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

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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.

Arriving Busua feels different.

Here, the energy softens. The pace slows. Peace becomes almost tangible. I noticed a large number of foreigners, particularly Germans — so much so that it briefly felt like a former German colony. Whether or not that history exists is something I intend to explore more deeply.

Busua is also part of Ahanta western Ghana, and there’s a strong sense of community here. My stay places me in the middle of the forest , my tower surrounded by trees, birds, and one with nature

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At Odo Valley, the women cook daily. Proper, indigenous Ghanaian food. Grounded food. Thoughtful food. I had learnt how to pound Ghanaian fufu with one of the ladies. I didn’t know Ghanaians add unripe plantain to their fufu, the starch level is different and even the color, also boiled local garden eggs added as a side to your dish is such a cool idea, the different texture and taste it gives the food and what a great substitute for vegan protein that would be , I’d assume.

I’ve had some of the best waakye here at odo valley. I’ve eaten Ghanaian Jollof and also made it with them and as someone who has lived his entire life around the Nigerian version, this felt important to reflect on.

Nigerians and Ghanaians often treat Jollof like a competition, but I don’t believe one is better than the other. They are simply different. There are moments when I crave Ghanaian Jollof, and moments when only Nigerian Jollof will do. Both deserve respect, and both carry their own logic, technique.

During conversations with JB, I’ve also been learning about soil — indigenous soil, ecosystems, manure cycles, and how everything eventually returns to the earth. JB, the owner of Odo Valley, shared an example about the Cognac region in France: how geography, regulation, and intention turned a local product into global wealth.

It made me think about Nigeria.

Why haven’t we done the same with Ogogoro or Kai Kai, as it’s called in the Niger Delta? Distilled palm wine, powerful and deeply cultural. Why haven’t we named, protected, refined, and valued it the way Champagne or Cognac is valued? Nigerians already spend billions consuming foreign spirits. The potential is there in our soil, our drinks, our food systems even if governance and infrastructure haven’t caught up.

I’ll write more about this.

For now, I’m grateful to be at Odo Valley. It’s a place that aligns deeply with how I like to travel, slowly, thoughtfully, through food, people, and land. I’ll be sharing more from this residency in the coming days.

I met Tomisin on a Sunday morning, at his mum’s buka.

It was surprisingly open that day. The mechanic workshop it sits beside didn’t open, even though that workshop brings in almost eighty percent of their customers.

I’ve learned to trust food that lives close to mechanic workshops. In my mind, mechanic workshops are the new Michelin stars. If a place can feed people who work with oil-stained hands, metal cuts, and heat all day, then the food is doing something right.

That’s part of what I’m documenting.

This buka didn’t need to be fancy in any way. The roof was made of carton. No ceiling fan. The only form of ventilation came from a wooden window and the entrance door. Still, it was airy. I decided to eat my breakfast there, so I sat in and observed. Whilst Tomisin tries to connect the small solar nothing more than 15 inches solar power to the fan to power it up. I was having hot rice and my bald head sweating.

It was a small kiosk. Yoruba Cherubim worship music played softly in the background, and Tomisin sang along as he worked. There were a few benches and a plastic chair at the checkpoint. Hanging there was a sling bag, serving as a purse and change bag, holding notes usually dirty from the palms of mechanics. I mostly do transfers when I’m there — not for any reason other than the fact that I hardly carry cash.

There was a pot that had clearly known years. Coolers too. I asked Tomisin how long the rice could stay warm inside the cooler. He said up to eight hours. That impressed me. But he added that they usually sell out before then, so technically the rice stays warm until it’s finished.

When I first saw Tomisin, I knew immediately he wasn’t one of the mechanics. It wasn’t the clothes — it was the way he stood. He moved like someone who belonged to the kitchen but didn’t fully own it. Later, I found out he was helping his mum.

We spoke casually. The kind of conversation you have when you’re not trying to extract anything from anyone.

Almost without thinking, I asked him,

“Can you cook?”

He smiled, shook his head slightly, and said,

“I can’t cook. But I can make Ila.”

He said it plainly. No apology. Just a statement.

I asked what else.

“Ila and obe. And ome obe.”

That was it.

In that moment, the sentence stayed with me. I knew I needed to write about it.

I can’t cook, but I can make Ila.

In a country like Nigeria, that sentence makes perfect sense.

It’s such a Nigerian thing to say. I know people who don’t enter the kitchen, don’t like cooking, or don’t know how to cook broadly — but they have that one star dish. If they make it for you, you won’t find anyone better elsewhere.

One of my friends from way back, Obiora, doesn’t cook at all. But he makes the best beans I’ve ever had till date. No recipe. Just eyeballing. He never misses.

Tomisin wasn’t saying he couldn’t cook.

He was saying he knew one thing well.

That idea followed me home.

I started thinking about the malams who sell noodles from kiosks. Not chefs. Not cooks. But their noodles? Perfect every time. The water ratio. The seasoning. The way they crack the egg. They might not touch stew, rice, or soup but that one thing, they own it.

I thought about the women who fry noodles on street corners. Same pan. Same oil. Same rhythm. They might not cook the best egusi or bitterleaf soup in real life, but when it comes to noodles, you’ll wait.

This is a very Nigerian thing.

We don’t always value range.

We value reliability.

We are surrounded by people who are not cooks, but have a dish. One thing they can do in their sleep. One thing repetition has turned into instinct. No recipes. No theory. Just memory and muscle.

Another example is how chicken republic are known for their chickwizz

Or Mr bigg’s for their meat pie

Or sizzlers or mat ice for their ice cream

The power of one.

It made me rethink what we mean when we say, “I can’t cook.”

Often, it just means:

I don’t cook everything.

It’s all about belonging.

Tomisin stands inside that system quietly. Helping his mum. Making Ila. Helping with sales. Knowing exactly where he belongs.

I don’t know if he’ll ever say he can cook.

Maybe he won’t need to.

Because in that kitchen, beside that workshop, in that small radius of heat and labour, knowing how to make Ila is already enough.

And maybe that’s the real lesson.

Not everyone needs a menu.

Sometimes, one dish is a whole language.

She trusted only one mechanic.

That mechanic was in Benin.

But the thing is, we don’t live in benin, we lived in Warri.

My aunt was a nurse. She didn’t have the luxury of time or patience for trial and error. If something was wrong with the car, it wasn’t a guessing game. So I would drive it to Benin, wait while it was fixed, and most times return the same day. Back then, the road was better,

Come to think of it now, maybe that’s what birth my deep love for cars, anyways let me not digress.

For my aunt distance didn’t matter. Trust did.

While the car was being worked on, I’ll have to wait. I’ll watched people come and go. I observed which cars visited the mechanic the most , I admired how they could be so proud especially if you’re the expert in that particular field like the electrical guy or panel beaters that are super skilled, once you’re good, you must get cars waiting for you like a guy waits patiently for his trusted barber no matter how long he takes. For my non-male readers Thats one of the few times men exercise patience , I know this even tho I’m bald now.

At the mechanic workshop in benin ,They sold santana there. In Benin they call fufu ‘santana’ I still don’t know why it was called that, and I’ll probably come back to that story someday. What I remember clearly was the egusi. Thick. Heavy. Serious.

It tasted like the kind of egusi they serve at burial ceremonies.

That might sound strange, but if you’ve eaten burial food before, you understand what I mean. It’s not casual food. It’s cooked with intention. Cooked to feed people properly. Maybe that memory became my benchmark for richness, so I might be biased but it was always good.

Not surprisingly good.

Just… consistently good.

Much later, when my aunt finally found a mechanic she trusted in Warri, the pattern repeated itself. The food spot around the workshop was solid. I think it was white rice they sold. And onion stew, even though I’e never liked onions that stew banged

The first car i got in Lagos, my cousin introduced me to the workshop that would be handling the car for oil change and regular servicing. Same thing again. The food around that place? Magical.

Even Surulere restuarant in Abeokuta, which I’d love to argue as the best amala spot in Nigeria, this is not your amoke oge or amala sky, this is mechanic standard amala spot.

Anyways,

Over time, I started noticing something.

From when I was a teenager to now that I’m in my 30s, across different cities, different cars, different phases of my life, I’m yet to see a mechanic workshop where the food sold around it isn’t good.

Not once.

And I think I know why.

Mechanics eat well.

They don’t eat like broke men. Anyone who has spent time around a workshop knows this. The work is tasking - physically and mentally. Long hours. Heat. Oil. Noise. Focus.

They rate food.

They spend money on food.

So if you want to sell food near a mechanic workshop, your food has to be good. Not aesthetic. Not Instagram-friendly.

It has to hold up.

If you cannot cook, you cannot survive there.

If you can’t survive there, you leave.

Nobody puts up signs. Nobody writes reviews. There are no stars on the wall. No certificates. No brand story.

But somehow, some food spots stay. Some disappear. Some are always full. Some mechanics won’t eat anywhere else.

Reputation travels quietly. One bad plate and you’re done. Consistency is everything.

That’s when it clicked for me.

This is exactly what Michelin is supposed to be about.

Michelin stars are built on trust, consistency, skill, and the fear of losing your name. You don’t take your car to just anyone. You don’t eat from just anyone. And the food around mechanic workshops has already passed the hardest test — hungry, tired people paying with their own money, every single day.

That’s not easy.

When we talk about buka, I don’t mean the rebranded version we like to call “local bistros” now. I mean real buka. Food made for people who work. Food that doesn’t explain itself.

I’ve always felt that this kind of buka culture grew around places like mechanic workshops — places of labour, waiting, routine, and community. Food had to be good because people depended on it. No storytelling. Just results.

I didn’t go to Benin because of the food.

I went because my aunt trusted one mechanic.

The food was just there, doing its job properly, every single time.

And maybe that’s the irony.

Some of the highest standards we have don’t come with packaging, air-conditioning, or validation. They exist quietly. They feed people well. They earn trust slowly.

This is the real Nigerian Michelin star rating

Happy new year guys!

Happy survival!

It’s something I heard a lot in Igbudu market, the first place I was properly introduced to thrifted clothes. That was where we found the coolest kicks, proper denim, authentic sportswear, I had this original Arsenal jersey from there one time it was an original stadium fit.

It means:

why are you going to the boutique to buy shiny nonsense, when the original thing is right here?

The irony is that the thing they’re selling is often better quality. Stronger fabric. Proper stitching. It’s just fairly used. No packaging. No air-conditioning. No brand story attached to it.

Yet many of us will still walk past it, enter the boutique, and pay more for something new that looks good but doesn’t last. Sometimes it’s not even original. Just louder. I’ll give you an example it’s like people buying audemar piquet and rolex for 500k naira in Nigeria, oh or better still it’s like getting a fake adidas from an IG vendor that claims to sell their sambas for 100k which is oblivious fake than get a bit worn out original from thrift for way cheaper.

That saying has been sitting with me for a while now, because I’ve realised it doesn’t just apply to clothes.

It applies to how we eat.

Take palm oil, for example.

Palm oil built empires. Literally. British industrial growth depended heavily on it — for soap, candles, lubricants, food production. When I travelled through Calabar and learned more about how palm oil was extracted and shipped out in massive quantities, one thing became clear: this oil was never useless. It was never inferior. It was valuable enough to be taken, refined elsewhere, and sold back to the world.

Yet somehow, somewhere along the line, we were taught to be ashamed of it.

Palm oil became “dirty.”

Palm oil became “unhealthy.”

Palm oil became the oil you should replace — with something imported, lighter in colour, more foreign in name.

But let’s slow down.

Palm oil is plant-based. It contains no dietary cholesterol. It has a high smoke point, which makes it excellent for frying and sautéing. Traditional, unrefined red palm oil contains antioxidants like carotenoids and forms of vitamin E. Some studies even suggest these compounds may help reduce inflammation and support brain health. No, it’s not a miracle cure. But isn’t it interesting that something we were taught to fear is now being studied for its benefits?

So the question isn’t whether palm oil is perfect.

The question is: who convinced us it was poison?

If palm oil was so bad, why did they come for it so aggressively?

The truth is uncomfortable. We didn’t abandon palm oil because science proved it useless. We abandoned it because we started believing that the “good” oils must come from somewhere else. Olive oil. Sunflower oil. Canola oil. Once the oil had a foreign name, it suddenly sounded healthier, cleaner, more responsible. Palm oil our own - became the bad one by default. Not because it failed us, but because we decided that what comes from us cannot possibly be the best option.

This same thinking follows cassava everywhere it goes.

Cassava feeds millions. It is versatile, energy-dense, and deeply embedded in our food culture. Yet mention garri in certain spaces and watch faces twist. Suddenly, soaking garri is a sign of poverty. Of struggle. Of not “making it.”

Which is funny, because I love soaking garri.

Bruh soaking garri is literally a comfort food for me, even on days I’m super rich.

Cold water. Groundnuts floating on top. Sometimes ice. Sometimes late at night when the world is quiet. That combination is a gift.

But we turned it into an insult.

We did that.

We equated affordability with inferiority. Accessibility with shame. We decided that if something could feed everyone, then it must not be worthy of pride.

That’s not nutrition talking.

That’s class anxiety.

And it doesn’t stop there.

Abacha? Suddenly suspicious.

Okro soup? “Slimy.”

Egusi? “Too heavy.”

Yet when people say Nigerian food is unhealthy, what they’re really reacting to is portion, not food. No cuisine survives poor portion control. Not Italian. Not American. Not Asian. But somehow, Nigerian food is the only one put on trial. Okay maybe not the only one , but you get my point?

When you actually look closely, Nigerian soups are incredibly thoughtful food systems.

In the south-south alone — Efik and Ibibio regions — you’ll find soups loaded with vegetables, seafood, natural proteins, and slow-cooked broths. Afang. Okro. Fisherman soup. Banga. Pepper soups, gbagba-ofofo (okra pepper soup) that warm the body and wake the senses.

Move west and you meet efo riro — spinach, peppers, assorted proteins, layered flavours.

Move east and you find oha, white egusi, red egusi — the difference often just being oil choice and vegetables.

These are not “junk meals.”

They are balanced, ancestral, and intentional.

What makes them unhealthy is not their existence.

It’s excess.

And excess ruins everything — foreign or local.

But instead of learning moderation, we learned rejection.

So now, when people think of “healthy eating,” what comes to mind? Smoothie bowls. Olive oil. Quinoa. Meals with accents. Meals that look good on Instagram. Meals that make us feel like we’ve escaped something.

We perform our eating now.

We don’t just eat to nourish ourselves — we eat to signal status. To appear enlightened. To distance ourselves from where we came from. In doing so, we quietly declare our own food embarrassing.

Other cultures don’t do this to themselves.

Their food remains central. Confident. Unquestioned. Foreign food is a curiosity — not a replacement. A side quest — not the main story.

But we? We doubt ourselves first, then wonder why the world doubts us too.

So when next you think Nigerian food, don’t immediately think “unhealthy.” Don’t think “too local.” Don’t think “not refined.”

Ask yourself instead:

Who taught me to be ashamed of this?

Because the problem was never the food.

Share your thoughts

Somewhere along the line, we started believing that foreign food — especially European food is automatically healthy, clean, classy, and the correct option. Especially for dates. Especially for “soft life”. Especially if you’re trying to look posh.

A thinking passed down so quietly that we mistake it for common sense. In Nigerian pidgin, we might call it mumu, but not the loud, obvious kind — this one is subtle, respectable, even fashionable. It is the kind of mumu that shows up in how we eat, where we eat, and what we think certain foods say about who we are.

I remember once trying to take a girl on a date in Abuja. I asked her if she knew any restaurant where we could eat proper local food — swallow ( mind you, I wasn’t asking her to eat swallow with me, I was asking for myself) because that was genuinely what I wanted to eat. The way she reacted shocked me. It wasn’t just a no. She was almost repelled.

Why would I want to eat swallow on a date?

That question stayed with me. What exactly is wrong with eating swallow on a date? If she gets to eat what she wants, why can’t I eat what I want? Mind you, I’m also Nigerian. Swallow is Nigerian food. Why must I switch to rice, pasta, or some foreign dish just to be taken seriously?

Why is swallow not posh?

Why is swallow unfit for romance?

That moment made me realise how deep this thing runs.

In our minds, there’s a food hierarchy. Other African food sits at the very bottom. Ghanaian food, Senegalese food, Ethiopian food etc— always the first to be insulted. I’ve heard someone say Ghanaian food “looks like sacrifice” and is “too smelly.” Think about that for a second. That’s not even food criticism — that’s contempt.

Then Nigerian food sits somewhere in the middle. We like it, but only privately. At home. With family. Not somewhere we’re trying to impress. Not on a date. Not in a “nice” restaurant.

And at the very top is foreign food. Especially Western food. Automatically seen as clean, healthy, refined. Even when it’s processed nonsense. Even when it’s doing absolutely nothing for your body.

Once the food is foreign, we don’t question it.

That is colonial thinking.

Somehow, we have been taught that health has an accent. That wellness comes from abroad. That what sustained our grandparents must suddenly be inferior to what arrived in cartons and menus written in unfamiliar languages. Indigenous processing methods — fermentation, slow cooking, seasonal eating — are dismissed as crude, while imported methods are praised as scientific, even when they do less for the body.

This thinking did not appear by accident. Colonialism did not only rearrange borders and economies; it rearranged taste. It taught us that refinement looked foreign, that civilisation sounded European, and that anything deeply African needed correction. Independence may have removed the flag, but it did not automatically remove the lens.

So today, we perform our eating. We choose meals not just to satisfy hunger, but to signal status. To look modern. To look elevated. To look like we’ve escaped something. In doing so, we quietly reject the very things that root us — memory, land, labour, culture.

What makes this especially painful is that other cultures do not do this to themselves. Their food remains central, confident, unquestioned. Foreign food to them is curiosity, not replacement. A side quest, not the main story.

When we, as Africans, treat our own food as trash, what exactly do we expect others to see? If a Black man looks at African food and sees embarrassment, what image is left for the rest of the world?

You’ll hear statements like,

we no Dey chop Eba for our house o, I don’t feed my kids swallow smh

Garri? Whats that, ewwww!

That’s awful! I can’t eat that, I don’t eat swallow. Bruh what???

If you haven’t heard , I have.

Decolonising the mind is not always loud. Sometimes it begins with the stomach. With the courage to choose what nourishes you without apology. With the confidence to eat swallow on a date and not feel the need to explain yourself. With the understanding that health is not foreign, class is not imported, and dignity does not come plated in another man’s culture.

This is not a call to reject foreign food. It is a call to reject inferiority. To stop confusing aesthetics with value. To remember that what fed us before before was never foolish — only forgotten.

Because the problem was never the food.

It’s the mindset we inherited — and never questioned.

These are not jokes.

These are actual Nigerian measuring systems.

While other places use kilograms, grams, ounces, or litres, we use the Derica cup. The Derica cup is the smaller, well-known one and interestingly, it doesn’t even have to be the original Derica tomato tin. It could be Gino, Sonia, or any other brand. But because Derica was the most popular, the name stuck. Just like we like to call all noodles brand in Nigeria ‘indomie’.

So now, every tomato tin—regardless of the brand—is simply called Derica.

At that point, Derica stopped being a brand and became a unit of measurement. And that, to me, is fascinating.

Same thing with paint rubber. You can buy half paint or full paint. No one is measuring half of anything on a scale. Half paint is simply the smaller paint rubber, and full paint is the bigger one. Everyone understands it without explanation.

Here’s the funny part—it’s sometimes mathematically accurate.

For example, half paint of flour usually weighs about 1.8kg, while a full paint is around 3.6kg. That’s almost exact. Not always, but close enough to work, at least it’s the one I’ve paid the most attention to, being that I run a bakery

And buy a lot of flour.

But this system also relies heavily on eyeballing and relationships. Sellers heap the rice, beans, flour, or corn. How much they heap depends on how well you bargain, who you are, and your relationship with them. Some will add extra. Some won’t.

Shuoo madam he never full na, Abeg add on top , sell am well for me I be customer o

These are lines you’d often hear during a measuring session at the market.

So the measurement is not just about volume—it’s about trust, negotiation, and familiarity.

I find this incredibly interesting, and it’s something we don’t really talk about enough. It says a lot about how Nigerians adapt, improvise, and create systems that work for us, even when they’re not officially recognized.

If you’re Nigerian, you’ve definitely encountered this.

Let me know

what measuring systems have you heard of? Tomato cup? Paint rubber? Milk cup? Something else?

A small spot called Seven Star a legendary joint in Sapele that sold only owo soup and starch for 100 naira back then o, I’m not sure if it still exists now. Back then It was always packed with okada riders, street boys, and hungry students like us. Somehow, it felt like a world of its own.

I went to junior secondary school in Sapele, it was an all boys secondary school, we were tough, I mean you had to be else you’d be picked on by your own peers, the school taught me how to be ‘street smart’ at a very tender age, this school was owned and named after Nigeria’s first Minister of Finance, Festus Okotie-Eboh—Omimiejo, as everyone called him. I didn’t know what the name meant, back then we were like his mini soldiers, and his name was very much glorified. well, not until I read about him much later, but calling him that name carried a kind of pride. There were so many myths about him, about his death, and even about the statue in the front of our school compound. We genuinely believed his remains were buried somewhere inside the school grounds. Looking back, it was a strange kind of reverence for a man we never met.

I had earlier memories of bukas from primary school, but Seven Star was… different.

It wasn’t a restaurant. It was a food cult

They made owo in different variants—Itsekiri style, Urhobo style—both tribes claiming ownership of the dish. My favorite was owo beans and starch, with periwinkles if you were feeling rich enough to add them. And then the meat: tiko, that dried, aged bushmeat that always felt slightly illegal to eat at age 11. Bushmeat had the same energy palm wine had when you tasted it as a child—rebellious, almost taboo, but exciting.

Eating at Seven Star during lunch break felt like an adventure.

We only had 30 minutes, and the joint was a 7-minute walk outside school. Going there was basically breaking the rules. Returning on time required speed, luck, and sometimes friendship with the sellers. The toughest boys always went forward to order because the rush at lunchtime was insane. But once you secured your plate—that moment carried a weird sense of pride. Especially if you were known in the neighborhood.

It’s wild how these memories stayed with me.

At the time, I didn’t know this was the beginning of the part of me that explores places the Anthony Bourdain way—through food, people, and their stories.

I remember saving up 200 naira once and buying three wraps of starch for my friends. I felt like a big man that day. I couldn’t afford to do it often, but that moment of giving stayed with me. What lasted longer, though, was the memory of the place itself. Seven Star wasn’t just a buka.

It was a cult.

A culture.

A memory you carry into adulthood without realizing it shaped how you view food, people, and community.

And maybe that’s why this West Africa buka project feels so personal to me.

Benin surprised me first. For a country that shares a border with Nigeria, the food is shockingly mild. Not bland, but definitely not the pepper-heavy profile we’re used to. Meanwhile, Togo — which borders Benin — has a flavor profile much closer to Nigeria than Benin itself. That alone was interesting.

Another thing: both Benin and Togo love throwing whole pepper into their stew without blending it. I found that fascinating. The pepper cooks inside, becomes soft, sweet, and hot at the same time. It doesn’t lose its heat; it just gives you control. If you want more kick, you can munch on it. It’s not something we do in Nigeria, but it’s something I can get used to.

But generally, Benin Republic’s flavors were mild. I explored only Cotonou and Ouidah, so I assume there are villages and indigenous towns with deeper food cultures. Still, from what I tasted, Benin leans gentle — especially compared to Nigeria.

Togo, on the other hand? Amazing. Their cuisine has body, balance, and intention. The light soup I ate was one of the best meals I’ve ever had. Their chicken was well-seasoned, properly flavored. Even their fish was better than what I tasted in Benin republic, the one from restuarant challa-ogoï in Benin, the fish and goat meat felt a bit… shy. For goat meat that had been sitting inside stew, I expected more depth. Even the sauce goussi (egusi soup in Nigeria) had visible onions — something a Nigerian cook would never allow. At home, you taste onion, but you don’t see onion. As someone who doesn’t love onions, that was a small battle — but I survived.

All of this made me think about pepper in a deeper way.

Nigerians consume pepper like it’s oxygen. In Western Nigeria especially, you have to beg the cook: “abeg reduce the pepper.” Meanwhile, in Benin, you’re the one asking for extra. And honestly, I think it goes beyond food.

We are a spicy people — loud, dramatic, energetic, expressive. Pepper even shows up in our gist, our gossip, our culture. When I crossed back into Nigeria through Seme border, the chaos hit immediately — honking, shouting, movement everywhere. And I joked to myself: Is it the pepper? Does pepper make people loud? Does it shape personality?

Because Benin is calm — extremely calm. Nigeria is fire. And that contrast made me rethink that slang: “I go show you pepper.”

Is it a good thing? Is it a reflection of who we are — a people of heat, intensity, noise, color, drama, and excitement?

Or should we question why our default setting is always “pepper”?

I don’t have the final answer. I would actually love to hear other people’s thoughts. But for now, this trip showed me something: maybe pepper is more than food. Maybe it’s personality. Maybe it’s culture. Maybe it’s us.