There are some brands you hear about through Instagram ads, collabs, or viral drops. And then there are the ones you feel in the room, the ones your friends wear before anyone else, the ones you hear about before they blow, the ones that start in a flat, or a garage, or that one random studio party. That’s how I first clocked Skitzo. Not through marketing but through energy. Through a fit that said everything before the label ever did. And Mulz, the self-taught creative behind it, has built something that already feels like a piece of Manchester's history.
A Zambian-born, Bradford-raised, Manchester-rooted creative who didn’t wait to be let in. Before Skitzo was a name known in Manchester's creative circles, it was just an idea stitched together in bedrooms and garages. “I’ve always been into fashion,” he told me. “When I was 16, I was selling Rihanna and Tyler the Creator tees at school, printing on Gildan blanks, adding buttons to denim, ripping up tops. I used to email suppliers in China directly like, ‘I need this.’” No middleman, no mentor, just drive.
That DIY mentality never left. He reinvested every pound, sourcing snapbacks the UK couldn’t get hold of, and crafting upcycled denim looks inspired by Chris Brown and Tyga. “The access wasn’t there back then. So I made my own. I always knew the internet was powerful, if you could think it, you could find a way to make it.” Not driven by hype but a need to create and supply. “I was going broke to throw events,” he says. “Working long hours cleaning, doing mad jobs, just to put money back into the brand. But I love doing what I do.” Still, life isn’t linear. School, distractions, a pause. Then uni and the grind continued. Reselling kicks, sourcing pieces off eBay, finding pieces in charity shops and boutique websites before archive fashion was even a thing. “I was always that guy. People were like, ‘Where’d you get that?’ And I just knew how to find it. eBay was my best friend.”
But it was after returning to Bradford that things started to shift. “I’d been selling clothes for so long. I just thought, why not build something of my own?” He dove headfirst into learning everything about his craft. Sewing, dyeing, deconstructing. At first, it was just for fun. “I’d grab my sister’s old clothes, sometimes with permission, sometimes without, and just experiment. Destroy them. Rework them. It wasn’t about a brand yet. It was just about creation.”
That joy of making turned into something more intentional. Skitzo was born not out of strategy, but an itch to create something bigger than himself. Something that's intentionally bold. “We’ve all got personalities within us, but there’s always that one personality that’s trying to be the best,” he said. “Who are you with your mates? At work? With your family? Alone? I wanted the clothes to tap into that, to feel like your truest self.” For Mulz, Skitzo represents that layered identity. A brand made for the people who hold multitudes. The pieces reflect that. Raw, layered, unpredictable. Personal. Japanese dye techniques meets American grunge silhouettes, stitched with African colour theory and Manchester's grit. “The Japanese influence is in the construction,” he explains. “It’s in the stitchwork, the textures, the dedication to craft. But my African roots? That’s in the vibrancy. The soul of the brand.”
It all clicked when he visited Zambia. “I remember going to my grandma’s farm. Watching a man work the fields in a distressed t-shirt that hadn’t been designed that way, it was just worn by life. And I thought, someone in the West would pay £100 for that exact look. It made me realise, this is the source. This is real. I’m making what they’ve already been living.” Skitzo, in many ways, is ancestral. It’s a return to origin, seen through a global lens. “I’m not trying to be boxed in as an ‘African brand’ or a ‘streetwear label.’ I’m building legacy. I’m building culture.” That culture took shape in Manchester. After years of going back and forth from Bradford, Mulz planted roots here. “Manchester has a different energy. There’s so much creative potential but it’s not been invested in like London. I wanted to be part of the scene that helps build something for us and by us.”
Moving from Bradford to Manchester wasn’t just a location shift. It was a level up. “Bradford raised me, but Manchester gave me the space to grow. I saw other brands, other creatives, and I thought, I want to be in that.” Early Skitzo was all energy, friends, pop-ups, an entourage that brought the vibes. “Those were the best times,” he says. “Before it got serious. Before the pressure. Just freedom, fun, and building something from scratch.” What made it work? Maybe it was the authenticity. Maybe it was the fact that Mulz made most of the pieces by hand. “No labour costs, just me, up all night, sewing. I was working rubbish jobs just to invest back into the brand. I’ve cleaned floors. Done mad shifts and hours. All so I could reinvest.”
Back then, the “studio” was a room at his mum's house before it became a garage in a flat. But even then, he made it work. “People would walk in and be like, how are you producing this in here?” Today, he’s in his own full studio space. A real Skitzo HQ. “I pray and thank God every day. I’m the first Zambian I know to have their own clothing studio in Manchester. That means something.” He tells me. “I think about that a lot. I’m making history. I’ve done a lot, even if I stopped tomorrow, I could be proud.”
And he should be. Because a brand isn’t just building clothes, it’s building communities and people. “Friends have used Skitzo in uni applications. For job references. It’s helped open doors for them, even if small, the way I wish someone opened a door for me. I never had a mentor. So I want to be that person for others.”
When asked what he’d say to emerging creatives, his advice is clear: “Hustle. Be a cowboy. Don’t take no for an answer. Don’t wait to be let in. Create your own thing. Build your own lane. If ten people buy your product, be grateful. Because that means you can get to a thousand.” He talks about Virgil Abloh not as a fashion figurehead but as a personal role model. “Virgil’s biggest achievement? Not Off-White. Not LV. It’s how many people he inspired. That’s what I want too. For the second guy after me to say, ‘Yo, Mulz did this. Skitzo set the pace.’”
So what’s next? “Skitzo Worldwide,” he laughs. “It says it in the name. But really, I just want to keep building something meaningful. Whether I reach 10 people or 10,000, if it’s honest, if it makes people feel good, I’m happy.”
Skitzo isn’t a trend. It’s a culture, stitched by hand, built on faith, and steeped in community. From selling t-shirts in school to global ambitions, Mulz is proving that heritage doesn’t have to come from the past. Sometimes, you can make it yourself.
