Okonkwo

The Chinese had been in the area for close to six years building roads and railway lines. Suddenly news filtered into Ogidi that a laboratory was being moved from Nnewi to the town. An official from the Ministry  of Agriculture in Awka had come over to discuss this laboratory with important people in the town. The Chinese had been experimenting with yams for a while now and Ogidi’s soil was considered good for what they intended to do.

The laboratory was ready in two months and was officially opened with much fanfare. The Director of the laboratory did not look particularly strong. Mr Wang Li coughed through his speech and it seemed he might faint under the heat. He spoke of developing yams for export and implored the people of Ogidi that jobs would flow into the area and create prosperity when they started large scale farms. They however had to finish all the experiments.

Mr Wang Li surprised everyone when he called for rotten yams to be brought in for a price. The laboratory was flooded. Mama Nneka whose kitchen seemed to make yams rot very quickly made a lot of money when she bought a lot of yams and stored them in her kitchen. She then got different people to go in with her rotten yams to collect payment.

This was meant to be for research purposes. It put money in the hands of the people and smiles on their faces. It was announced that by the next month land with titles would be bought for farming. The Chinese were paying above the market prices. People queued with their title deeds at the make shift Land Acquisition porta cabin. A university Professor was worried with the way Hectares of land were being sold to foreigners. He asked for a leasing arrangement so that families could continue to have ownership of their ancestral land. He was told to shut up. His father had left him no land to inherit, so who was he to say how land owners should manage their property. He was told in no uncertain terms to go and hug his second wife tight and keep his nose out of the business his poverty would not allow him to understand. His books were his second wife. A particular large land owner refused to sell his land. It was in a prime location and in the area where the Chinese wanted to farm. There were many dignitaries sent to his country home to convince him to put pen to paper and die a Billionaire. His children all begged him but he refused because he had been talking to the Professor. He was found dead in bed and the deal went through as his first son was keen on the deal. He had a great befitting burial and the word around town was that he died of stubbornness.

Mr Wang Li announced they had grown yams in the laboratory that were resistant to pests and could grow quite large. The community was invited to witness the produce. People came as far as Obosi, Ihiala, Aguata and even Onitsha to this big meeting.

The display was impressive. One particular type of yam was huge. In front of it was a plate of cooked slices of yam. Dignitaries called up to taste it all nodded as they chewed. This was the best yam ever cooked since the history of the world. The edentulous Mazi Eze was helped onto the podium by his sons. He tasted the yams and clapped his hands in approval. People called the yam Udoji Award for its size. Mr Wang Li then went on to announce that this yam could not rot.

Everybody laughed. Mama Nneka known for her ‘back luck’ kitchen asked to host the yam for three days, ‘and una go see’.

When two weeks later the Udoji Award had not succumbed to the evil spirits in Mama Nneka’s kitchen, people began to take the yam seriously. The murmur in town was that this yam would take over Africa and get Ogidi youth jobs. Things were finally coming together.

A few months to the planting season, the youth of the town were all getting ready for the jobs to come.  That was when the shipments began to come in. Lorries delivering mechanical parts arrived to the main farm site which had been cordoned off. Everyone knew the Chinese were building something very great. The town was buzzing with excitement for prosperity had fallen on them uninvited. So many workers came in from China for the construction which went on all day and all night. Some youth leaders asked when the locals would start being employed and they were told that Phase Two of the project will bring the jobs. Soon people began to hear strange mechanical noises behind the great walls around the farm. No one was allowed in. There was a lot of money in circulation due to the sale of land so the local economy boomed as people spent lavishly.

An announcement was made that the Yam Farm was going to be officially opened and a technological miracle was going to be revealed. On the great day, the dignitaries sat in the covered sitting section while the masses stood a far off in the sun. After the speeches and traditional dances Mr Wang Li announced, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, Okonkwo!’ There was a noise like thunder and out in the distance, what had looked like a heap of sand covered with leaves began to move towards them at great speed. As the leaves flew off to reveal a shiny metallic engine that had a head and eyes, people took to their heels. An announcement was made to calm the crowds and they slowly returned to watch the spectacle. What followed next was a demonstration of how this machine could prepare the ground, plant seed, spray both water and pesticides and fell trees. The tree cutting demonstration was phenomenal. The great machine drove across the large expanse of land and stuck out a giant saw which brought the tree down. This was a robot that would eat Amadioha’s lighting as a light snack. It brimmed with the artificial intelligence of an evil spirit.

A man in the crowd shook his head sadly. ‘Farming as an occupation is over in Ogidi’.

Okonkwo did the entire planting season single handed and worked for twenty hours each day. He only stopped to renew his charge from the solar power plant in the corner of the farm. The harvest the next year could have fed the whole of the State.

The produce was displayed for the cameras and they were promptly shipped off to China. The yam peelings were needed for the development of a Cancer drug that was hoped would fetch the Chinese Billions.

Mr Wang Li promised the good people of Ogidi that after the yam peelings have been removed, the rest of the yams would be made into yam powder which the approved importers in Ogidi could buy. He hoped that the government would be able to afford the cancer drugs for the people when it was ready.

People of Ogidi now travel to Nnewi to buy their yams as they have no farm land to work with. When some young people went to Mr Wang Li to ask for some Udoji Award yam seedlings they could plant in other towns, he found it very funny.

‘My friends, you don’t understand business’ he said.

Hunger

Hunger starts off politely. It greets you with an early morning hug and a kiss which is soon followed by nastiness if food does not appear. Man muss wack afterall. The older people resort to lamentations and philosophy when hunger pangs strike them at a time their fridges and pockets are empty but the babies have not read that memo. They just cry, making sounds designed to go straight to the brain of an adult and propel them to action. When parents feel impotent in the face of hunger, frustration rises and actions become unpredictable. In the midst of the painful anger the adults get that epiphany of torment: someone somewhere in this town has enough leftovers to feed my family.

People will procrastinate if they can get away with it, so nature makes sure there is no opportunity to, ‘forget to eat’ or ‘forget to feed the baby’. The world stops till that food goes into the mouth.  Various countries quote between 20 to 40% of household food that goes to waste. That is not adding the percentage of farm produce that rots away after harvest or gets intentionally burnt so as not to flood the market with food and upset the price structure.

In the abundance of water, the fool is thirsty says Bob Marley but the hungry may disagree. They do not have access to food. They are not so foolish as not to know they are hungry and neither are they so dumb that they cannot guess which part of town has well stocked fridges. They are wise enough to known that they cannot just turn up at a house and bang on the gates asking to be let in so that they could have dinner with the rich guys. Na today?!

¹⁹ “There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and lived in luxury every day. ²⁰ At his gate was laid a beggar named Lazarus, covered with sores ²¹ and longing to eat what fell from the rich man’s table. Even the dogs came and licked his sores.

Hunger can get so bad that people migrate from their homes to go and live illegally outside the gates of the rich in expectation of a few crumps. This new location guarantees nothing as the parable told by Jesus clearly shows. Death comes to take away the starving beggar on a chariot with space for two. The rich man too is taken but the food is left behind.

Hunger was meant to be a beautiful thing. It is a most gentle reminder that it is time to eat. This prevents people from wasting away. People always need to be reminded to do things, even paying the bills for what they have purchased. The gentle reminder is always followed by the bailiffs who come looking for property they can confiscate. Hunger has its own metabolic bailiffs that eat away at the body’s stored fat if there is no food in the stomach. This is a painful process and the individual starts to lose weight.

The world of leftovers is a strange one. Humans work so hard for food then throw it away. Chop-remain, is what the village people call it. There is a stigma attached to eating the leftovers of others but when hunger ‘catches you’ all stigmas are forgotten. Hunger is democratised in Nigeria. The boys of Bornu state experience it in the same way the girls in Calabar do. Once that fire burns, there is no tribal discrimination in choosing food to douse the flames and pangs. For the hungry lad in Borno who prefers to eat his own type of food, preferences melt like wax under the thermal glory of hunger. Anything will do, from the Amala and Ewedu from the West to the Afang soup of the East, he go rush dem. Apart from the ‘catching , Nigerian hunger sometimes joins forces with the hot sun and greedy mosquitoes to beat Nigerians. Hunger beating you is both a physical, psychological and spiritual abuse. The lashes are lavish and make the victim cry out loud, (usually to God), asking why they were born in this country and why their parents no get moni? Next comes the raining of curses on the heads and graves of everyone who has ruled Nigeria till date. The lashing intensifies despite the cries.

Suddenly the object of the hungry man’s hatred turns up and throws some bank notes at him and he smiles, grabs the money and runs off to buy that eba so that belle go gauge. It is election time after all.

It is impossible to discuss National hunger without a mention of Politics and Leadership as the agricultural policies and investments lies in the hands of the government and those Civil Servants that should be serving the hungry with plates of food. Anyone in charge of any local government area, State or Country should no longer feel at ease when they are in possession of the information that there are citizens under their watch going to bed hungry; that is with empty stomachs, fridges and wallets. Just what is the prestige of presiding over starving people whose brains are being burnt up for metabolic fuel? Where would National development come from when the people are in survival mode?

A 15 car procession of a governor speeding past hungry Africans on the way to the airport is an absurd curse rather than a prestigious show of strength. That is like meeting a finely dressed man out in the streets with a $40,000 watch and his kids are crying for bread at home. It would be impossible to respect such a father. The truth of the matter is that the leader of the starving is really starving, no matter how much he has in his wallet. The people may be starved of food and dignity but the leader is starved of his humanity. Ask the leader about this he would reply, ‘did they tell you my children are starving? Second bass jare!’

A Naija Food Beauty Contest

Our people say that ‘Monkey no fine but im mama love am’. Such is love in the eyes of the beholder. A perception contaminated by geography, blood and genetics. They say that beauty attracts people to come together but character keeps them together. With food the beauty is magnetic but it is the taste that keeps you coming back for more.

Everything is a contest in today’s world. Television has cooking contests that are quite popular in the UK. It is a kind of X -Factor for the kitchen alchemists, who all fight like gladiators for the winning prize. Usually the judges on these shows taste the food to score it and we know how subjective that can be. Till Elon Musk or some other clever person invents an AI (Artificial Intelligence) food taster it will be biased judges for the foreseeable future.  It would be great to have food analysis apps attached to smart phones that can scan and pick up any contaminants accidentally, carelessly or intentionally added to the food. This would please that Naija cohort who have been expecting to be poisoned for twenty years so far and are still on hypervigilance mode.

Food can look beautiful but every man is a Judge in his own gastric court. Now the beauty on the plate has nothing to do with the smell or the taste. Some Food handlers  know how to design food artistically in ways that make you want to forfeit the meal and hand it over to the Tate gallery for displays. Some Food handlers from hell will revolt you. You know those odd people who think dogs, snakes and alligators are food. Once those nasty plates are seen it takes weeks to get them off the mind.

I find that sliced paw paw on a white plate is incredibly alluring. The bright colours seem to light up some area of the brain that brings satisfaction. I don’t particularly care if I eat that fruit or not but I find it attractive. If I were a judge on any food beauty pageant, paw paw will win hands down. Second will be those wonderfully shaped cakes I wouldn’t eat. There is really much to say about the virtues of looking and not eating. The feasting of the eyes is a great past time.

Every man should belong to a team of Judges that walk in packs looking out for gastronomy beauty. The buffet section at parties or in restaurants, with their long line up of food, look at each other then set their eyes on the Judges. ‘Would they love me?’ they ask themselves as we walk on by. Further down the line the moin moin looks sideways to the dodo and says, ‘fine food like me? Na dem dey rush us’. The Judges look and choose the best. The coconut rice suddenly finds its voice and starts to sing, ‘I’m a wonderful thing baby’ like a little kid from Sierra Leone with a Creole accent. But this is a beauty contest and the judges will decide who is finest.

That smooth round pounded yam moulded by hands gifted in geometry is a delight to look at. Fried rice looks good in a large silver dish. It has so many little bits of colourful edibles.  Next is grilled fish lying on its side at full stretch. The fish lies in state at its majestic funeral having lived a life well spent. Growing in size so that it is fit for the banquet where it arrives dead, spiced and fully cooked. It will rest in peace in someone’s stomach swimming with the Fanta. Fish is fine when motionless and at peace. The heaped up chicken is not a pretty sight. Neither is the stewed beef that always seems like it is attempting to swim in a dried up river.

Looks are deceptive and many get to their tables after being seduced by what they saw, only to be greeted by all the pepper in Kano as they take their first spoon. All na hustle. The food must attract someone. Sometimes in parties inexperienced people make comments about the wowo (ulgy) food. They shout to people who are about to sink a spoon into a dish, ‘I wouldn’t eat that poison if I were you. I wonder who cooked it?’

‘I did it. On my feet all night’ comes the reply from the chef who has been orbiting her creation wondering why nobody is taking a bite. It can be soul destroying to be rejected by people but such is life. That is why some hate competitions among school children as some would come first and others would come last. They try to protect kids from the harsh realities of life. These are the same kids who are sat in the car seeing mansions along the road while they make their way to their tiny flat. No one can be protected from the fact that all the fingers on the hand are of different lengths.

If one’s fried rice looks like Tuwo Shikafa wearing make- up, one’s pepper soup might win the prize. One man’s soup is another man’s poison so it works out well for all in the end.

There is a trend of escalating beauty on social media. Lagbaja said - wowo girls don finish for Nigeria. Everyone has long hair and finger nails and flawless skin. It might be flawed skin buried under layers of Mary Kay but no one is washing off the twelve coats of paint to check.

The same applies to food. It gets prettier by the day especially on Instagram. Food now has a team of people sorting out the photoshoot. Backgrounds, fine plates, shining cutlery and good lighting produce pictures of food one normally only sees in a dream.

I wonder if this escalating beauty is a problem. It can be irritating trying to eat dinner on a date with someone obsessed with photographing every plate that comes. The actions are intrusive but the photographer is hell bent on showing that their plate – betta pass my neighbour’s. There is a competition to show your food fine pass. A short twenty years ago, there were only two people involved in a dinner date. Now it is all the followers on Instagram, monitoring spirits on Facebook and the Ogbanje spirits on Twitter lamenting they are soaking Garri at home while slay ‘cuisine’ Mama is living it up.

Izzz like everybody is contesting in a beauty contest. The good thing is no one takes selfies with the food when it comes out at the other end. Halleluyah!

Musical Plate

Nigerian Jollof was made for music as was all the other Naija foods. Pepper soup in a steamy bowl congested with assorted floating and submerged edibles is best swallowed with Peacocks International Guitar band playing that guitar that makes one forget the problems of life and slurp away happily. The Eddie Quansah song drowns out the noisy eating habits of your neighbour and prevents the panic when pepper goes the wrong way and someone starts choking. ‘Bros, drink water’ someone says and passes a glass and pats him on the back. Once the danger has passed, someone else teases, ‘Your village people don start again o’.

There are some Nigerian foods that would refuse to go down the gullet without music especially if more than twenty people are present. I recall eating at a party when the music stopped and all we had was the clinking of cutlery, chewing noises, coughing and noisy conversation enveloping us with an unpleasant sound cloud and sonic drizzle. The silence was unbearable.

Love, music and food all get along fine in the Naija ecosystem. The musicians are not oblivious to this fact and the food references abound in Naija music that we all love.

Oni dodo Oni Moin moin is a Yoruba folk song that has been covered both by Fela Kuti and Sam Apkabot at different times. That song floods my mind with visions of hot rice, slices of dodo and moin moin all baptised with the sprinkling upon of hot bright red tomato stew. Dodo is one of my favourite foods and the way the song emphasises the sound dodo makes the Naija mouth water. Fresh Dodo can never keep a secret of its presence. It could be fried at the east end of the street and the smell travels through the air tormenting each house till it gets to the end of the street and dances back.

Moin moin is made from grown beans, and beans features in another Yoruba folk song that went thus:

There is oil, there is beans

I am not afraid to have twins

Because there is oil, there is beans

Now what is better that a rice and beans orchestra? The thoughts that these song evoke produce dancing vibrations in the soul.

Bunny Mack was from Sierra Leone but his monster hit, Let me love you was loved and adopted by Nigerians

You are my sweetie my sugar

My baby My lover

In my youth when I saw nothing wrong in chewing on a cube of St Louis or Tate sugar, this song struck a chord. Gone are those days of blissful ignorance when I had no Diabetic patients.

In recent times my ability to cope with spices has waned and I avoid Shito at all costs. Just looking at it in a jar takes my gastric pH southwards but I love the wonderful personal irony when I get all emotionally involved in Runtown’s Mad Over you

Ghana girl, say she wan marry me o

I hope say she sabi cook waakye

Hope your love go sweet pass shito

Hmmm, sounds like pure reflux oesophagitis love to me. Another ironic twist is from none other than the KokoMaster himself who equated his ‘hotness’ to Hot Amala to gi  a gaan gaan in the song Gbono Feli Feli.

Now I am not an amala eater but I feel good about the song till date. And sometimes when I am really feeling myself, I think, Hmmmm! African Michael Jackson! Na dem dey rush us!!

Nothing is as attractive as hot food, after all the salesmen tell us that good merchandise sells like hot cake.

Newer sounds like Solid star and Tiwa Star sing about Baby Jollof my love, you too sweet like jollof make me wonder if a girl can be sweet like Nigerian Jollof? Hmmm, expectations should be kept attainable please.

When Duncan Mighty sang in the studio with Tiwa Savage in the song  Lova Lova, I wonder if it was real love or hunger

This your love sweet, Ofada Rice

Nne you too Sweet like a Yam Porridge.

Now to the elephant in the room. You cannot go four songs on any Naija play list without thinking all music recording studios in Nigeria are located on a plantation or on Banana Island. There is an epidermic of Banana references which risks flooding the ears with Potassium. This phase will pass hopefully and I am not a big fan of Banana music. Well I used to be when Dan I recorded Monkey Chop.

It was a big hit in the seventies and the chorus was everywhere

Monkey come chop Banana. I still don’t  understand the song till now.

But when it comes to love songs and food, the best example is down to the KokoMaster ; Dbanj

When to Kokomaster fall in love

You know say water don pass Garri

My sweet Potato

I wanna tell you my mind

My Sugar banana

As I don get you if I say make I hammer

I am not quite sure what the recipe for sugar banana is but I guess the KokoMaster has some form of Gastronomic Immunity and artistic licence in that kitchen of his.

There is no doubt that music can affect our emotional states and modify our food seeking behaviour especially in groups. In parties with very good DJs people dance for hours and the drinks and food always run out. Fast paced music ‘gingers’ people up and they in turn expend more energy, sweat more and drink more. Even when eating alone, I then to play some music. Listening to the humming of the fridge or electric generator and air conditioners (depending on which country I am in) is bad for eating. On flights that depressing white noise that aircraft engines give of is replaced with the inflight entertainment. The meals are usually just nothing to fly home about but I guess that is why everyone is given ear phones at the beginning of the flight.

In all matters of the stomach, just as it is with love, ambience is paramount. And the quickest way to set the mood is via music.

If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.

Something Light

Unscrupulous individuals give ‘something light’ a bad name. You know them. They consider eating two portions of pounded yam, each the size of a new born baby's head as something light. Simply because they usually eat eight portions, but are now down with malaria and have lost the inbuilt greed. The greedy ones have all been born.

We are here to claim light back from the darkness of crude greed. The light something is really a snack.  It is a portion of food that will not stretch the belly of a toddler. This is food that caresses the palate and makes the mouth yearn for more. Pepper soup, thin slices of paw paw, akara, few ground nuts and the like.

I must warn that when a Naija uses the word ‘something’ in reference to food, they are lying at worst or being vague and misleading at best. Like the guy who is invited to join someone eating a meal who says, ‘thanks, I have just had something’. The fact that he strokes his abdomen as he speaks and looks at the plate with disgust betrays his hunger. Naijaz are never vague when it comes to food and might even give unwanted details. Offer some people a drink and they tell you how full they are by not only listing the meals they have had in the last twenty hours, but they throw in the genealogy of the goat that featured in the pepper soup.

Snacks which are also called small chops are the real light somethings. Naijaz have incorporated foods from all over the world in the creation of our small chops list but I will concern myself with snacks which can best be described as authentic Naija food.

There is no place like a Naija wedding for understanding the importance of small chops. The affairs tend to run late because of circumstances beyond anyone’s control,  and it seems the late arrival of key participants is always linked to a hair dresser. So you leave the church and take photographs then it is off to the wedding reception.

With everyone hungry, people are ushered to various tables. Like it is in FIFA World Cup Groups there is always that Group of death. The table that devours its inhabitants because there is a super hungry guy with a prominent Adam’s apple sitting there. The type of guy Fela sang about in the song Kalakuta show.

Look di man he dey waka

Hunger dey run for im face (woko -woko woko –woko)

Once seated at this table the lateness continues and the DJ tries his best to help you forget your hunger by making you deaf. Then the small chop bowls arrive, Halleluyah! Then malt drinks with no bottle top openers. Now due to politeness no one wants to be the first to make a move for the snacks and the gentlemen will usually offer the bowls of finger foods to the ladies. But not on the table of death and starvation. The super hungry man just reaches out both hands as big as shovels and grabs all the puff puff. Next he brings out his bottle opener from his bunch of 20 keys (which includes a miniature pen knife), and opens two bottles of malt for himself! At this stage the wise people excuse themselves and seek another table.

The small chops are used to keep you hanging on while you endure stale jokes from the MC that you have read on your WhatsApp groups years ago. That is till the main food arrives; Party Jollof Rice.

Here is a list of the life -saving snacks that keep Naijaz from fainting at weddings and parties operating on African time

 Puff puff

Small, tasty and just like Bonny Light, easily processed, this snack is the King of all Naija finger foods. Couples that had no puff puff at their wedding reception need to go and remarry themselves. It is made from frying a mixture of plain wheat flour, oil and dried yeast till it becomes golden brown.  

Chin Chin

This crunchy snack that comes in small hard cubes is prepared from deep frying dough made up of plain flour and margarine. This snack should come with a health warning. The hard granite like cubes of goodness can break a tooth or dislocate a jaw bone. All dignity is lost as the jaws are converted into a pressurised grinding machine causing the chin to vibrate at an astounding frequency. Maybe this chin action gives the snack its name.

While on the topic of losing dignity we might as well go there.

Sugar cane

I call this the snack of madness. A country eats all its sugar cane and imports sugar? It is messy to eat and spit out. People look like Panda’s eating bamboo when they feast on sugar cane. It is child abuse to have kids clear up the mess after adults have eaten this snack. Worse comes when the sugar ants congregate on the messy left overs. Thank goodness no one has been mad enough to serve this Bamboo look-a-like at a wedding ceremony.

Nuts

Ground nuts and guguru (popcorn) keep the mouth busy and keeps hope alive while waiting for that Party Jollof rice. The only problem here is people dip their fingers in the nuts and some fall back into the bowl. Now I have been to parties and seen how some people wash their hands in the loo. Enough said.

Akara

Bean cakes are Naija’s equivalent of hot crossed buns. They have the powers to ginger you out of your lethargic on a cold harmattan morning especially when there is Ogi (Pap) to assist it in the journey down that dark tunnel that leads to the stomach. It is made from frying blended beans which has been spiced to taste.  

Plantain Trilogy

Fried thin slices of unripe plantain are called Ipkekere (Plantain chips) and when ripe plantain is fried it is called Dodo. Roast plantain is Boli. Dodo goes well with rice, yam and moin moin.

Meats

Snails, gizzards, suya and kilishi (dried beef) can be used as starters before the main meal.

Miscellaneous

Other snacks which are usually not available in weddings but can be obtained from road side food vendors include, Suya, Roasted or boiled Maize alongside Coconut, fried yams and various fruits such as oranges, agbalumo, banana  mangoes and pears.

Kuli kuli which is fried peanut paste is popular for some as is coconut candy. Some snack on Tapioca and other love termites and maggots off the palm trees.

Mosa which is fried mash plantain mixed with eggs, pepper and flour is eaten in Northern Nigeria.

Summary.

For some, anything that is not Swallow is something light. People like this never waste time with snacks. The party starts for them when the swallow arrives. We hope and pray that something light will appear at the end of their dark tunnel of deception one day.

Hardest Naija Meals to make

Cooking is like bringing love and beauty to the world. The chef has ingredients playing their individual instruments in a gastronomic orchestra which has to be blended seamlessly into a homogenous entity. The audience come for love and beauty. Once that curtain is drawn and the burners come on, the clock starts ticking and the already great expectations go through the roof.

It is a big responsibility to satisfy the hungry with love and beauty served on a plate. Each comes with an appetite and some sense of entitlement. They might have paid some money or perhaps feel that family ties qualify them to be fed on demand.

Just like the great orchestra conductor’s work does not start at show time, the same applies to the chef. There are manuscripts to pore over, ancient recipes for success that have to be practiced over and over again. Instruments have to be in tune and played with fervour. The chef plans the meal, keeps a mental note of what elements are needed and goes to great trouble to assemble a great cast. Once the burners come on, it is a race against the clock. The meat would not be fresh forever and once in the hot water it has a narrow window of opportunity to transform from raw talent to finished article while at the same time being in rhythm with every other pot occupant that gets added at different stages of the performance. Movements of the hand come at strategic times in the process and the chef conducts alone.

 The Urhobos have a soup called Esha (Isha) cooked with a special Esha beans that needs six hours of cooking as a preliminary before the soup is cooked the next day. The most popular Urhobo soup is Owoevwri (Owo soup) which can be ready in ninety minutes. If Owo is a 100 meters sprint then Esha is an arduous marathon.

This no doubt is the hardest soup (Esha) to make in Urhobo land (Located in the Niger Delta) and was only eaten in my childhood at the Christmas and New Year seasons when there was time to prepare the ingredients and boil that beans that took forever to get cooked.

The preparation of Apku from the cassava stage is another lengthy process. There are some meal preparations that can best be described as aerobic workouts or hard labour. Long before the arrival of instant Pounded Yam powders (that contain rice, potatoes and starch with about only 60-70% yam) people actually pounded boiled yam in a mortar with a pestle. As a young lad it was not unusually to hear Lagos neighbours pounding away across the street. In a tropical country sweat flies everywhere at the hint of exertion and this was why we always heard the wives talk about all the sweat I have put into this marriage during all marital disputes.

The Naija kitchen can be a very hot and lonely place. It is predominantly inhabited by the ladies (or female domestic home helps). Some things make the meals very hard to conjure up and in retrospect it has nothing to do with the technicalities of the food making process. Below are a list of the hardest Naija meals to make.

Cooking meals with limited money

Once the next meal’s arrival is unsure, the meal at hand becomes hard to make. Positive people may say ‘eat today and sleep but let tomorrow take care of tomorrow’. One really needs a strong mind bursting with faith to cook the last food in the house, singing happily and knowing fully well that hunger like mosquitoes always come back. Mums may not announce to the family that she is serving the last supper to spare the kids of the burden of worry. Some kids might complain about what’s for supper during the cooking process. That is when sweat and tears mix on a sad face.

I don’t know where the next meal is coming from

Cooking for funerals

At a time when the bereaved should be comforted, they are busy cooking for the whole village in the name of doing a befitting burial. Men in black turn up looking a bit sad then give the bereaved a hug worth N1000 and proceed to drink beer and wine worth N3,000 and eat food worth N6,000. Why should someone who has just had the worst news of their lives be at the market buying dry fish and yams by the truck load? The ironic thing is if the food is very good, greedy relatives would start to ask if there was a Will and if their name was mentioned in it.

Cooking under these circumstances is tiring. People would gladly cook four times the amount of food and go days without sleep for a joyful occasion such as a wedding but Naija culture wants a carnival because someone had a stroke and died.

Cooking for a neurotic man

Some Naija men don’t eat soups that have been in the fridge. It has to be straight from the pot to the plate. This kind of men are not usually the indomie type. It has to be pounded yam and their favourite soup. You wonder what these men think refrigeration was invented for.  Talk about a hard knock life!

These crazy men also never cook.  It is almost as absurd as a guy saying he never watches highlights to his team’s Premiership matches on the television as his taste is live games. Then he asks someone else to buy his season ticket for home games and pay his transport costs and stadium entry fees for all away matches.

My village people will tell him that before you grow the teeth of a rabbit be prepared to grow the lip to cover it. New soup ko, new flame ni.

Cooking when pregnant

To bend down and open the oven can be problematic when you are carrying a large oven on your abdomen.

Cooking while lonely and depressed

The monotony of doing repetitive tasks that have been done so many times before such as peeling potatoes or slicing tomatoes means that one slips into automatic actions needing no thoughts as all actions are done instinctively. That is when the mind really travels. Regrets, sadness, guilt, people who are missed all come flooding into the mind. Tears flow while standing alone in a hot kitchen. No one but the chef knows how hard it was to get those plates of food infused with love and beauty to the table.

What Naijaz eat

‘Where shall we meet again? In the thunder lightening or in the rain?’ asked the British delegate as the diaries were brought out. The Naija contingent to the conference looked on with barely concealed disdain.

‘For what? You and who in lightening? Do I look like Shango’s girl friend? Please it is this same Buka, same time next week abeg’. The British murmured among themselves about how much ‘those Nigerians love their food’ on the flight back home and with good reason.

The 197 Million Nigerians featured on the Worldometer website must be eating a lot of things to have that ‘live’ number going up every 15 seconds. With about 250 tribes in Nigeria with each boasting of their own cuisine, there is such a wide variety of foods to go through and not every Tom, Dick and Garri can be mentioned.

Every area of Nigeria has staple foods. The staples can be divided roughly into the dough like meals (also called Swallows or Solids) that are eaten with soups and the ‘others’ rice, bread, beans, plantains and yams.

Beef, chicken and fish are quite popular. Game and snails are favoured by some but with the recent spate of Lassa fever infections (first described in Lassa Town, Nigeria in 1969 when the Virus killed two Missionary Nurses) the demand for ‘bush meat’ or ‘grass cutter’ is on the wane

The Swallows –

Cassava derived meals like Apku (Fermented Cassava), Starch, Lafun (Cassava flour), and Garri

Yam derived meals like Amala (Yam flour) and Pounded yam

Meals made from grains like Tuwo Dawa – Guinea corn flour, Tuwo Massara – Maize flour and Tuwo Shinkafa (boiled rice)

Durum wheat based pastes – Semovita and Semolina

Plantain derived meals – Plantain flour paste or ‘fufu’

Cocoyam meal- Ebiripo

The big combo – Pounded yam, Cocoyam and plantain all blended into one, (an Okrika/Ijaw Swallow)

The Soups-

Certain soups are well loved in different parts of the country. Pepper soups and the tomato stew cuts across most state boundaries and have become national dishes but most soups like languages tend to be concentrated in geo-nutritional zones.

The North

Miyan Kuka (Baobab leaves soup), Muyina Taushe (Pumpkin soup) Miyan Zogale (Zogale vegetable) and Miya Karkashi

Middle belt

Soya bean chicken soup

The West

Ewedu soup

Niger Delta (South south)

Owo soup and Banga Soup

South East

Ofe Nsala, Afang and Edikang Ikong soups

Due to the strong emotions that foods stir up due to their closeness to a peoples’ sense of identity, myths are bound to spring up around some certain foods which adds a degree of mystic to them.

Santana/ Apku/Loi-loi

This meal is made from fermented Cassava dough and has the power to make your visitors and neighbours ask if ‘una kill persin here as dead bodi dey smell?’ This Apku preparation is a bit like child birth. When the baby arrives, the joy takes over. This meal is eaten with a soup of choice and is famed to have Duracell battery like powers that makes the body work for twelve hours without a break and with no sign of fatigue; hence its popular name of six to six (6am-6pm staying power).

A favourite among Igbos in South Eastern Nigeria it sometimes plays second fiddle to Pounded yam which is made from the King of Crops; Yams.

Miyam Kuka

This soup is quite popular up North and best eaten with Tuwo. Made from the leaves of the most iconic tree on the planet, the Baobab tree also called the Tree of life, this is a meal that satisfies by reaching parts of the body and soul that other soups do not reach (allegedly).

The oldest trees in Africa are Baobab trees and that adds an esoteric property to the leaves.

Edikang Ikong

This soup that is cooked by the Efik and Ibibio peoples of the South Eastern part of Nigeria has an aura about it. People say that if a lady from that part of the country cooks this meal for a man, he loses his head and falls madly in love with her. It could just be that with so much variety in one pot a man is sure to have all his gastronomic desires met (my theory). The soup is more congested than a packed Molue and contains water leaves, goat meat , beef, dried fish, snail, stock  fish, cow skin, palm oil, periwinkles and crayfish. Enough to make the poor chap think, ‘I don’t get this at home, but why?’

Ukodo

At the risk of being labelled as biased I would simply say that Ukodo cooked by the right person in the right pot with the right yams and dried fish can reset your destiny. This meal is popular among the Urhobos of the South south.

Amala

For the Yorubas who inhabit the south western part of Nigeria, it might be safe to say that their world revolves around Amala. Made from Yam flour, it has the ability to make well- dressed people throw caution to the wind and risk stains on expensive fabric. And these are people dressed in white sometimes. Having observed from close quarters I am beginning to think that Amala and that Gbegiri soup has some mind altering capabilities. It gives the eater an Amala world view. Phrases like, best thing since sliced bread makes Amala aficionados laugh inwards. They know that Amala is the best thing since the records of the best things in Nigeria began and that Amala is the only Titan that exists on the plates of Nigeria. The Nass Native American tribe have a mythological giant called Amala who suspends the whole world on a stick. The day he tires and drops the stick, the world ends. For some in Nigeria, the world will surely end the day you tell them that the wooden spatula has refused to stir the yam flour anymore.

Miscellaneous

Jollof rice, moin mon, Ngwo ngwo (assorted meat in a soup), Isiewu (Goat head soup), Coconut rice, Achicha (Dried Cocoyam Pottage), Miya Kubewa and Gwaten Doya (Yam pottage) all keep the Nigerian stomachs happily engaged.

I must end with this; at every meal time an increasing number of Nigerians have been having a dish called no meal. This is due to poverty and things need to change. Apart from people who are fasting or trying to lose weight, everyone else has a fundamental human right to eat something at every meal time. Abi I lie?

Greatest Plate of my life

It is round and weighty. You place it in front of you. You take a deep breath. Step back a bit, and then you move forward with that look of determination in the eyes. That is how a penalty kick is taken. And that is how history is made. The same applies to food. There are some epic meals that have been set before me that cannot be forgotten and this is my trip down memory lane; recounting the greatest plates of my life.

You know what a great plate is. The ones that make you glad to be at the table even before you taste the food. You are inspired to float in a sea of gratitude for the meal that has been placed before you. Quite unlike those other plates that can be best described as a trial of your faith. You know the ones. Naija people would pray lengthy prayers imploring God to kill any bacteria on the plate and detoxify any poisons contained therein (both physical and spiritual) when the food does not look particularly well endowed with attractiveness.

Nay! Today we talk only about the sweet memories of when the tongue tasted morsels of heaven on earth.

Talking about the tongue, one must give it accolades. That is the only place where one can taste food. (Although greedy people seem to taste food with their hearts, eyes and noses). The sole provider of the pleasures derived from food is the tongue. It is also one of the few organs of pleasure that serves humans into old age. Eyes may need glasses and the ears may need hearing aids but the Naija tongue just keeps on licking that Ogbono forever. Well, after fifty years of age the taste buds start to become less effective but like we say in my village, when the multi-millionaire loses 20% of his income he is still very rich.

Two thirds of the tongue has those tantalising sensations transported to the brain via the Facial nerve and the back third goes via the Glossopharyngeal nerve. A bit like one man having calls coming through both his Glo and his MTN phones. The messages from the tongue all end up in the gustatory area of the brain and if the stimulation is intense enough, the memory is filed away permanently.

I think my earliest great plate was one of those breakfast bonanzas at Falolu Road. My dad has been to Leventis and returned with cartoons of food.

Fried sausages, eggs, bacon, bread and strawberry jam filled the table as did the Kellogg’s cornflakes and milk. We ate to bursting point and then ate some more. There were many breakfast tables like this but I recall one particular occasion when the planets were all in alignment and the food tasted divine. One swallowed with a sense of history, almost as if one was representing the country in the swallowing Olympics. It must have been in 1972, when most days were summer days. The sizzling sausages sent delicious an aroma all over the house. My young body began to act like a cat fish that had the capacity to taste the food all over my skin. Not sure I have eaten any breakfast like that ever since. Over the years I have had my first meals of the day on boats, planes trains and even while out running (about 17,000 breakfast meals) but nothing compares to that Falolu extravaganza.

The sweets soon came daily. Tom-Tom and Goody-Goody echoed in my pockets but no satisfaction. That was till I was invited to a particular four to six. Those were the evening birthday parties where one donned the Sunday best for a weekday party. I remember vividly wearing my flared trousers and brand new shoes and taking my seat on that collapsible wooden chair everyone in Suru-Lere seemed to hire for parties. My food came on a paper plate and it was jollof rice, moin moin, cubes of hard dodo and stewed beef. I looked down and kept on eating without a care in the world. That discovery of the pure white flesh of a boiled egg in my moin moin was a delightful encounter. The beef was both chewy and tasty but I had a full set of teeth back then in 1974 and so could chew myself into a labyrinth of happiness and subsequently chew my way back out. Those were the days when a piece of meat that felt too big for its boots was converted into chewing gum (via persistent mastication) and swallowed two hours later.

My first buka experience was with a neighbour’s driver. He had dropped the kids at school and was giving me a lift to my bus stop but we got side tracked by hunger. It was somewhere in Yaba close to Herbert Macaulay Way. The place was full of men who had left home too early to eat. The menu was set. Steaming rice, boiled blacked eye beans and dodo that was fried incompletely. The stew and meat could raise the death in the local Atan Cemetery if the wind took the aroma that far. I always had breakfast before leaving home and my dad was particularly against ‘eating outside’ so this buka trip was a crime which added to the excitement. Naturally the stew differed from what you got at home. Generally speaking Naija women hardly changed how they make their food, so you get accustomed to home food. A Naija friend once said he could identify his wife’s soup out of an identity parade of ten dishes. In addition he could tell her state of mind at the time of cooking!

When you are used to the same soup every night, that vagabond tongue rejoices at the novelty of new sensations.

It was almost a matter of time before the inevitable happened. 1977 on a Sunday morning there was the Ukodo to remember. It was a family meal just before we left for church. Hot and straight to the point. Yams, dry fish, pepper soup with that unsung hero, bright red palm oil. It was a meal fit for a king

But here is a thought. What if my greatest plate is yet to come? What if it is more important to do all I can to make my daily bread my best meal ever? Isn’t the greatest plate the next one you are alive to sit in front of and eat?

That’s the way rice goes

That phrase: point and kill, says it all. The death of a plant or animal comes before a meal. Next the preparation, the cooking and finally the eating happens. A lot of activity goes on before the spoon arrives at the opening of the mouth. Just as people vary in social status, so does the pre-mastication routine. Even the plates and utensils for eating come in grades. But once that spoon goes between the teeth, the digestion process shows itself to be fully democratised; that is just the way rice goes.

It is the same process for all once that alimentary mechanism kicks in.

For the uninitiated, point and kill refers to the make shift aquarium usually situated in the corner of an eating house where the customers drift to and  choose the fish they want by pointing that index finger of death. The fish is then prepared and served up for the paying guest. It does not come fresher than this.

That Jollof rice, Moin moin and flesh fish are on a continuous journey called - The journey of life. It is a shame that many Naijaz have been sat before plates for decades and still don’t know what happens to the Jollof once they have buried it in their mouths. Hopefully this article wih shed some light.

For starters the teeth are not just for smiling on Instagram upandan. Biting, chewing and the production of saliva all happen in the mouth. This converts food of various sizes and textures into a bolus that can finally be swallowed down the oesophagus (gullet).

The back of the throat is such a wonderful place; a point of no return. There lies the junction where the road forks into two with on going down the wind pipe for breathing and the other one going straight to the stomach. Let’s just say that the wind pipe leading to the lungs has a two way traffic rule but transmits just air while the gullet is a one way one lane express way. (Shayo Masters might disagree). The gullet admits numerous things but just one grain of rice down the wind pipe leads to choking. Naijaz may disobey traffic laws but they would never drive their pounded yams down the wind pipe (Na who wan die?)

Before the spoon actually gets to the mouth, the cooking process produces aromas that stimulate salivation. By the time the spoon arrives, the lubrication for swallowing is abundantly present.

It’s the fish on the flame

Can’t you smell the aroma

That’s the point and the kill

I’m drowning in saliva

Saliva is not just water however. It contains salivary amylase which breaks down some of the starch in food hence the observation those some people who chew long enough start to experience; the food getting sweeter the more they chew. Unfortunately these are the ones who chew forever and still insist on arguing over Naija politics with food in their mouth. (Nothing is uglier than masticated food in the mouth of anyone save your own children).

Once into the stomach, that great big washing machine churns everything around for hours. A plate of food usually consists of Carbohydrates (Jollof), Protein (Fish), Fat (oil) Vitamins and mineral salts. (Depending on which African films are watched you might want to add Love Portions or poisons to this list

. While the mineral salts and Vitamins need no digestion, everything else gets broken down.

This breakdown process is not different from Nigeria’s crude oil being broken down to petrol, diesel, kerosene, petroleum jelly and many other wonderful substances able to make people rich.

The stomach produces acid and pepsin which breaks down protein. As the churned food moves into the duodenum and a message is sent to the Gall bladder which contracts and sends  in the bile required to emulsify the fat (which was added to the Jollof). That same message gets to the Pancreas that lies behind the stomach and it sends its own contribution to the chemical reaction namely trypsinogen for the breakdown of protein (fish), lipase for the breakdown of oil aided by the Bile salts and pancreatic amylase for the carbohydrate (Jollof). As the food is transported along the small intestine it gets mixed well with the enzymes ensure the chemical reaction continues. The end products of digestion begin to get absorbed through the gut wall.

The gut is one long tube or perhaps one long bus route in Lagos. The Conductor announces the various bus stops and no passenger leaves. Only (chemical passengers) enzymes enter and start to ruffle up the exiting passengers all the way to the final bus stop. (Toilet!!! And everybody shouts, Owa!!!)

The small intestine is a long journey of winding narrow roads without street lights. The further along the journey, the more area boys begin to show up (Bacteria) and they are not without their usefulness.

Soon the food becomes completely unrecognisable as it approaches that junction that marks the beginnings of the large bowel; the ileocaecal valve. From here onwards the water is sucked right out of the food which can now be called stool. Traffic is slow for maximum extraction of every last drop of moisture from the stool. Like cars stuck in traffic, the life is slowly drained out of the passengers and that strong smell of fumes become suffocating.

Round the bends they drive till it all comes to the great hold up at the rectum. The horns blare loudly singing with a tone that cannot be ignored, ‘give me a chance, I want to come through’.

This call of nature is usually obeyed promptly.

So what is the point of all the drama with point and kill fish, Jollof rice, moin moin and dodo? Why should there be a long food preparation process? Why can’t we just have taps that flow with protein shakes, Carbohydrate fluids and fat juices? The acquisition of raw food materials followed by cooking in a hot kitchen seems like too much work.

Personally if given the choice between a drink of tasteless amino acids or a chicken roasting in the oven and filling the house with that aroma that gives the stomach hope of good things coming, I will choose the latter. The sitting around the table and going through the act of eating is a great social event. Most great partnerships usually start with that first tentative meal together. Breaking bread, breaking ice and then feeling your way through is how business is done. The journey is just as exciting as arriving at the destination.

Life is about the process. Breaking complex things down and then reassembling them up again. Ultimately the body works on fuel and it is nice that this fuel comes into our fuel tanks through pleasurable means unlike those poor cars at petrol stations get lifeless fuel pumps stuck into them while they stand looking totally bored.

Plate Envy

The love for another man’s food is a special kind of greed. You see it in parties when people are in queues and the lady holding the spoon smiles affectionately at a guy holding a plate and piles a lot of jollof rice on his plate smiling. The smile evaporates when the next ‘unknown’ guy holds his plate out. She plays golf with the rice in a back and forth motion, then turns pit digger thrusting the spoon deep into the rice holding the hungry man’s heart in her spoon. She then shakes the spoon and converts the mountain to a plain and puts the tiny portion on the plate. The man asks for more and she gives him that look then dives in the rice while maintaining her eye contact with him in that glance only Nigerian men understand.

You no get wife for house wey go cook for you? Her eyes say

She gives the second spoon and looks at the next man indicating time is up. This is when the poor guy looks at his plate and looks at the plate of the man going in front of him and the envious feelings well up.

It is the same in the Bukas where the definition of one spoon of rice is interpreted by the hands of the one who holds the spoon. This subjective weighing of food is not fair and some guys, the fine boys, the big boys and the charismatic boys might as well say, na dem dey rush us for they get back to back lion shares of all food items.

In Nigerian weddings everyone looks at the plate of his neighbours as he or she walks back to their seat. This breeds envy that gets compounded when the souvenir lady walks around with that who-know-man App in her eyes and serves the gift items according to Aso Ebi status or according to how much she likes your face. Human beings don’t like the fact that some people seem to get more than others in all aspects of life.

One guy a few years ago visited his brother’s house at meal time (what a coincidence) and naturally was invited for lunch. He was later to lament that ‘our wife’ gave her mother who  was also visiting at the time four large pieces of meat and he was given two pieces of meat with some miserable four shrimps that looked like they had been deported from Europe (Not imported o). He actually was counting pieces of meat on someone else’s plate.  His conclusion was that ‘this wife dey chop all my brother money’. I felt like giving him that look: You no get wife for house wey go cook for you? but I was young and feared for my life. A man over forty that is involved in a meat census on someone else’s plate in someone else’s house is capable of murder.

It is a fact of life that some people will be getting bigger than others. While it is understandable that a man who lives in an airless oven might notice the difference when he visits the air conditioned residence of his fellow man, it is reasonable to expect that he should be happy that only one of them has to live in an oven. And when that same man walks past the family dog and sees a fat piece of chicken that he would rather have, it is not the dog’s fault. Plates of food look good on Instagram but that does not mean it tastes better than what anyone has in their homes. True, the salad is always greener on social media and there is an allure for that plate that is beyond reach, however it might be full of salt, cold and badly cooked.

Those in films seem to eat and tell the best jokes and seem happier than real life dinner tables. Well the jokes are scripted and these are actors pretending to love each other. The ice in the drinks are plastic cubes that wouldn’t melt under the hot lights as the directors asks them to repeat the scene on end.

Nothing is sweeter that that food you did not cook. You just turn up, take a seat with the speed of a horse, smell that wonderful aroma and salivate like a pig and then start eating like a horse. At the end you leave without clearing the table or washing the dishes. I guess that is why restaurants were invented. The problem is when someone else’s personal home is treated like a restaurant especially when they are great cooks.

Some visitors time their visits to perfection causing the sages of old to invent that greeting that is usually accompanied with a hypocritical smile, ‘you meet me well my brother, wash hand’.

It is only well for the visitor for the plate owner had planned to eat in peace listening to Celestine Ukwu and reserving that roast fish for the end of the meal. Now the fish has to be offered up as sacrifice on the altar of hospitality. He prays a bone chokes the visitor as he smiles and passes 60% of his fish to him.

When thou sittest to eat with a ruler, consider diligently what is before thee:

² And put a knife to thy throat, if thou be a man given to appetite.

³ Be not desirous of his dainties: for they are deceitful meat.

There is no better plate than the one in front of man. That is the meal to be grateful for. Imagine those who were envious of the affluent families living large in Manhattan in 1903. These rich folk had a cook called Mary Mallon otherwise known as Typhoid Mary. She cooked well but added Typhoid causing germs to each plate for she carried the germs in her body. Many took ill and three died during the course of her career.

Awoof dey run purge (Other people’s delicacies are liable to provoke gastrointestinal maladies).

When it came to big hype about food, none could rival the Titanic. Those with great talents in lusting for food they could never afford had in the description of the Titanic’s culinary arrangements a real life fantasy. First class passengers were practically in heaven and they had the best utensils and wines. Over thirty chefs worked hard to produce the best food on a floating vessel since Noah fed his animals in the Ark.

This floating wonder left Southampton on the tenth of April 1912 amidst fanfare but in the end all the plate envy turned out to be a vanity.

Luther Vandross put it so well when he sang about love and it works well with food: If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you are with.

MamaPut & PapaTake

It is just like walking around town with two fridges on the chest. Nursing mothers multi-task doing both the production and storage of the milk behind closed brassieres while still being on stand- by to feed the hungry at the hint of a cry. Sonny Okosun in his politically charged song Papa’s Land asked, we wanna know who owns the land, Papa’s land. He was agitating against the Apartheid system that had Black Sons of the soil in South Africa receive second class status despite being original inhabitants of the African land. It was this patch of soil he referred to as Papa’s Land. It was true that the Papa’s grabbed plots here and there but when hunger strikes it is Mama Africa that feeds the continent.

Women worldwide serve more plates to the hungry than men. In Nigeria the men eat more than they cook except for Suya and Mai Shai (breakfast buka) which is always managed by men. Women preparing and selling Suya by the road side is as rare as a Buka where the cooking is done predominantly by men. I wouldn’t eat in any of these kind of rare establishments if I happened to come across them for I would be too busy fainting.

Men grab most of the lucrative Television Chef Contracts and star in the State Houses, Palaces and top restaurants of the world but the MamaPuts feed the nations in all the continents. While Nigerians call MamaPut the local low cost restaurants that feed the masses; today I define MamaPut as all the women who put food into the hungry mouths of the world.

I have long forgotten most of the people I met while in University but I still recall the local MamaPut who I have renamed Mama Pharaoh. I wrote about her in draft of my novel Blind Procedure (which is still being written since 2005!).

Mama Pharaoh

On this campus none important

Like the madam who feeds us all

For though the theories sound so brilliant

Can’t satisfy when man must wak

I am here for major academics

And eba-ogbono tongue gymnastics

If I ever gra-du-ate

Please post me soups in big plastics

After youth corps comes a job

House and car and then I will marry

All I want is just one thing

Babe must cook like Mama Pharaoh

It looks like Mama Africa gave the continent every chance of prospering. The fertile soil and abundant fresh water supply means seeds thrown out of the window just grow. In addition there are women everywhere even more fertile than the soil. It is almost like some ladies who get pregnant if their man looks at them longer than two minutes straight. These ladies are every ready to put food in the mouths of Africans but they lack power to ensure that food production is adequate. Many women are involved in African agriculture but the policy makers tend to be dominated by the Papas. The land ownership, the fertilisers and the pesticides are in male control and mismanagement is a major problem. The Papas love to dip their hands in the till.

The poverty that makes people have no funds to buy food is imposed on Africa by the Papas who do not make the right moves to grow the economy. The MamaPuts have their hands handcuffed behind their backs yet they are the ones that can feed Africa.

An ever so kind Mama Africa studded the soil with Gold and Diamonds. These were solely to feed the people. The Papas had other plans. They mined and they took, along with their foreign partners. In some areas, Mama Africa was stabbed through the belly till she bled Crude Oil to be shipped out to foreign refineries. The cash generated stays in the hands of the Papas who take.

The land grabbing and cash grabbing is an ironic habit. No matter how much is accumulated, everyone dies and leaves it behind. The poor ones who starve despite the potential to produce ample food amounts of food die. The frustrated MamaPuts who could not fulfil their purpose in full also die knowing they could have put more food in hungry mouths. The greedy Papas die and all they get is gold plated coffins and a befitting burial and the food they refused to give Africans in life is eaten off their bodies by the African earth worms six feet under.

When simple things are not done, Warri go say, ‘no be ordinary eye’. Ordinary eyes would see the obvious and take action according to what is seen. Blind eyes on the other hand look at things but are unable to make simple conclusions.

It is a curse really for someone in a position of power to embezzle money that could be used to ensure good harvest yields and lower food prices. The blindness looks even more bizarre when the white collared crook buys a limousine and drives through town and the very starving people who he has defrauded sing his praises. The same applied to electricity which has everything to do with the availability of food for the MamaPuts. Many times African countries cannot store farm produce for lack of refrigeration. AC currents were invented by Nikola Tesla in 1888 and before that Refrigeration using vapours to lower temperatures was invented in 1805 by Oliver Evans. One would have thought that by now every farm, factory and house in Africa would have electricity and contain fridges for food storage. That is still not the case. There is a short term gain in stealing the money that fuels development. The Papas buy flash clothes and houses shining like a solitary torch light in the heart of darkness. It is a bit like taking a pistol and shooting all competitors at the start of a race on the right foot and then racing on to victory.

Only psychopaths enjoy that kind of victory which comes at the great expense of others. Welcome to the crazy world of Africa leaders (PapaTakes) who wrestle out starvation from the jaws of abundance.

Sausage Roll

Come and buy my Gala

A lovely sausage roll

Time overtook the sell by date

Fourteen long days ago

I don’t know what it tastes like

I guess I’m just too poor

I have a tray and no school bag

I am always on the streets

Run after the nice cars

And hope they will wind down

Slow traffic’s good for business

Will soon sell all my wares

We pray it’s never raining

And we don’t  run out of change

 to give the lovely customers

As we pursue their cars

Dr W Orhiunu

 Babawilly

My Time

June 2005

Fictional Ndigbo Choppings

Long before the advent of Indomie the great fictional people that lived from Umuofia to Mbaino (present day South Eastern Nigeria) ate glorious organic food with aromas that could wake up the dead lying in the evil forest. Eating well was a daily occurrence but come the big feasts such as Weddings or the New Yam festival, no expense was spared in making everyone drunk with alimentary merriment.

No village is complete without the mavericks and Umuofia had two. One was Nwayieke who loved to pound her foo-foo late at night when mere mortals had eaten and where relaxing in their huts telling folktales or making babies. She cared nothing for the noise abatement rules and her distinctive pestle and mortal broke the silence of the night. The second one was the chief player of them all; Okonkwo who walked like he bounced on springs. He had three wives who had to be satisfied and that meant eating three meals on some occasions. Their children brought in the dishes fresh off the cooking tripods and like the equal opportunity husband that he was he ate all three meals. One could hazard a guess that the wives came to inquire if he had loved the food later in the night personally; for some questions are too important to be relayed through one’s own children.  

This was a village rich in culture and verbosity. You never approached the subject directly but danced around it the way a painful boil is scratched. There was always a preamble and food was an ever present metaphor in proverbial sayings. The people said proverbs are the palm-oil with which words are eaten after all.

Visitors were welcomed with lavish dollops of proverbs and salutations. Next thing they broke the Kola to break the ice.

Sensitive things like money and bride price discussions needed to be lubricated with Palm Wine to keep the Umuofia engine running smoothly.

Okoye called on Unoka (Okonkwo’s father) to collect a debt. After pleasantries, Unoka presented a Kola Nut, some alligator pepper and a lump of white chalk.

Okoye accepted the Kola by saying ‘thank you, he who brings Kola brings life’.

When Okonkwo was starting out in life and needed a loan of 800 seed yams to plant he turned up at Nwakibie’s residence with a pot of palm wine and a cock. Nwakibie in turn presents Kola nuts and alligator pepper. The Kola was broken and prayers said and those present brought out their drinking horns while Okonkwo shared his palm wine. (Okonkwo drank his wine first; a precaution against avoiding poisonous chemicals touching the heart). They drank palm wine down to the dregs which were handed to Igwelo who had a job in hand. He was a newly married man and palm wine dregs was the Viagra of the time in Umoufia. Following Okonkwo’s pitch the impressed Nwakibie responded thus, ‘it pleases me to see a young man like you these days when our youth have grown soft’. (Chai!! Lazy Youth??)

Many years later when Okonkwo had become rich he was described as having two barns full of yams and three wives. This amount of assets ensured he had his place in Umoufia’s Forbes Rich List for yams were the King of Crops and he had enough to spare. When he was rude to a man who he deemed not to be successful enough to contradict him in a meeting, an elder cautioned him: those whose palm kernels were cracked for them by benevolent spirits should not forget to be humble

A man of great appetite, Okonkwo lost his head when his wife went to do her hair (Pre Brazilian. Perhaps Mbanta extensions) and forgot to make his food. Both angry and hungry, he pounced on her when she returned despite it being the Week of peace when no violence was allowed. Ani the earth goddess fined him a she-goat, a hen, a length of cloth and a hundred cowries. To that Okonkwo volunteered a pot of palm wine. (The gods too ate regularly).

The arrival of the feast of the New Yam was an occasion for great joy in celebration of the recent harvest and the giving thanks to Ani the earth goddess. It was feasting all over town. There was a fable about a man who presented a mountainous amount of foo-foo for guests so much so that people on one side did not see those on the other. It was not until evening that guests recognised in-laws over the now reduced foo-foo and shook hands over it.

The Okonkwo household ate well during the first day of the new yam festival. On the second day Ekwefi and daughter plucked the feathers of a chicken proving that there might be something to this Black man and chicken stereotype.

Suddenly the gods sent a blessing that flew in filling Umuofia with celebration. Locusts descended everywhere and the elders advised the young ones to wait for nightfall before harvesting the creatures. It was rich picking for Umuofia as dew had soaked up the locust wings rendering them immobile. 

The next day locusts were roasted on clay pots and crunched happily then washed down with palm wine.

After the killing of Ikemufuna,  Okonkwo overcome with grief did not eat for two days. On the three day he ate one of his favourite meals; roasted plantains with slices of oil bean and fish.

One dark night Ekwefi and her daughter had delicious foo-foo and bitter leaf soup. Then came the folk tale about the greedy tortoise who followed the birds to a great feast in the sky having borrowed feathers from them. As they approached the feast he was chosen as their spokesman and took on the alias All of you. The host presented pounded yam, yam pottage, a soup full of meat and fish.

The greedy tortoise asked who the food was for and when the host answered, ‘all of you’ he ate most of the food. The angry birds all took their feathers back. The parrot agreed to relay a message to Mrs Tortoise to put out soft furniture so that Tortoise could jump down from the sky. The vindictive bird changed the message and asked for hard objects to be put out. The tortoise jumped down and cracked his shell which had to be put together again by a great medicine man thus losing its smoothness.

Obierika’s daughters Uri ceremony saw the whole of Okonkwo’s household go in to help with the cooking. They went bearing gifts and the children made endless trips to the stream. The in laws were coming to take their bride and brought fifty pots of palm wine for the Umunna.

Cooking pots went up and down the tripods and foo-foo was pounded in a hundred wooden mortars.

Not too long after this great wedding feast Okonkwo found himself in Mbanta where he spent seven years in exile as punishment for killing a kinsman accidentally when his gun exploded. To thank his in laws for accommodating him he threw a generous feast for them before returning home.

Things however were not the same anymore. The British had come on Iron horses and put a knife to the things that held Umuofia together and they had fallen apart.

Adapted from the Novel Things Fall Apart by Prof Chinua Achebe