I sometimes think I became a chef because of ceremonies.

Not because I grew up knowing I would work in kitchens, but because some of my earliest and fondest memories of food were attached to occasions.

I grew up in a large family. My grandparents had ten children [nine women and one man] — which meant there were a lot of weddings growing up. And somehow, I was often right in the middle of them.

I was a ring bearer for several of my aunties.

I remember the excitement of the ceremonies, being dressed up, walking down the aisle, and the little bride who, apparently, was supposed to be my bride too. But what I remember most clearly is the cake.

I loved wedding cake.

Long before I knew anything about pastry, I knew that wedding cake was special. I can’t say with certainty what kind of cake it was, but looking back now as a pastry chef, I’m almost certain many of them were fruit cake

the kind of rich, dense cakes that seem to have a permanent place in Nigerian wedding traditions.

That might have been where my love for cake began.

Years later, I became a baker. Then I became interested in cooking more broadly, eventually going to culinary school and becoming a chef.

But sometimes I wonder if the beginning was actually much earlier.

Perhaps it began with those ceremonies.

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Food has a calendar

Growing up, food wasn’t just something we ate. Certain foods belonged to certain moments.

Christmas had jollof rice.

New Year’s had fried rice.

And both came with what we called Nigerian salad — cabbage, carrots and cucumber dressed with salad cream. In my house, Heinz Salad Cream was also very much part of that equation.

I used to think, This isn’t really salad.

But as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to respect it.

Because what makes a food culture legitimate isn’t whether it looks like somebody else’s version of the dish. Sometimes it is simply what a people repeatedly make, eat and remember.

That was our salad.

And it belonged to our celebrations.

Independence Day had its own food too.

I remember my mother making snail stew, fried snail cooked into a rich stew and served with rice.

Looking back, I find that fascinating.

It wasn’t necessarily a dish I thought of as “ceremonial” at the time. It was simply what Independence Day tasted like in my home.

But that’s how these associations are formed.

The calendar gives the food meaning.

And eventually, the food gives the calendar a memory.

The food of celebration

Nigeria has a remarkable relationship with food and celebration.

At weddings, naming ceremonies, birthdays, church events and parties, certain foods seem to appear again and again.

Jollof rice is probably the most obvious example.

There is something about Nigerian party jollof that feels almost impossible to separate from celebration itself.

And I find the evolution of smoky jollof particularly interesting.

I remember a time when that smoky flavour was something I strongly associated with party jollof, the enormous pots cooked over fire, often outdoors, where the rice developed that distinctive smoky character.

Today, smoky jollof has become almost a benchmark.

You order jollof in a restaurant and, if it doesn’t have that flavour, you might hear someone say:

“They don’t know how to cook jollof.”

But that expectation didn’t exist in quite the same way everywhere.

A flavour associated with a particular way of cooking and a particular social setting gradually became something we began to expect from the dish itself.

That, to me, is food history.

Not just where an ingredient came from, but how the way we eat something changes over time.

Then there is owambe

I’ve not attended as many owambes as some people have, but the few I have experienced have made one thing very clear:

food is part of the ceremony.

In Lagos, amala can almost feel like an invited guest at the table.

And then there is Ofada rice.

For some people, Ofada is an everyday food. But for many of us, our strongest encounters with it have been at weddings, receptions, church events and other celebrations.

It became associated with the ceremonial table.

That distinction fascinates me.

Because a food doesn’t have to be inherently ceremonial to become ceremonial in our memories.

Sometimes, the occasion transforms the meaning of the food.

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Celebration of life

There is another side of Nigerian ceremony that I think about often: funerals, particularly what we might call celebrations of life for older people.

I’ve not attended an enormous number of burial ceremonies, but some of my strongest memories of good Nigerian food are connected to them.

Rice.

Swallows.

Egusi soup.

Big pots of food prepared for large numbers of people.

There is something about eating a really good plate of jollof or a deeply satisfying bowl of egusi at a celebration of someone’s life that stays with you.

It seems almost contradictory.

A ceremony born from grief can leave you with memories of extraordinary food, laughter, people gathering and stories being told.

But perhaps that isn’t contradictory at all.

Food is one of the ways we gather around one another. in joy, in grief and in everything between.

What makes a food ceremonial?

The more I think about it, the less I believe there is a simple answer.

Is it the dish itself?

Is it the amount of work required to prepare it?

Is it how expensive the ingredients are?

Is it the number of people it feeds?

Or is it simply that we have learned to associate that food with a particular occasion?

Jollof rice can be an ordinary weekday meal.

But put it in a giant pot at a wedding and suddenly it becomes party food.

Ofada can be an everyday meal for one person and a wedding-reception staple for another.

Amala can be lunch on an ordinary afternoon and part of a much larger social gathering on another day.

The food hasn’t necessarily changed.

The context has.

And context is one of the things that makes food culture so fascinating.

Maybe I became a chef because of all this

When I look back now, I don’t think my relationship with food began in culinary school.

It began much earlier.

It began with wedding cakes.

With being a little ring bearer for my aunties.

With Christmas jollof and New Year’s fried rice.

With my mother’s snail stew on Independence Day.

With Nigerian salad and Heinz Salad Cream.

With enormous pots of party jollof.

With amala at gatherings.

With Ofada rice at receptions.

With plates of rice and egusi at celebrations of life.

These were not lessons I knew I was learning.

But they taught me that food could mark a moment.

It could tell you where you were, who you were with, what was being celebrated and what would eventually become a memory.

Maybe I didn’t fall in love with food first.

Maybe I fell in love with what food made people feel.

And somewhere along the way, that became a career.

What did celebration taste like where you grew up?

I’m curious about this because I know my experience is only one small part of Nigeria’s food story.

What did weddings taste like in your home?

What did Christmas mean on your plate?

What food appeared at funerals, naming ceremonies, birthdays or festivals?

What was the dish that only came out when something important was happening?

I’d love to know what ceremonial food means where you come from.

I never really travel with a strict itinerary. More often than not, I allow people and stories to shape my journey. Sometimes that means changing plans at the last minute. Sometimes it means ending up in places I never imagined I’d visit. Kaduna was one of those places.

My trip to Kaduna happened almost by accident.

I met Rahama in Abuja, and during one of our conversations, she introduced me to a friend. Her friend later introduced me to a cousin after finding out I was a chef. They had asked if I knew anyone in Kaduna, and when I said no, they immediately replied, “You’d really love my cousin.”

That was it.

One introduction became another, and before I knew it, I had a contact in Kaduna.

To be honest, I was still very unsure about my movements. That’s simply how I travel. I know it probably makes me seem unserious to people who like everything planned out, but I’ve found that the most memorable experiences happen when I leave room for the unexpected.

And Kaduna proved me right.

The People Before the Ingredient

When I arrived, I met Sam, a chef whose respect for indigenous ingredients immediately caught my attention. We spoke for hours about food, local produce, and the importance of preserving our culinary heritage. Somewhere in that conversation he said, “I think you’d really enjoy meeting someone.”

That someone was Maria.

Maria is deeply interested in agriculture and food, and we clicked almost instantly. We talked endlessly about indigenous ingredients, cooked together, laughed together, and she even took me to harvest baobab leaves myself. There’s something incredibly satisfying about plucking ingredients straight from the tree before cooking with them. It reminds you that food exists long before it reaches the market.

Before I left, Maria handed me a bottle of oil.

“This is our olive oil,” she said.

That bottle was Atili oil.

Meeting Atili

The first thing that caught my attention was the fruit itself.

Bluish-purple in colour, Atili is often mistaken for ube (African pear) because they look similar at first glance. But they are entirely different fruits.

Known botanically as Canarium schweinfurthii, Atili—called Ube mgba in parts of Igboland ( hoping I didn’t butcher that spelling o ) is commonly found across Southern Kaduna and Plateau State, where it is harvested during the rainy season, usually between April and September.

The fruit has a rich, oily flesh with a slightly sweet, savoury flavour that genuinely reminded me of olives.

No wonder Maria called it “our olive.”

Bringing Kaduna Home

Since leaving Kaduna, that bottle has quietly become part of my daily routine.

Before Atili oil, I had been using baobab oil on my skin almost every day. A friend, JB, had given me a bottle months earlier, and I used every last drop.

Now Atili oil has taken its place.

I’ve been rubbing it on my skin religiously ever since Maria gave it to me. It has become one of those little rituals that remind me of a place long after I’ve left.

One morning, while making breakfast, I decided to cook my eggs with it instead of regular vegetable oil

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It worked beautifully.

Sometimes the best way to understand an ingredient is simply to live with it.

What I Learned

Naturally, I wanted to know more.

I discovered that the oily pulp of the fruit can be processed into both edible oil and a rich, buttery paste. Across many rural communities, different parts of the tree, including the bark, roots, leaves, fruits, seeds and flowers, have long been used in traditional medicine to manage ailments such as fever, malaria and constipation.

The fruit is also rich in naturally occurring phytochemicals and contains minerals such as potassium, calcium, magnesium, iron, zinc and copper, making it an ingredient with both culinary and cultural significance.

The more I read, the more I wondered why we don’t hear about it more often.

But What About the Smell?

When I shared Atili oil on Instagram, one of the first comments I received was about its smell.

Interestingly, I kept waiting to notice this strong smell everyone talked about.

I never really did.

To me, it has been pleasant and no more overpowering than many oils we use every day. Perhaps everyone experiences it differently, but after using it on my skin daily and cooking with it, I honestly don’t understand the criticism.

Maybe I’ll notice it one day.

Maybe I won’t.

More Than Just Another Oil

The more I travel across Nigeria, the more I’m convinced that we don’t have an ingredient problem.

We have a documentation problem.

Somewhere in Italy, olive oil is celebrated as heritage. In Morocco, argan oil has become recognised around the world. Yet here in Nigeria, we are surrounded by indigenous oils that rarely leave the communities where they are produced.

Atili oil is one of them.

So are palm kernel oil, shea butter oil and many others that deserve far more attention than they currently receive.

Perhaps the next generation won’t discover these ingredients through chance encounters like I did.

Perhaps they’ll read about them, cook with them, ask questions about them, and recognise them as an important part of our food heritage.

For me, Atili oil wasn’t just another ingredient.

It was another reminder that some of the most remarkable discoveries don’t begin with a plan.

They begin with people.

It was ewedu.

Like many Nigerians, I grew up knowing it only as that silky green soup served alongside amala, gbegiri, and stew ( typically Omi òbẹ̀ )to create the glorious harmony we call Abula. If you walk into most markets in southwestern Nigeria and ask for jute leaves, you’ll probably get a puzzled look. Ask for ewedu leaf instead, and every market woman knows exactly what you’re talking about.

For the longest time, I thought that was all there was to it.

Then I travelled across West Africa.

That trip completely changed the way I saw this humble leaf.

In Liberia, I found the very same plant transformed into palava sauce, a beloved national dish eaten with rice. Unlike in Nigeria, where ewedu is strongly associated with the southwest, palava sauce is enjoyed across Liberia. In fact, leafy vegetables especially potato greens and other root crop leaves hold a special place in Liberian cuisine.

That was the moment I realised something important.

This wasn’t just our ewedu.

It was a plant with many names, many stories, and many homes.

Scientifically known as Corchorus olitorius, jute leaves are also called jute mallow, Jew’s mallow, molokhia (mulukhiyah), saluyot, nalita, mloukheyeh, and many other names depending on where you are in the world.

Across West Africa alone, the names tell a fascinating story.

In Nigeria, we call it ewedu.

In Liberia, it’s the heart of palava sauce.

In Benin, it is known as ninnouwi.

In Cameroon, many people know it as lalo.

In Côte d’Ivoire, you’ll hear kplala.

Different languages.

Different traditions.

The same leaf.

And the journey doesn’t stop there.

In Zambia, the leaves are boiled into a sticky, mucilaginous sauce served with nshima. In Vietnam, known as rau đay, they are cooked into soups with shrimp. In the Philippines, saluyot finds its way into comforting soups like dinengdeng and bulanglang. Across Egypt, Sudan, and Palestine, mulukhiyah is one of the region’s most cherished dishes, while in Tunisia the dried leaves are cooked with beef or lamb into a rich stew.

One of the most surprising things I learned was that this same plant feeds people and clothes them.

While many of us know it only as a vegetable, the stems produce one of the world’s most important natural fibres: jute.

That fibre is used to make ropes, twine, sacks, carpet backing, yarn, and a variety of textiles. Interestingly, in many parts of Africa and the Middle East, the leaves are considered far more valuable than the fibre, while in other parts of the world the opposite is true.

One plant.

Two completely different purposes.

History also shows just how adaptable this plant can be. During the war in Gaza, dried jute leaves (molokhia) were reportedly used as a substitute for tobacco because cigarettes had become scarce and prohibitively expensive. It’s another reminder that plants often take on entirely new roles depending on circumstance.

Beyond its culinary importance, jute leaves are also highly nutritious. They contain iron, vitamin A, vitamin C, calcium, and a variety of antioxidants. Researchers have studied compounds in the leaves for their potential anti-inflammatory properties, although more research is still needed to understand their effects in people.

And yes, before anyone asks…

Does this mean eating amala and ewedu every week automatically sends inflammation packing?

Sadly, no. 😂

Good nutrition supports health, but no single food is a miracle cure.

Still, I find it fascinating that something I grew up thinking

of as “that soup for amala” turns out to be one of the most widely eaten leafy vegetables across Africa, the Middle East, and parts of Asia.

Sometimes we become so attached to the names we know that we forget our foods have travelled long before us.

Just as languages evolve across borders, so do ingredients.

The same leaf can be ewedu in Nigeria, palava sauce in Liberia, ninnouwi in Benin, lalo in Cameroon, or kplala in Côte d’Ivoire, yet it continues to nourish communities in remarkably similar ways.

Food has always been a bridge.

Sometimes all it takes is looking beyond the name to realise we’ve been sharing the same story all along.

On returning to Nigeria, I became increasingly interested in documenting our own coastal culinary traditions — the indigenous spices, preservation techniques, seafood culture, and the knowledge passed down through generations.

My previous time in Badagry had already opened my eyes to the richness of Nigeria’s coastal identity beyond the narratives it is often known for. A land famous for its coconuts, fresh palm wine, and dishes such as omi obe paired with ila and tuwo masara, Badagry reminded me that every coastline carries a unique culinary language waiting to be understood.

Since completing my West African journey, I knew I wanted to return to a Nigerian fishing community for a deeper residency. When the opportunity came to spend time at Lobster Beach House in Eleko, it felt like the perfect continuation of that journey.

One of my most memorable encounters was with Lawal, a fisherman who also serves as a boat engineer. Watching his routine changed my understanding of fishing. The work does not simply begin when the boat touches the water. Before sunrise, there are engines to inspect, nets to prepare, and systems to check.

By 7 a.m., the fishermen are already out at sea, returning hours later with the day’s catch. What fascinated me was the rhythm and discipline of this life — the ocean operates on time, and so do the people who depend on it.

The fish arrives fresh, passes through the hands of fishmongers, and quickly finds its way into local markets. Seeing fresh tuna once again brought me back to the Agona market in takoradi, Ghana, where I first encountered it during my travels. There was something profound about experiencing the same ocean’s bounty from two different points along the West African coast.

The smoked tuna, locally called poku poku, became one of my greatest inspirations in the kitchen.

My culinary response to this residency was not to reinvent these traditions but to engage in conversation with them.

I began with imoyo, a Yoruba fish stew that celebrates the relationship between seafood and local ingredients. While studying Ozoz Sokoh’s work in Chop Chop: Cooking the Food of Nigeria, I became interested in fish escabeche and its balance of acidity, texture, and preservation.

Rather than changing the dish entirely, I asked myself a question: How can I preserve its essence while allowing the flavours of this coastline to speak through it?

I introduced indigenous flavour systems through ingredients like uda for its smoky warmth, crayfish for depth, and flakes of smoked tuna to carry the memory of the ocean into every bite.

Alongside it, I prepared an efirin mango salsa, replacing parsley with the aromatic Nigerian basil. The result was bright, fresh, and deeply connected to place.

The escabeche was layered with pickled onions and Scotch bonnet peppers, creating a balance of acidity, sweetness, heat, and smoke. I paired the meal with steamed okra, an idea inspired by my time in Ghana, allowing different coastal experiences to speak to each other on one plate.

This residency reminded me that food is a record of movement — of oceans crossed, communities formed, ingredients exchanged, and knowledge preserved.

As I continue my journey as a chef and food archivist, my goal is not simply to create dishes, but to listen, document, and understand the people and traditions that make those dishes possible.

My gratitude goes to the fishermen who shared their world with me, to Lawal for allowing me to witness the discipline behind his craft, and to the team at Lobster Beach House for creating a space where this exploration could happen.

The Atlantic still has many stories to tell, and I look forward to listening

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It belongs to the ginger family just like cardamom, grains of paradise, and beyond its flavor, it is also known for its medicinal properties. It is believed to aid weight loss, regulate blood pressure, and because of this, it is commonly associated with libido enhancement and aphrodisiac use, especially among men in Nigerian society.

For many people, alligator pepper is not just food. It is medicine. It is ritual. It is sexuality. It is spirituality.

But that is not exactly what interests me the most.

What interests me is how a spice became spiritually charged in the minds of so many Nigerians.

My earliest memory of alligator pepper had nothing to do with cooking.

I was in junior high school. After classes, a group of boys gathered outside while playing and talking about what we called “jazz” a Nigerian term often used for spiritual practices or powers. Many people would translate it as black magic, but I personally do not like that term because it oversimplifies a much larger cultural and spiritual reality.

One of the boys picked up alligator pepper, some broomsticks, and a piece of cloth. He performed a strange trick that left the object suspended in a way that made all of us freeze in disbelief. Maybe it was simply a clever trick. Maybe it was something spiritual he had learned from somewhere. At that age, we could not tell the difference.

But from that moment onward, I unconsciously attached alligator pepper to spirituality.

Even as a chef years later, I realized I had never really separated the ingredient from that memory.

And I began to wonder: how many other Nigerians also carry this same subconscious association?

In many parts of Eastern Nigeria, particularly in Igbo culture, alligator pepper is served alongside kola nuts to welcome visitors. It appears during naming ceremonies, weddings, traditional rites, and cultural gatherings. It is ceremonial as much as it is culinary.

Among the Yoruba, it is known as Ataare.

In different communities, it exists as food, medicine, hospitality, prayer, protection, and symbolism all at once.

The seeds themselves are brown, slightly bitter, and faintly sweet. In cooking, they add warmth and complexity. But culturally, they seem to carry something heavier than flavor.

During my research, I noticed something interesting.

The moment you search for alligator pepper online, most of the results immediately focus on its “spiritual benefits.” Page after page speaks about cleansing, protection, rituals, manifestations, or supernatural uses before even discussing its culinary relevance.

And I began asking myself:

Why does this spice carry such intense spiritual identity?

This morning, I decided to buy some myself, partly out of curiosity and partly to understand my own relationship with it. But while asking around for it, I noticed something subtle. Some sellers who did not have it responded with an unusual seriousness or distance. Not hostility exactly, but a kind of caution.

It made me wonder if alligator pepper has become stigmatized in some way.

Not necessarily negatively, but symbolically.

Has culture pushed it so deeply into the spiritual realm that people sometimes forget it is also simply an ingredient? A spice? A flavor?

Or perhaps that is the beauty of it.

Maybe some foods were never meant to exist only inside kitchens.

Maybe ingredients like alligator pepper survive because they continue to live simultaneously in memory, ritual, fear, medicine, hospitality, and food.

And perhaps that complexity is exactly what makes it powerful.

Your favorite food archivist

Kwame

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I don’t remember the full story anymore, but that idea has stayed with me.

Now, as an adult, I think about it differently.

It feels like belief works the same way.

There isn’t just one road to God.

There are many. And somehow, they all make sense to the people walking them.

I’m not particularly religious. I don’t feel the need to belong to one system of belief. But I respect people who believe deeply in something. If anything, what I tend to take from people isn’t their religion, but their morals. Because if there’s one thing I’ve noticed, it’s that religion and morality don’t always move together. Some of the most religious people lack the very values their beliefs preach.

So for me, it has always been about understanding, observing, and taking what feels true.

Osogbo felt like a physical expression of that idea.

It’s not Lagos. Not in the sense of polish or pace.

But it doesn’t try to be.

There’s something honest about the city. It isn’t shy about its traditions, its beliefs, or the way people live within them. You hear it in the way people speak, see it in how they dress, and feel it in how present traditional practices still are in everyday life.

And then there’s the art.

The Osun Sacred Grove felt like a meeting point between spirituality and expression. Everything there felt intentional. Even the tour guide, you could tell he respected what he was a part of. And the people too. There’s a kind of pride in doing even the smallest things well.

But what stayed with me the most wasn’t just the place, it was the idea of feeding gods.

I find that fascinating.

How did we come to understand that certain deities have preferences?

That one has a sweet tooth, another rejects palm kernel oil completely, and some don’t even want to come close to it?

How do we know what a god likes? Who decided that?

Food, to me, has always been cultural.

Emotional. Personal.

But this felt different. This was food as offering. Food as language between humans and belief.

Take something as simple as dog. Some Nigerians eat it, some are completely against it, and some have never even encountered it as food. Yet for Ogun, it is one of the accepted sacrifices.

Or marine deities in parts of the Niger Delta being offered things like Fanta.

Fanta.

There’s something both strange and deeply meaningful about that. It raises questions about how tradition evolves, how modern elements enter ancient belief systems, and how people continue to negotiate meaning through what they offer.

And I think that’s where my curiosity is beginning to settle.

Not just in food as something we eat, but food as something we believe with.

There’s something here. Something I haven’t fully understood yet and happy to discover it

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Then, almost casually, the babaláwo’s assistant said, “It won’t be for him alone. The others will share in it too.”

That was the moment everything shifted.

I had come to observe ritual, but what stayed with me was something more familiar, something I recognized immediately, even outside of its spiritual context: sharing.

In that space, offerings were not isolated. Food given to Ògún could extend to Èṣù, and to Ọ̀ṣun. Not as an afterthought, but as a kind of quiet understanding, that what is prepared is rarely for one alone.

As someone who writes about food, I couldn’t ignore how structured it all was. These were not random offerings. There were rules, preferences, distinctions. Some deities accept palm oil; others do not. Some take gin. Some take eggs.

It made me pause and wonder—not provocatively, but sincerely—do the gods have taste?

Not in the literal sense, perhaps. But clearly, there is a language of preference, of selection, of what is appropriate and what is not. And that, in many ways, is not so different from how we think about food ourselves.

In Yoruba cosmology, certain deities are associated with particular forms of purity and restriction. Obatala, for instance, is often linked with whiteness and is said to avoid palm oil. Èṣù, often misunderstood, plays a different role entirely. He is not the devil, as he is frequently translated, but a messenger and intermediary. One who carries offerings between humans and the divine. Because of this, he is often given a portion first, a gesture that ensures balance and acknowledges his place within the system.

And even then, what is offered does not remain fixed. It moves. It is shared.

It also made me reconsider how easily traditional belief is dismissed. Practices that existed long before colonial influence are now often labeled “diabolical,” partly because they do not fit modern aesthetic expectations, and partly because translation has flattened their meaning. Èṣù, in particular, has suffered from this—reduced to something he is not, rather than understood for what he represents.

But standing there, none of it felt chaotic or sinister. It felt ordered. Intentional. Observant.

And it didn’t start at the shrine.

It started with the land.

We were shown different plants—leaves with specific purposes, each tied to use, to healing, to ritual. There was Ewegbẹ̀gbẹ̀, described as a “forgiveness leaf,” used in moments where reconciliation is needed. Another, Ewé Òjìjì, said to be used for conditions like high blood pressure and stroke.

Whether approached scientifically or spiritually, what struck me was this: nothing existed without purpose.

It reminded me that food does not begin in the kitchen. It begins long before that—in the soil, in the knowledge of what grows, in the understanding of how it is used.

Even the idea of ritual food follows this logic. It is not just about feeding—it is about meaning. About intention. About knowing what is given, and to whom.

What stayed with me the most, however, was that simple act of distribution.

You come with an offering meant for one, and yet it does not remain with one. It moves. It is shared. It acknowledges presence beyond a single point of focus.

And in that, it felt strangely familiar.

Because at its core, that is what a meal has always been.

Not just consumption—but connection.

Not just preparation—but participation.

In Ikise, I went expecting to witness something distant from my world as a food writer. Instead, I found something deeply connected to it.

A reminder that perhaps the act of sharing food—of extending it beyond oneself—is not something we invented.

It is something we inherited.

Even the gods, it seems, do not eat alone

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If you ever find yourself dining anywhere along the coast of West Africa from Nigeria down to Senegal and you don’t know what to order, I have a simple hack for you:

Order the catch of the day.

I say this because during my travels across West Africa, I realized that one of the best ways to really enjoy food from the coast is to trust the water. The catch of the day depends on what the ocean gives, and that alone makes it special.

For example, Atlantic mackerel is usually your best bet when you’re in Cape Coast, Ghana. But what really made this idea stick for me was my time in Senegal.

I remember sitting down on Ngor Island. The menu was mostly in French, and everyone around me seemed to know exactly what they were ordering. I didn’t. The only thing I could clearly recognize was “Catch of the Day.”

At that same moment, I saw a diver return from the water. He held the fish through its gills, fresh, still alive, and walked it straight to where they were going to prepare it. That was enough for me.

I ordered the catch of the day.

It took about 45 minutes. No rush. Just time. And when the food arrived, everything made sense. It was simple, fresh, and honest. It tasted like it had just left the ocean and found its way directly onto my plate.

Since then, it has been my go-to.

I remember telling a British couple I met at a hostel in Kokomlemle, Ghana, the same thing. They asked me what they should try, and without overthinking it, I told them: “Just look for the catch of the day.”

Because the beauty of it is that it can be anything. Fish, octopus, squid,

whatever the water decides. And if the restaurant stays true to it, that meal will always be as fresh as it gets.

So if you ever feel indecisive when you’re out eating, especially along the coast of West Africa, don’t overcomplicate it.

Ask for the catch of the day.

It’s simple. It works.

Danke.

If the food seller is rude, the food is probably really good.

You’ll see this a lot with amala spots. It’s almost a thing of pride. If you haven’t noticed it before, now you will. Some people even use it as a deciding factor like, “Yeah, this place must be good.”

And it’s funny because, in most cases, the seller isn’t rude in the harsh sense. It’s more like… they carry themselves with a certain pride. A sharpness. Their presence isn’t the most welcoming, but it commands something.

You’ll find it at parties too, those aunties serving food. No smiles, no extra conversation, just efficiency and a bit of attitude.

And somehow, they never beat the allegations.

The food is always sweet. Always.

At the end of the day, even if you’d rather pay for a better, more polite experience, your preference still leans toward good food over good manners. A few minutes of “rudeness” won’t ruin the way your taste buds dance later.

I know this might not be the case for everyone, but I’ll speak for the majority.

The other day, I was in Kokomlemle in Ghana. Right outside my hostel, there was this woman making zongo rice and stew, easily some of the best food my tongue has ever tasted.

I went there with two Nigerian friends who were visiting Ghana for the first time, so naturally, I was playing tour guide.

As we approached her stand, I giggled and whispered to them about that unspoken Nigerian rule - if the seller is rude, the food is good.

They laughed immediately. They got it.

My German friends didn’t understand at first, so I had to break it down in the simplest way possible. Eventually, they got it too.

But what made it even funnier was realizing—this wasn’t just a Nigerian thing.

Mawuli, my friend who lives in Ghana, confirmed it. He was like, “It’s true.”

So now we’re standing there, all of us, experiencing this in real time.

This woman was sharp. Not welcoming. Not trying to impress anyone.

And yet, nobody complained.

For the first time, I saw men in a queue, calm. No “Madam abeg do fast o.” No impatience. Everyone just waited their turn.

We were all… humbled.

She wasn’t begging for customers either. She didn’t need to. The food spoke for itself.

It was too good.

And somehow, none of us cared that she wasn’t approachable.

It really made me wonder:

Is this actually a thing?

Is there some kind of strange connection between attitude and taste? Or is it just something we’ve collectively agreed on over time?

Is it just Nigerian, or is it a West African thing… or even African at large?

I don’t know.

But I do know this,

If she’s a bit “rude”… I’m probably staying to eat

Let me know your thoughts.

After my second residency in the Western Region of Ghana, I found myself thinking more deeply about sustainability. Not just as a concept, but as a practice. Farming. Indigenous ingredients. The quiet knowledge that already exists within communities. It felt like everything I had been learning across my travels in West Africa was beginning to take shape.

After the fufu event in busua, I got connected to Meet Me There Eco Lodge in Dzita through a friend who thought I would fit into their ecosystem and that’s how I arrived here.

And honestly, it’s been one of the most grounding experiences I’ve had.

This place is built on intention. Sustainability here isn’t a buzzword it’s a way of life. Everything is considered. Everything has a cycle. From the kitchen to the land, there’s a quiet discipline about how things are done, and I found myself drawn into it

.

I’ve been working closely with the kitchen team—an incredible group of women who carry so much knowledge in how they cook, how they preserve, how they think about food. Being in that space reminded me that technique is one thing, but understanding your ingredients and where they come from, how they behave is something deeper.

Naturally, I began to experiment.

I started thinking about shea butter, not just as skincare, but as fat. As an ingredient that has existed long before imported butter and margarine became the default. What does it mean to return to something like that? What does it look like to use it intentionally in baking?

So I tried

.

Shea butter

Shea butter and coconut cookies. Something simple, something familiar but rooted differently. We made cinnamon rolls too, soft and warm, the kind that feels like comfort. And then I went even further into memory.

Beans pie.

Growing up in Nigeria, beans in different forms were constant, what Ghana calls red red, we might call beans porridge. So I wanted to reinterpret that experience. But this time, I pushed it through a different lens.

Fonio flour.

Fonio is gluten-free, delicate, and not the easiest to work with structurally. It doesn’t behave like wheat. It doesn’t hold the same way. So I had to meet it halfway - 80% fonio, 20% wheat flour. Still experimental. Still learning.

The result? Not perfect.

But that’s the point.

I’ve had to remind myself constantly that this isn’t about aesthetics. It’s about research. About asking questions. About seeing what is possible when we shift our perspective and return to what we already have.

Process over perfection.

Outside the kitchen, I’ve been giving myself space too, especially with swimming. One hour every day. Showing up, learning, failing, trying again. I want to be a great swimmer by the end of the year and also to help me become a better surfer, and this feels like the beginning of that commitment.

And then there are the people.

The guests I’ve met here have been curious, open, and kind. There’s always a moment of surprise when they meet a Black traveler moving this way, something I’ve come to understand, even if I’m still unpacking it. But those conversations have been meaningful. They remind me that presence alone can shift perception.

I also have to acknowledge the people who make this place what it is.

Irene, who leads the kitchen with so much clarity and knowledge. And dougal, whose vision goes beyond the lodge itself making sure the community is part of the story, not separate from it. There’s something powerful about seeing a system where local sourcing isn’t just encouraged but it’s the foundation.

Everything here comes from the village. The land provides, and the people sustain it.

Even something like shea butter becomes more than an ingredient, it becomes a statement. About proximity. About choosing what is available to you instead of relying on what is imported. About redefining value.

And I think that’s what this experience has really been about for me.

Not just cooking.

But unlearning. Relearning. Paying attention.

I don’t know where I’m heading next. But I know this, this moment, this place, this process matters.

And I’m grateful I got to be here

.

For someone like me — a Nigerian travel chef who has spent the past few years moving across West Africa cooking, learning, and observing, it felt poetic.

Fufu is one of the most common meals you will find in a Nigerian buka. Walk into almost any roadside eatery across the country and you will most likely find it. It is one of the few dishes that truly cuts across tribes. While certain foods are strongly tied to specific ethnic groups, fufu belongs to everyone. ( it’s like buhari’s famous speech which for some reasons has never left me - I belong to everybody, I belong to nobody )

In many ways, it might even be more universal than amala. Amala may dominate in some regions, but fufu is everywhere.

And that is exactly what fascinates me about it.

Because the deeper I traveled across West Africa, the more I realized something surprising: fufu was never just Nigerian.

Growing up, I genuinely thought it was.

When I first heard people in the diaspora from other African countries talk about fufu, I used to wonder if they were referring to the same Nigerian dish I knew. But traveling quickly corrected that assumption.

From Ghana to Côte d’Ivoire, from Guinea to several other parts of the region, fufu exists in different forms, textures, and traditions. It may change slightly depending on the country or the ingredients added, but the spirit of it remains the same.

It is deeply West African.

It is indigenous to this region.

And perhaps nothing represents West African food culture more clearly than a bowl of fufu shared with soup.

So serving it in Ghana, alongside the Ghana Food Movement on the country’s 69th Independence Day, felt incredibly symbolic.

The entire experience was beautifully curated in a buka style setting — simple, lively, and deeply familiar. As I served bowl after bowl, I couldn’t help but have iya basira by styl plus playing in my head. It felt like Lagos, Accra, and the entire West African street food culture had collided in one place.

It was chaotic in the best possible way, just like a real bukka.

The event was also special for another reason. It marked my return residency at Odo Valley, a place that has become an important part of my journey documenting food, farms, and indigenous ingredients across the region.

Everything seemed to connect in that moment — travel, cooking, storytelling, and culture.

More than anything, it reminded me that buka culture remains the foundation of everyday food in West Africa. Long before fine dining restaurants or modern culinary movements, these humble roadside kitchens have always fed the people.

They are where real food culture lives.

And seeing that spirit celebrated even on a national holiday — gave me hope that these traditions will continue to survive, evolve, and inspire the next generation of cooks.

Sometimes the most powerful food stories are not found in fancy restaurants.

Sometimes they are simply found in a bowl of fufu

There’s something about Busua that makes you want to create. The quiet rhythm of the coast, the openness of the space at Odo Valley — it pushes you to write more, cook more, and most importantly, teach. Teaching has become one of the most fulfilling parts of this journey for me. Every place I visit gives me something new to pass on.

One ingredient that has stayed with me through my travels is cassava leaf. In Nigeria, where I grew up, cassava is mostly about the tuber — the root that becomes garri, fufu, or tapioca. But across other parts of West Africa, the leaf carries its own deep significance. In Liberia, for instance, cassava leaf is more than just a vegetable; it is a comfort, a cultural marker. Mention cassava leaf to a Liberian and you’ll often see an immediate smile. People constantly told me during my travels, “Make sure you try the cassava leaf.”

That excitement stayed with me. Now I’m looking forward to teaching it here — but with my own perspective as well. Being plant-based certified means I’m always thinking about how African dishes can evolve without losing their identity. I’m particularly interested in creating a plant-based version of cassava leaf stew, not to replace the traditional one, but to expand the possibilities. African food deserves that diversity too. There should always be space for vegan and vegetarian variations so that more people can experience the flavors and stories behind these dishes

.

The timing of this stay is also interesting. Ghana’s Ghana Independence Day is around the corner, and Busua is preparing for the upcoming Asabako Music and Surf Festival. The town is already buzzing with activity — construction, banners going up, vendors preparing for crowds, and people arriving from Accra.

I’ve never really considered myself a festival person. But this one intrigues me. Maybe it’s the energy of the town or the anticipation of what happens when music, travel, and food meet in the same place. Wherever there is music, there is always good food and good drink close by. And that, of course, is where my curiosity lives.

For now, I’m simply happy to be back in Busua to learn more, to teach more, and to see what this second sermon has left to reveal.

But being here again and walking through Jamestown, standing by the coast, and old ruins from the slave era has reminded me of something powerful.

Ghanaian food is not just sustenance. It is history. It is migration. It is survival.

And today, I want to begin with kenkey.

An Acquired Taste

Kenkey is not a food that tries to impress you.

It is fermented corn dough might be humble, dense, slightly sour, deeply rooted. For many who didn’t grow up within the culture, it can be an acquired taste. The sourness lingers. The texture is firm. It doesn’t immediately comfort the unfamiliar tongue.

But that is the thing about heritage foods, they are not designed for performance. They are designed for continuity.

Two Coastal Stories: Ga and Fante

In Jamestown, I learned more intentionally about the two major variations:

Ga Kenkey

Associated with the Ga people of Ghana, Ga kenkey is wrapped in corn husks and steamed for hours. It is denser, slightly more sour, and holds its shape firmly. It is often eaten with hot pepper known locally as shito — alongside fish, crayfish, avocado, you name it.

Fante Kenkey

The Fante people, predominantly from Ghana’s Central and Western coastal regions, prepare theirs slightly differently. Fante kenkey is wrapped in dried plantain leaves and steamed for several hours. It is generally softer and milder in texture compared to the Ga version.

Both are fermented. Both are coastal. Both carry history.

And yet they are distinct shaped by geography, tribe, migration, and time.

Fermentation as Preservation

Fermentation is one of humanity’s oldest technologies.

Before refrigeration, before industrial preservation, fermentation was survival. Corn was soaked, milled, left to sour, partially cooked, wrapped, and steamed. What we now call kenkey is part of that long chain of indigenous knowledge food science practiced without laboratories.

When you eat kenkey, you are tasting time.

Migration and Oral History

There are oral traditions suggesting that the Ga people migrated from regions around present-day Nigeria before settling along the coast of what is now Accra. Like many African histories, these narratives are layered and sometimes debated, but they remind us that movement has always shaped identity.

Migration did not begin with colonial borders.

It predates them.

And food travels with people.

Slavery and the Coast

Standing in Jamestown, it is impossible not to think about the Atlantic.

These same coasts once witnessed unimaginable departures. The transatlantic slave trade reshaped demographics, cultures, and foodways across continents. Ingredients moved. Techniques adapted. Dishes transformed.

The story of kenkey exists alongside that larger history and a reminder that West African food traditions endured, even when people were violently displaced.

Ice Kenkey and Evolution

There is also ice kenkey, a blended version, mashed and mixed with milk, sugar, and groundnuts. I didn’t get to try it this time, but even that evolution tells a story: tradition adapting to modern taste and urban rhythm.

Food does not stay still.

Why This Matters

We were born generations removed from the ships and the chains. Perhaps that distance makes history feel optional.

But food remembers what textbooks sometimes forget.

To document kenkey is not simply to describe fermented corn dough. It is to archive migration, colonization, resistance, adaptation, and survival.

As a food archivist traveling through West Africa, I am beginning to understand that culture is not loud, it is layered.

And this is only Part I.

There is still so much to taste.

So much to question.

So much to unlearn.

And so much more to remember.

It’s a dangerous thing to say because earlier this year, I said the same thing about Tanya. And every time I say it, I mean it.

But that’s the same way I feel about jollof rice.

I grew up on Nigerian jollof, and for the longest time, that was my only understanding of it. Until I tasted Ghanaian jollof and preached about it like a convert. Then I learned how to cook thieboudienne in Senegal, and something shifted again.

Suddenly, I wasn’t choosing sides.

I wasn’t comparing anymore.

I was understanding.

Naija. Ghana. Senegal.

Similar foundations. Different journeys. None less worthy.

That’s Natachi.

And that’s Tanya.

It was my last day in Dakar. I was supposed to go to the beach I wanted to make sure I had the best of it before leaving. I knew Natachi was still in the city, and I felt we had to meet, even if it was briefly. For some reason, she had postponed her flight a couple of times. I can’t lie, it felt divinely aligned.

We met at Loman Art in Ouakam, an art gallery and creative space holding so much expression within its walls. It felt like the perfect place to meet someone like her. Creative. Observant. Intentional.

She felt familiar, very familiar. Like someone I could have grown up with. Our interests were so similar that my inner child felt free around her. I couldn’t stop talking.

From there, we took a boat to Ngor Island to meet Marian and Isa, two people I had also met in Dakar and shared beautiful moments with. The Atlantic air was soft, and we had some of the best fish by the beach. Simple. Fresh. Honest.

Maybe that’s why the conversations felt the way they did

.

She’s very close to being a natural mystic like me. The kind of person who doesn’t ask surface questions. She asks the ones that make you pause. The ones that gently open doors you didn’t know were locked.

There’s a Japanese proverb that says we all have three faces:

The one we show the world.

The one we show our friends and family.

And the one only we know.

When Bob Marley said you can run from everything but you can’t run from yourself, I think he meant that third face.

That’s the face I showed her.

And she saw me.

Not in a dramatic way. Not in a therapy-session way. Just in a human way.

She brought out her camera often. Not performative at all. In my head, I understood it. I’m the same way, I don’t ever want to lose the moment. I want to remember.

She’s free. You can tell. She doesn’t exist for anyone but herself.

And I saw her too.

I love Tanya.

I love my new friend Natachi.

And I love jollof, all of it.

Because at the end of the day, it was never about the jollof.

You can love both ways and still be free

Because you realization that appreciation doesn’t require comparison.

Back when Sundays meant visiting my elder aunt’s house, the one with the quiet living room and my uncle’s carefully stacked newspapers. I lived with my aunt through most of my teenage years, and every Sunday, without fail, we went there after church. That house is where I learned how to read newspapers properly, not because I was told to, but because there were always so many of them lying around.

While I read, my aunties would gist.

They laughed loudly, interrupted each other mid-sentence, and almost always had a bottle of beer in their hands, Harp or Star. Never drunk. Just happy. Relaxed. Present. Beer didn’t make them reckless; it softened them. It opened space for jokes, for stories, for ease.

Looking back now, I realize how normal it felt then and how strange it’s considered now.

There’s a particular discomfort people seem to have with women who drink beer. I’ve heard it said casually, many times: “Fine babe like this, why are you drinking beer?” As if beer has a gender. As if enjoyment needs permission.

Much later in university, there was a girl named Oge. On Instagram, her handle was something like Oge Drinks Beer. She was unapologetic about it, and I remember how striking that felt at the time. She might not even know it, but she made me think again about my aunties and about my mother.

My mum loved small stout. Not excessively. Not secretly. She just liked it. And when my mum was drinking stout, she was usually happy. That was the best time to ask her for anything. I’d say, “Mommy, I want malt,” and she’d laugh and hand me one while she held her bottle. Those moments felt warm. Safe.

Even my grandfather drank Star lager beer. Which, if I’m honest, probably explains why I like beer so much today. Not in a reckless way but in a cultural way. Beer was always around joy, conversation, family.

Now, when I travel across West Africa, one of the first things I want to try is the local beer. Not to get drunk, but to understand a place. Beer, to me, is communal. Ceremonial. It shows up when people are celebrating, resting, or simply being together.

That’s why I find it strange how women are shamed for it.

In Southern Nigeria especially, women drink beer, gin, palm wine, and other spirits openly. It has always been part of the culture. So when did it become something to apologize for? When did a woman enjoying a drink become a moral issue?

I’ve known other women like Anita, cool, confident, unapologetic beer drinkers. Sometimes when I think of beer, I think of her. Not because of alcohol itself, but because of what it represents: ease, confidence, freedom.

Of course, moderation matters. Too much of anything can be harmful. Health is a valid conversation. But shame isn’t. Especially when we ignore the fact that people consume far stronger substances without the same judgment while women are policed over a bottle of beer.

Beer is a beverage. But it’s also memory. Laughter. Family. Sundays. Aunties joking while I read newspapers.

And maybe that’s what bothers people not the drink, but the freedom attached to it.

But one word stood out to me: Agbo

Agbo, in Yoruba, simply means medicine. Roots. Leaves. For healing

That word pulled me straight back into my childhood.

Growing up, my mum had a plant she used to treat almost everything. We called it Hospital too far, a funny name, really. It wasn’t until I became an adult that I learned its actual botanical name. (Jatropha tanjorensis) its a medicinal leafy vegetable, also known as Chaya, Ugu Oyibo (Igbos), or Efo Iyana-Ipaja (Yorubas) Back then, all we knew was that if you had a fever, that plant was coming out.

She’d pluck the leaves, boil them with other roots and herbs, then cover us with many clothes (I mean we didn’t have the luxury of thick blankets back then) while the steam rose from the pot. You’d sweat. Properly. The idea was simple: sweat the fever out. Sometimes we drank the water too. Other times, it was just the steam. Either way, it worked.

That was medicine.

Years later, while I was in Monrovia, Liberia, something clicked for me again. I realised they had their own version of this knowledge. What we call scent leaf in Nigeria is called fever leaf there and the name alone tells you how seriously it’s taken.

Liberia made me see food differently.

Leaves aren’t just ingredients there; they’re treatment. Cassava leaves something we barely eat in Nigeria are a full-blown delicacy. Everywhere you go, people ask, “Have you eaten cassava leaf?” It’s not just a meal, it’s tradition. Ritual. Pride.

One day, I mentioned to an aunty that I’d been backpacking for a while and felt like my body needed a reset. Without hesitation, she said, “Moringa.” Take it early in the morning until you go back to Lagos. And when you get back to Lagos you can continue taking it. It clean your system.

This wasn’t internet wellness talk. She’s a certified herbalist and also Tanya’s aunty, someone rooted in lived knowledge, not trends.

It made me wonder: when did we stop seeing our plants as medicine and start seeing them as just plants?

Travel reminded me that food has always done more than fill us up. It has healed us. Balanced us. Carried knowledge from one generation to the next quietly.

As you read this, I’d love to know:

Which plants, leaves, or remedies did you grow up with that you never really thought of as medicine?

And which ones do you want to learn more about now?

I had nowhere to go. I needed extra dollars. And I needed rest.

Dominique, a friend recommended by a friend had mentioned her cousin Tanya. “She can show you around Liberia,” she said. Then I found out tanya had an Airbnb.

Perfect, saves me the hassle of looking elsewhere and it fell within my budget,

I planned to stay two nights before heading to Robertsport. Just enough time to reset. But plans, I’ve learned, are fragile things when hospitality enters the room. I ended up staying three nights. And honestly, I wanted to stay longer.

Tanya is a lovely host, but not in the predictable way. Yes, she invited me to dinner. Yes, she made the most amazing bissap. Yes, she made me tea from scratch. But what struck me most was something that doesn’t always happen on the road.

She loved music the way I do.

People who know me personally know I have a deep relationship with music especially African sounds. I don’t just listen to songs; I listen to instruments. I listen to how things are arranged. Tanya does the same. When she casually mentioned that she had a band, I stopped her immediately.

“You have a band?”

Yes. She sings. And she sings well. She understands instruments. She understands sound. And suddenly it made sense, her palate, her instincts, the way she moved in the kitchen. There’s a rhythm to it. A depth. I told her that her palate was deep, maybe not the perfect word, but the closest I could find.

That evening, while we were cooking cassava leaf, she told me she’s currently writing a book. A cookbook. She showed me one of the recipes she had written out, and something clicked for me as a food writer. This is how recipes should be written.

We printed it out and decided to follow it exactly.

I was meant to be the sous chef that night, just learning. Somewhere along the way, she quietly made me the head chef, and she became my sous. We cooked together, reading the recipe line by line, adjusting as we went. “Maybe this needs more time.” “Maybe the balance is slightly off.” It was living, breathing food writing corrections happening in real time. It felt like an introductory to food writing for me, even though I had written a recipe before, this felt more practical.

Earlier that day, I had gone to the market with a Liberian auntie. We made the cassava leaf completely from scratch. I learned things I didn’t expect like peanut butter being used as both a thickener and a subtle sweetener. The layers amazed me: the Maggi, the peanut butter, the cassava leaf itself, and the protein that follows , the patience it takes to let it soften properly, and of course, the palm oil. Liberians don’t play with palm oil.

We ate it with rice. It was rich. Corrected at the end. And deeply satisfying. I was proud not just of the dish, but of the process. It remains one of my favorite food experiences on this journey so far.

But what stayed with me the most happened the next morning.

Tanya served me coffee. I’m usually a tea person, but that morning she asked, “Do you want coffee?” and I said yes. Alongside it was cornbread.

And my God.

I watched her make it from scratch. The smell filled the hallway leading to my room, warm, comforting, impossible to ignore. Tanya is not a chef by profession. She just loves cooking. And maybe that’s why her hands feel gifted. The cornbread was perfect. Balanced. And even writing this I can still taste it.

It is, without exaggeration, the best cornbread I’ve ever had in my life.

She made me take an extra piece. I was very happy. It made my morning. I took a photo of it because I needed proof, evidence that this moment existed. I told her, “Tanya, this cornbread is special.’’

I hope she gives me the recipe one day.

Until then, I’ll say this with my full chest: everyone deserves to try Tanya’s cornbread at least once in their life. Not just for the taste, but for what it represents.

The hand of Liberian hospitality.

In Nigeria, we call it ogogoro.

Different names, same soul.

My first real encounter with akpeteshie in Ghana felt strangely familiar like meeting a relative you’ve never met, but somehow already know. And in that moment, I was reminded again just how deeply similar Nigerian and Ghanaian cultures truly are, far beyond food and drink.

Growing up in southern Nigeria, ogogoro wasn’t just alcohol. It was ceremony. It was tradition. It was ritual.

I associated it with traditional weddings, burial rites, naming ceremonies, and moments where the living reached out to the spiritual. It was poured as libation, offered to the ancestors, used to appease the gods. It belonged mostly to elders, uncles, village chiefs, men in their forties and above. As children, we didn’t see it as something casual or recreational. It was sacred. Serious. Almost untouchable.

Ogogoro wasn’t something you drank for pleasure it was something you respected.

It wasn’t until I grew older that my perception shifted. I began to realize that beyond ritual, there were other ways to enjoy it , ways that felt lighter, more social, more modern. Cocktails. Infusions. Refreshing blends. Yet, no matter how it’s consumed, the story behind it remains powerful.

Because ogogoro, and akpeteshie, both begin the same way: from the palm tree

Palm wine is tapped fresh, then left to ferment sometimes for weeks, sometimes over a month. What follows is one of the most fascinating natural processes: distillation.

The fermented liquid is gently heated in large drums. As the temperature rises, alcohol evaporates first, traveling through metal pipes into cooling tubes, where it condenses and returns into liquid form. What comes out is a clear, potent spirit, bold, fiery, and unapologetically strong.

Depending on how many times it’s distilled once, twice, or even three times the alcohol content can rise significantly. But beyond strength, what flows out of those pipes is something deeper: generations of craftsmanship, knowledge, and survival.

From palm tree to bottle, this is history in liquid form

Watching this same process in Ghana, in the making of akpeteshie, felt surreal. The tools, the techniques, the patience, the community all mirrored what I had grown up seeing in Nigeria. Different language. Different accents. Same wisdom. Same rhythm. Same ancestral science.

It reminded me that before colonial borders, before passports and visas, we were one continuous cultural space.

And it makes you wonder what if these traditions were properly structured, protected, and elevated? What if the right policies, packaging, and export systems existed? The economic potential is enormous. Entire communities could thrive. Indigenous knowledge could be preserved. African craftsmanship could finally receive global recognition not as novelty, but as mastery.

Because Africans, especially West Africans, have always known how to create magic with their hands

What moves me most is seeing how deeply connected we are Nigerians, Ghanaians, and so many others across West Africa doing the same things, telling the same stories, simply calling them by different names.

I love discovering these parallels.

I love tracing culture across borders.

And I love being African.

You can watch videos, read threads, argue in comment sections but until you’re there, until you taste it, smell it, touch it, you don’t really know. There are no shortcuts to heaven.

A lot of Nigerians believe Ghanaian food is “not it.” Mostly because of how it looks. I’ve heard people say things like “this looks like sacrifice.” It’s not the nicest thing to say, but it’s something I’ve genuinely heard more than once.

But being here, eating the food, experiencing it properly I can confidently say Ghanaian food is some of the best I’ve ever had.

You really don’t know until you experience it.

Even something as simple and controversial as jollof rice. From the presentation to the method, the intentionality is obvious. You can tell there’s care in how it’s prepared. And I’m not putting down Nigerian jollof at all. I grew up on it. I love it. I respect it deeply. But Ghanaian jollof also deserves its audience. There’s a quiet confidence in it.

I had fufu and palm nut soup that genuinely surprised me. The sides alone from steamed garden egg for the first time, steamed okra served whole, not grated. You tear a piece of okra, scoop your soup, eat with your hands. You deserve your taste with the pinch of your fingers.

The soup was served in an asanka, the traditional Ghanaian earthen pot — and that detail stayed with me. I liked that. I liked how the different flavors didn’t rush you; they arrived one after the other especially with the ginger. Subtle in its own way

I also noticed something else: Ghanaians serve big portions. Like, you will eat. Properly. No pretending.

Koose too, which Nigerians would call akara , I had it at Nima Market with koko. My friend Fifi told me it’s mostly a breakfast thing, and immediately it made sense. It gave the comfort of Nigerian pap, with a hint of kunu. Then I found out koko is millet-based, and that clicked even more

.

And waakye?

What a meal.

The serving.

The portion.

The colours on the plate.

The vegetables on the side.

The fried meat — the way we’d serve it at Odo Valley.

Everything just taps. Everything makes sense.

So far, I really love Ghanaian cuisine. And I’m very open to experiencing more of it. Because food, like life, can’t be judged from afar.

You have to show up.

You have to taste it.

There are no shortcuts to heaven.

It was hibiscus. (Sobolo/ Zobo/ Bissap)

Deep red. Slightly sharp. Comforting in a way I didn’t expect. Where at odo valley , grace (kitchen staff) flavors them with passion fruit from the garden.

Back home in Nigeria, we call it zobo.

In Francophone Africa, it’s bissap.

Different names, same plant, same colour bleeding into memory.

It’s funny how something so ordinary can suddenly feel new when it shows up in a different place

.

I’ve been drinking hibiscus for as long as I can remember. My mum made it her own way we even sold it at some point. At school, we made it our own way too - sometimes too sweet, sometimes too watery, always experimental. Everyone has a version. Everyone swears theirs is the best too.

Here at Odo Valley, hibiscus is everywhere. It’s the first thing you’re offered — sometimes even before water. And somehow, without thinking about it, it became my go-to. Morning, afternoon, evening. At some point I realised I was drinking it the way people drink water.

I joked to myself that I might be high on hibiscus, but maybe that’s not entirely a joke.

There’s something grounding about it. Something familiar that settles you into a place that is still unfamiliar. Each cup feels like a small bridge between where I come from and where I am, between childhood and now, between Nigeria and Ghana.

It reminded me of jollof rice.

Not the argument, but the obsession with difference.

We spend so much time trying to separate Nigerian jollof from Ghanaian jollof, drawing lines, choosing sides, defending recipes.

Jollof is always the headline. The loudest example.

But hibiscus doesn’t argue.

Zobo doesn’t compete with bissap or Sobolo

It just exists shared, adapted, renamed, but fundamentally the same.

And that’s what struck me: how many other things like this we share that don’t get the same attention? Drinks, ingredients, techniques, ways of eating, ways of gathering. Quiet similarities that don’t trend, don’t go viral, don’t need defending.

Residencies have a way of sharpening your attention. You start noticing small repetitions, what you reach for without thinking, what comforts you, what becomes routine. For me, here, that thing has been hibiscus.

A drink I’ve known all my life, showing up again in a different country, reminding me that borders don’t really stop culture, they just rename it.

Maybe that’s what this week has been teaching me.

That beyond the big conversations and the loud debates, there are these softer connections and sometimes, they taste like zobo. Or bissap.

Either way, it’s STILL hibiscus.