable in other contexts — people still use them for ovens or incense pots — which reminds us of the immense potential and adaptability these skills hold. Through this partnership, we hope to restore and revitalise these traditions while shaping architecture that bridges past wisdom with contemporary innovation.

AS Incredible. Nzinga, I will make time in my busy schedule to visit and learn. Knowledge sharing is incredibly important, and while we could independently go through the same processes you’ve experienced — learning through our own research and development — time is something that cannot be manufactured. If we can streamline the way we share and gain knowledge, it benefits everyone involved. I’m always searching for like-minded individuals who are ahead of us on this journey, and it’s exciting to connect with people. I’m genuinely proud of what you’ve accomplished. Senegal, and Dakar in particular, seem to align with so much of what we’re trying to achieve at our scale and within our context. In many ways, you’re light years ahead of us.

In Nigeria, there are only a handful of practitioners starting to return to basics, which is not yet a widely embraced practice. I believe this is the moment to challenge our tendencies — the insatiable appetite to replicate everything from the Global North. Instead, we need to focus inward, reevaluate, and make a meaningful impact.

NBM I think it’s crucial to emphasise that while these ideas can be extended to the continent and even the world, within West Africa in particular, we share many common conditions and a shared heritage that we can tap into. I realised this during our first project outside Senegal. It was incredible to witness the shared conditions. For example, when exploring brass-making, we visited Benin City and engaged with brass workers there. Through conversations, we discovered they use the same materials, albeit on a bigger scale, and they were excited to consider expanding traditional craftsmanship into new processes and outputs.

In one new project, we found that Benin City traditional architecture is made of cob earth walls (the most famous being the moat walls), a building technology similar to what we use in the south of Senegal. This sparked a dialogue between the skills we employ here and those in Edo State. For instance, we’re testing and prototyping ways to modernise these methods using shuttering — though it remains a familiar technology in both places. These kinds of exchanges are incredibly exciting and feel like the creation of a new architectural language.

I also recall a conversation with an architect and conservation specialist in urban construction who worked on rehabilitating a civic building made of earth in Nigeria, involving masons from Mali. Despite language barriers — they didn’t speak Hausa or Fulani — the Nigerian and Malian masons successfully collaborated because they shared a material language, not a verbal one. This experience reaffirmed the immense value of such exchanges and the shared conditions that connect our work across borders.

If the work we do in Senegal can inspire other contexts to adopt similar approaches, it’s truly a win for everyone. It’s remarkable how material language transcends boundaries, especially when paired with shared histories and climates. These commonalities offer endless possibilities for collaboration and innovation, which is incredibly inspiring.

KOOZ I’d like to delve into the relationship between materials, architecture, and identity — a theme you’ve explored deeply since your return to Nigeria. Your ambition of crafting a new, alternative Nigerian aesthetic speaks to the powerful role of architecture in shaping identity. Could you elaborate on the significance of this narrative and how it has influenced your work in Lagos over the past few years? How have you approached the interplay between design and cultural identity in redefining this aesthetic?

ASThe story begins with my architectural training and professional experience in the UK, where I worked for many years before returning to Nigeria. I often describe this return as bringing "baggage," not in a negative way, but in terms of the philosophies, ideologies, and understandings I carried back — many of which felt foreign within the local environment. As a responsible architect, I realised I needed to find new meaning and adapt my approach.

Historically, Nigerians are an outdoor-oriented people, spending significant time under the shade of trees. However, urbanisation has led to widespread deforestation, leaving cities exposed. We advocate for reintroducing tree planting wherever possible, reconnecting with this element of our heritage. The realisation of an architectural responsibility deeper than merely fulfilling client briefs began to crystallise during my work on the Abijo Mosque. Many clients in this region dictate the direction of a project, leaving little room for creativity or architectural integrity. This was the norm, but the mosque represented a break from it. It became a turning point for me as I successfully gained artistic licence, convincing the client of the importance of going beyond their modest budget and program. In fact, I took the bold step of contributing my own funds to the project. When I told the client I would contribute my own resources, it opened the floodgates for me, granting me the artistic license to fully express my vision. The Abijo Mosque evolved far beyond the client’s original brief, transforming into a project that allowed me to explore and define this new alternative Nigerian architecture. This freedom enabled us to experiment, conduct research, and utilise locally sourced materials — work that was further refined through earlier projects leading up to the mosque.

KOOZ Nzinga, as a practicing architect, curator, and researcher, you’ve been navigating multiple roles. In particular, your work with the CCA stands out, as you’ve undertaken extensive research — first exploring the first generation of Senegalese architects in 2024, and now examining the material and constructive techniques of Senegal. Could you reflect on how this research is influencing your practice? Furthermore, how do you see it as a critical tool, not only for your own work but for other practitioners operating in Senegal? How might this approach serve as a broader framework, expanding beyond Senegal to the continent as a whole?.

NBM When I returned to Senegal after studying and working in London, almost eight years ago, I made a conscious decision to commit to research to fill the gaps in my education — an experience I believe many architects in Senegal share. The absence of a National School of Architecture since 1991 and the lack of recognition for private architecture schools by the local order of architects mean that the majority of architects practicing here over the past few decades have trained abroad. Like Adeyemo mentioned, we all return with a kind of "baggage" — knowledge shaped by foreign training, often disconnected from the local context, particularly in understanding the architectural and construction histories specific to this region. While my work had helped connect me to traditional architecture, which leverages materials from specific localities, I became frustrated by my limited knowledge of Senegalese modern architecture. This frustration extended to a broader lack of awareness of modern African architecture as a whole, particularly the work of the first generation of Senegalese architects post-independence.

I’ve observed a similar knowledge gap among my peers across West Africa. Adeyemo and I share a mutual friend who introduced me to the work of Demas Nwoko in 2015. Before then, I had no knowledge of this monumental figure in African architecture. Despite being awarded the Golden Lion Prize at the Venice Biennale and creating works deeply rooted in Ibadan’s cultural and environmental context, his contributions remain underappreciated by many African architects. This highlights a broader issue — there is an untapped wealth of knowledge held by Africa’s first generation of architects, yet it risks being lost as they age.

When the CCA approached me, I chose to focus my research on architectural traditions in Senegal. One reason is that this generation, despite their significance, has often been sidelined in discussions of modern African architecture. Most discourse around modern architecture in Africa emphasises tropical architecture, much of which was designed by foreign architects (the names of the local architects that contributed to tropical modernism were often erased). Yet Senegal’s first generation of architects — those trained at the National School of Architecture — were responding to a distinct political and cultural moment. Many of these architects were engaged in nation-building during the 1970s and 80s, exploring notions of identity and modernity through innovative programs and aesthetics. Their work was deeply rooted in local conditions — urban and rural — and informed by research into vernacular traditions. They conducted extensive research, learning from diverse conditions and frequently incorporating earth into their construction processes. Unfortunately, I see very few examples of contemporary architecture continuing this legacy.

Through this research, I’ve uncovered a wealth of knowledge that deeply influences my practice today, along with those who continue to use and adapt these techniques. I’ve learned about materials and methods unique to West African architecture, like the distinctive projected plaster technique Adeyemo has used — a simple technology creating a granular finish characteristic of buildings from the late 70s to the 90s. This approach disappeared over time, but exploring such techniques has introduced me to others, like ceramic-based constructions or ceilings made from woven mats. Investigating their origins and intentions has been an extraordinary education rooted in my immediate context.

What’s remarkable is that these materials and techniques surround us — right at our doorstep — yet they were largely inaccessible to me before this research. Discovering them has been incredibly empowering. During this process, I met Birahim Niang, an architect and co-designer of the Kaedi Hospital in 1983. Early in his career, he created a cartography of Senegal’s materials, identifying around 20 types of clay-rich soils, while turning construction sites into micro-industries. He demonstrated how to produce and test materials for cohesion and compressive strength. Meeting someone so profoundly knowledgeable felt like a dream, and it emphasised the importance of transmitting such expertise to newer generations.

KOOZ Nzinga, you define Worofila as a studio, whereas Adeyemo’s practice takes the structure of a design consultancy. How do these contrasting notions or frameworks shape your regenerative, socially, and ecologically responsible attitudes to architecture? Additionally, how do they enable the collaborations that are essential for advancing this approach you’ve both passionately shared with us?

AS The design consultancy emerged out of necessity when I moved back to Nigeria. Initially, I approached my work with the mindset of a consulting architect, shaped by my experience in the UK where I often blurred the line between architect and builder by directly engaging in construction. Upon returning, I recognised the importance of adhering to the formalities and respect commanded by the profession, particularly as someone new to the local environment.

The consultancy was founded in partnership with Patrick Koshoni, a self-taught interior designer who had returned to Nigeria before me. Our sensibilities aligned, and we sought to create an entity addressing gaps we felt were present at the time. We became a multifaceted operation, even venturing into the arts by establishing an art gallery to explore innovative ways of representing Nigerian art. While still in its early stages, the NANA Collective aims to transcend geographical boundaries and facilitate partnerships with peers across the continent, in places like Ghana, for example, where similar initiatives are underway. We continue to provide consultancy services to clients seeking conventional architectural approaches. Yet, with recognitions such as the OBEL Foundation’s Teaching Fellowship Award, the collective has gained traction as a space for co-creation. You have to be able to collaborate. If you don't, you die. You die professionally. It's as simple as that.

Again, through the OBEL Foundation Teaching Fellowship, we cultivated a cohort of 25 students who are now noticeably distinct in their thinking and approach. The difference between those students and their peers who didn’t undergo the program is striking — it’s like night and day. The fellowship not only expanded their minds but also demonstrated the tangible potential of what could be achieved. Without the NANA Collective, we wouldn’t have reached the current level of impact. I’m incredibly impressed by the outcomes of this program because it celebrates what is possible. We are resolute in taking full advantage of the opportunities before us and remain committed to making meaningful progress.

NBM For us, the studio serves as a platform to cultivate a broad human ecosystem. Its varied outputs — design, construction, teaching, curating, researching, writing, and exhibitions — help us connect with the audiences we aim to reach. Fundamentally, the practice is driven by learning. At the core, we see ourselves as students, addressing gaps in knowledge and unlearning where necessary to stay relevant and beneficial to our specific context and time.

Each project is treated as a module — a space to learn, experiment, and demonstrate. Collaboration is key, which is how Worofila started. Initially founded as a collective of architects, it expanded into a multidisciplinary team. This shared commitment to creating bioclimatic architecture relevant to Senegal and Dakar brought us together, and the collective was named after the street where we first met.

Collaborations remain central to everything we do, whether working with engineers, contractors, material technologists, landscapers, or geologists. Partnerships also extend to government officials who share the vision of creating infrastructure that reflects Senegal’s unique identity and architectural potential. We’ve always welcomed working alongside other architects, often consulting on projects as bioclimatic or earth specialists. For example, we acted as the local architect for Francis Kéré, facilitating the realisation of The Goethe Institute project in Dakar. This experience, alongside many others, enriches us through exposure to diverse visions and building approaches while allowing us to share our expertise.

Bios

Adeyemo Shokunbi trained as an architect in the UK. He worked for a number of architectural practices before co-creating an architecture and interior design firm specialising in the design and build of high-end new-builds and refurbishment projects. In 2007, Adeyemo and Patrick Koshoni formed patrickwaheed Design Consultancy (PWDC) as a vessel to interrogate Ethno-Tropical Contemporary (ETC) architecture. Adeyemo has been involved in a number of projects throughout Nigeria spanning across different typologies and scales. He is also the Creative Director of NANA Collective, which champions contextual design, cultural relevance, material innovation, and sustainable practices in Nigerian architecture.

Nzinga B Mboup is a Dakar-based Senegalese architect. In 2019, alongside Nicolas Rondet she co-founded Worofila an architectural practice specialised in bioclimatic design and construction using earth and biomaterials sourced locally. In addition to her architectural practice, Nzinga has been a researcher for the African Futures Institute since 2022 and is the invited curator of the CCA ℅ Dakar public programme between 2023–2026 focusing on Senegalese architectural traditions.

Federica Zambeletti is the founder and managing director of KoozArch. She is an architect, researcher and digital curator whose interests lie at the intersection between art, architecture and regenerative practices. In 2015 Federica founded KoozArch with the ambition of creating a space where to research, explore and discuss architecture beyond the limits of its built form. Prior to dedicating her full attention to KoozArch, Federica collaborated with the architecture studio and non-profit agency for change UNA/UNLESS working on numerous cultural projects and the research of "Antarctic Resolution". Federica is an Architectural Association School of Architecture in London alumni.