I didn’t start mandala art from religious view – Tawfiqah Billyhadiat

Tawfiqah Billyhadiat is a hand-drawn mandala artist based in Ibadan, whose work explores balance and complexity through intricate geometric designs. She is also a passionate advocate for women’s rights and mental wellbeing. Her works are pioneering national recognition for mandala art through features in reputable exhibitions.   Mandala artists are rare in West Africa. How […]

Tawfiqah Billyhadiat is a hand-drawn mandala artist based in Ibadan, whose work explores balance and complexity through intricate geometric designs. She is also a passionate advocate for women’s rights and mental wellbeing. Her works are pioneering national recognition for mandala art through features in reputable exhibitions.

 

Mandala artists are rare in West Africa. How did you stumble on this art form and what has the journey been like for you?

Before I knew my great-grandfather was an artist—a tezhip and Arabic-English calligraphy artist, I would have said I stumbled on this art form in my grandfather’s library. He has a lot of Islamic books, and Islamic books often contain intricate, mind-blowing art and design elements. Many of these books were written by African and Arab authors, and they had patterns that felt both ancient and alive, patterns indigenous to Africa and patterns indigenous to Arabia and Asia. But realizing a few years ago that my great-grandfather was an artist, the kind who made the exact type of art that fascinated me in those books, maybe I didn’t stumble on it after all. Maybe it’s always been in me. And my grandfather’s library simply reflected that back to me. Maybe I was the only one who found those patterns fascinating because something in me already recognized them. I’ve always loved art and creativity as a child. I’d make dresses for my dolls, handmade cards for my grandfather and everyone I loved. I would doodle, sketch patterns, and use whatever materials I could find. There was a time I worked with black eye pencil and red lipstick because I had fallen in love with art long before I found my proper tools. At some point, probably during secondary school, I drifted from it. I didn’t even know what mandalas were back then, didn’t know they had a name. But I found my way back during a quiet, introspective period of my life. And I wasn’t searching for mandalas, it was more like they found me. I didn’t even know I needed them until they showed up. Something about them demanded presence, offered calm, and gave me something stillness couldn’t quite explain. The journey has been both grounding and transformative. In a region where this art form is rare, I’ve had the opportunity to carve a unique path, and that comes with both freedom and responsibility. Every piece teaches me patience, discipline and the beauty of detail.

 

Mandala motifs are largely reflective in African indigenous aesthetics that can be seen in Ankara, architecture, Islam and traditional crafts. Are you inspired by these elements?

Absolutely. While mandalas are often associated with Eastern traditions, I see strong echoes of them in African culture, especially in textiles, beadwork, architecture, and sacred design. There was a piece I made and my grandmother, God have mercy on her soul, loved it so much because it reminded her of one of the fabrics that reigned in the biggest traditional fabric market in Ibadan in the 80s. There’s a shared love for symmetry, pattern and layered meaning. As a Nigerian Muslim woman, I’m especially drawn to the sacred geometry that lives in both Islamic art and West African craft. So, even if the style appears imported, the spirit of it feels deeply local to me.

 

 

What does the mandala symbolize for you personally and culturally?

Personally, it symbolizes wholeness and reflection. I often say my mandalas are mirrors—quiet ones. They help me listen inward, to connect dots I didn’t even know were floating inside me. Culturally, I see them as a bridge: between traditions, between the sacred and the secular, between chaos and order. They give form to things we feel but can’t always name. But sometimes, I also think mandalas don’t exist, at least, not in the way we imagine. They aren’t fixed symbols waiting to be discovered, they’re born in real time, in breath, in fleeting thoughts. To me, a mandala isn’t a perfect circle, it’s a moment made visible. A mandala is a thought captured mid-flight, a memory spiraling into shape, a story bending itself into symmetry or refusing it altogether. Each piece I create isn’t a representation of something eternal. It only existed then—in that rhythm, in that breath, in that stillness or ache or question. The lines, the curves, the gold leaf, the darkness, they aren’t just designs. They’re emotional topographies. They’re evidence that something passed through me, and I let it stay, frozen in time. Frozen in art. In that way, mandalas aren’t objects. They’re records. Not sacred because of their geometry, but because of the honesty they carry. They’re visual proof that we once felt deeply enough to try and translate it—however imperfectly—into form. And that’s what I think is so special about mandala art: they’re timestamps. So maybe “mandala” as a fixed concept doesn’t really exist. But they happen.

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Are there specific colours you enjoy working with?

I gravitate toward warm tones. They feel rooted and honest to me—like they know something without shouting. I love how they communicate emotion in a way that feels grounded. That said, I don’t box myself into one palette. I prefer the freedom to respond to what each piece needs emotionally and structurally—and of course, what a collector might want, especially in commissioned pieces.

 

How long does it take to complete a typical mandala?

It depends on the size and complexity of the work. A smaller piece can take a few days. Larger ones sometimes stretch over weeks. I don’t rush them. Every detail, every layer, has to feel right—and sometimes that means pausing, going out for dinner with a friend, or baking or cooking up a new recipe or something. The process becomes part of the story the piece tells.

The geometry and patterns of mandalas mean you often have to employ mathematical tools. Did you find mathematics interesting and in what ways has it influenced you as an artist?

Mathematics and I have had an evolving relationship. I wouldn’t say I found it fascinating at first, more like frustrating. I remember once trying to divide a circle into 72 equal lines and place 12 elements around it. Every time, I ended up with two extra spaces. It happens to most of my mandalas and I erase and erase and extras and redraw and never knew why until I realized it’s because I didn’t know how to count.

I later realized I was counting the Nigerian way—0 to 6, then starting again from 6 instead of 7. When I realized what the error was, and posted it on May WhatsApp status,  a friend laughed and said, “That’s exactly why people don’t know how to calculate rent!” That moment shifted something in me. It made me appreciate the precision required in geometry and how easily a tiny misstep can throw everything off. Since then, I’ve developed deep respect for the mathematical backbone of mandalas. It’s not just art, it’s logic in motion.

 

Your work has been well received within and outside the country. Which project are you most proud of?

There’s a piece I created that can be viewed from multiple perspectives. Turn it upside down, and the walkway becomes the skyline. Look at it from the side, and the walls become stairs. That piece taught me how to collapse boundaries between direction and meaning. It marked a turning point in how I approach perspective—both literally and metaphorically.

 

 Was there a religious choice to mandala art for you?

Yes and no. I didn’t enter mandala art from a religious place, but over time, I began to notice how deeply spiritual the process is. The repetition, the symmetry, the stillness, the deep introspection in which it is borne, it mirrors many aspects of Islamic practice: presence, remembrance, introspection, humility. So while it didn’t start as a religious pursuit, it eventually became a spiritual one.

 

 How do you see and interpret art every day as a female Muslim artist, and are there challenges to this exploration?

I see art everywhere. I have random screenshots and photos on my phone, sometimes from a movie scene, the dress of a woman walking past me, or the way light sits faintly on my curtain. I see it in the rhythm of a conversation, even in silence. As a female Muslim artist, I often walk the line between personal truth and communal expectations. There are moments when certain themes or expressions bring up internal resistance. I’m learning to sit with that, to find a balance—one that doesn’t compromise my truth or my faith.

 

 Your work often explores themes of femininity, gender equity, and women’s rights in Islam. What are your hopes for younger women who encounter your work?

I hope it offers them permission to be complex, to be curious. So much of what we’re taught, especially as women in faith-based and ethnic communities, is about symmetry, about being precise, perfect and contained. But I’ve come to believe that true beauty often lives in asymmetry, the irregular curves, the unexpected lines, the unconventional. Through my work, I try to reflect that. I see symmetry as the expectation, and asymmetry as the resistance. The quiet refusal to be boxed in. I want my pieces to say: you can uphold tradition and still ask questions. You can honor faith while seeking justice within it. You can be gentle and still take up space. If a young woman sees one of my mandalas and feels more whole, more validated, or even just a little braver about naming her questions, then that’s enough for me. That’s the kind of art I want to make—mirrors that reflect not just who we are, but who we’re allowed to become.