Growing up in Nigeria, the concept of "Real Food" was as much a cultural lesson as it was a culinary one. I vividly remember being nine years old, a small figure in my blue and white school uniform, seated rigidly at our dining table. Across from me sat my mother, a vision of elegance in her work skirt, the scent of Poison perfume subtly filling the air. She announced she was there to watch me eat. To this day, I’m unsure who had informed her of my lunchtime skippings – perhaps Fide, our houseboy, or my younger brother, Kenechukwu. Whatever the source, the firm set of her mouth made it clear: the garri and soup before me were not optional.
With a sigh, I made the sign of the cross, a small act of rebellion before the inevitable. I broke off a piece of the soft garri, molded it in my fingers, dipped it into the egusi soup, and swallowed. A familiar itch scratched at my throat. Whether made from corn, cassava, or yams, whether cooked, stirred, or pounded, I disliked every variant of this Nigerian staple, jokingly called “swallow” because it was meant to be swallowed, not chewed – a telltale sign of a foreigner, my family would tease.
"Hurry," my mother urged, her eyes never leaving me. "You’ll be late for school." Garri was our daily lunch, except on Sundays, when we were treated to rice and stew, sometimes accompanied by a lavish salad – a vibrant mix of baked beans, boiled eggs, and creamy dressing. The soups, at least, offered some variety. There was the egusi, a yellow broth of ground melon seeds and vegetables; onugbu, rich with dark-green bitterleaf; okro, with its characteristically sticky sauce; and nsala, a light, herb-filled broth with chunks of beef. Yet, to my young palate, they were all equally unappealing.
That particular afternoon, it was egusi soup. My mother’s gaze was unwavering behind her glasses. "Are you playing with that food or eating it?" she questioned, her voice calm but firm. I mumbled that I was eating. Finally, the ordeal was over. "Mummy, thank you," I said, the words of a well-raised Igbo child after a meal, though lacking sincerity in this instance. I had barely stepped out of the carpeted dining area and onto the cool, polished concrete of the passage when my stomach revolted. The garri and soup surged back up, a wave of unpleasantness.
"Go upstairs and rinse your mouth," my mother instructed, unfazed.
Returning downstairs, I found Fide cleaning the watery, yellowish mess. Shame and disgust warred within me. It was then I confessed: I never ate garri before school. On Saturdays, I admitted, I would secretly wrap it in paper and discard it in the dustbin. Expecting a reprimand, I was surprised when she simply muttered in Igbo, "You want hunger to kill you," before telling me to get a Fanta from the fridge.
Years later, the question came again, tinged with amusement. "What does garri really do to you?" my mother asked. "It scratches my throat," I replied, and she laughed. It became a family joke, a running tease. "Does this scratch your throat?" my brothers would ask, brandishing various foods. From that day forward, my school lunches changed. Boiled yams, soft, white, and crumbly, replaced garri. I ate them dipped in palm oil, a simple but satisfying alternative. Sometimes, my mother would bring home okpa, warm and fragrant, wrapped in leaves. Okpa remains my ultimate comfort food: a steamed pie of white beans and palm oil, orange-colored and subtly sweet, its banana leaf wrapping adding another layer of flavor. We never made it at home, perhaps because it wasn’t traditional to our part of Igboland. Or perhaps, the okpa bought from roadside vendors, carried in large basins on their heads, was simply too perfect to replicate.
Yet, despite my personal aversion, I understand garri‘s significance. It is deeply woven into the fabric of the lives of those I love. My late grandmother craved garri three times a day. My brother’s ideal meal is pounded yam, another type of "swallow." My father, returning from a conference in Paris, when asked about his trip, simply stated he had missed "real food." In Igbo, the word for "swallow" is often synonymous with "food" itself. One might overhear phrases like, "The food was well pounded, but the soup was not tasty," referring to swallow. My brothers, with playful mockery, sometimes question if someone who dislikes swallow can truly claim to be authentically Igbo, Nigerian, African.
On New Year’s Day when I turned thirteen, we visited my Aunt Dede’s house for lunch. "Did you remember?" my mother asked my aunt, gesturing towards me. Aunt Dede nodded knowingly. A small bowl of jollof rice, cooked soft in a rich tomato sauce, sat waiting for me. My brothers, meanwhile, enthusiastically praised the onugbu soup. "Auntie, this is soup that you washed your hands thoroughly before cooking!" they exclaimed, a high compliment in our culture. I longed to join in their praise, but onugbu was not for me. Then, Auntie Rosa, boisterous and warm, arrived, her wrapper seemingly always on the verge of slipping. After hugs and greetings, she settled down with her pounded yam, noticing my rice. "Why are you not eating food?" she asked in Igbo, gesturing to my bowl. I explained my aversion to swallow. She smiled, a knowing, teasing smile, and declared to my mother, "Oh, you know she is not like us local people. She is foreign."
This comment, though lighthearted, touched on a deeper truth. My definition of "real food" diverged from my family’s, from a cultural norm. For them, and for many Nigerians, "real food" was intrinsically linked to these traditional dishes, these "swallows" that formed the heart of our cuisine. For me, "real food" was something different, something that didn’t scratch my throat, something that resonated with my individual taste. Yet, understanding their perspective, their deep connection to these foods, has become a crucial part of understanding my own identity within my Nigerian heritage. "Real food," I’ve come to realize, is not just about sustenance; it’s about culture, memory, and belonging. It’s a complex tapestry woven from personal preference and shared heritage, a concept that continues to evolve as I navigate my place within and beyond my Nigerian upbringing.
