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Questions on Food: Ingredient, Recipes and Cultures

Guest post by Ọlábísí Abọ́dúnrìn

Like the rapper, Nasir Jones, there are many things I wonder about in life: who made up words? Who made up numbers? What kind of spell is mankind under? Just like  Nasir Jones was curious, and so am I. And of course the origin of French Kiss. I mean, who was the first to go, “yeah, we should do that,” you know. Don’t you ever ponder these things?… Anyway, I digress. Food – that’s my current muse. Practical, artful food, and a million inquiries proceeding from the subject. What constitutes food taste/preference? How is it that two different groups, given the same resources, would likely produce different results? Who first decided that certain things, like mushrooms, for instance, are edible? And how were poisonous items discovered – did someone have to die first?

Well, I know this has been addressed almost everywhere, so let us maybe consider protocols duly observed. Africa is not a single country. That’s it, that’s the tweet! There are 54 sovereign countries and thousands of ethnicities; all set up with individual languages and cultures. In Nigeria, for instance, there are reportedly between 250 and 400 ethnicities. Of these, single out the Yorubas as a case in point and you will find over 30 sub-groups with several regional dialects; some unintelligible to others… So many distinct identities to tap from! Now, imagine if we apply this range of diversity to food… With so many unexplored cuisines there can be a different one every day of the week!

One tourism outfit praised an aspect of Africa’s appeal saying, “… You can meet people whose way of life has not changed in centuries.” Although meant well, such a  notion can promote misguided imaginations of a continent stuck in primitive ways; including her culinary practices. Ironically, the “primitive ways” seem to have been more profitable in terms of health implications. Because it would appear that some African food only became less healthy over time as this article suggests: “West Africans ate far more vegetables and much less meat in the past, today their diet is heavier in meats, salt, and fats.” There is a lot in the African kitchen that is misplaced, given the 21st century dietary standards. Perhaps this is one of the reasons why many indigenous recipes are still considered a mystery beyond their African border. For one, we will have to consider health and dietary guidelines. There is simply insufficient information relating to recipe precision and nutrition value of African dishes. Sure there have been changes in cooking methods from past generations; only perhaps not in the expected direction. 

This presents the question of how to make African food more accessible globally. I cannot, for example, imagine an American eating ẹ̀bà and ẹ̀gúsí with ògúnfe daily; not even for the heaviest meal of the day. But my forefathers ate it for breakfast, and frankly, so do I sometimes! Then, there is the question of where to draw the line in this recipe adoption business. The Italian ambassador to the UK has had to intervene in the international pizza crisis. I wonder what will be his reaction to the Nigerian favourite, plantain pizza. (Hey, I had nothing to do with that recipe; I am not a fan of plantain meals myself.) Look, I do believe recipe swaps and food fusion can be achieved without gross misconduct. We could call it “Modern African”, but I can think of at least 2 groups that may – for separate reasons perhaps – find the phrase offensive; one of which is this writer who is wary of cosmopolitan cuisine. Then, of course, there are the guardians of culture who work tirelessly to keep the borders of African heritage in place. It may be easier to make a case to the former. Note that this would by no means be the first international food programme. Food has always crossed borders. Consider okra, which originated in Africa but is used differently in the American South than among the Ibos of West Africa. No one fries Okra there. Jambalaya too is said to have originated from Africa. Watermelon is everywhere now, but it first came from Africa. The point is, the world can eat what we eat. 

So,  what should be the baseline of food sharing – ingredient, recipe or culture? On the ingredient level, it is how much or less of the ingredient constitutes the meal authenticity; while the recipe level determines how much deviation is permissible. Of course, the chef gets a reasonable tweaking license. On the culture level, however, the stakes are higher as with a winner takes all sort of situation. They eat with their hands; you do the same. They sit on the floor… Get the point? And here comes the question of the moment: when is any of it cultural appropriation? The thing is, if we are to make African food accessible at a scale similar to the Chinese or Italian for instance, concessions must be made. It is give and take. The British seem to know the trick – keep it simple. Fish and chips. (Or steal an entire country’s repertoire. Because Indian food is basically British food.)

The world can take more, and the motherland certainly can give it. With platforms like DishAfrik taking up the cause to herald home-grown recipes, we can take the African kitchen to the World. Perhaps we may also introduce her more intimately to self. Because even within Africa, many know little of cuisines from other regions. Some people have only eaten from their tribe.  You can support the DishAfrik fundraising campaign here. While they may not be able to end the Jollof Wars (not sure anyone can), they sure can facilitate a thriving community for the African culinary experience. 

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Olabisi Abodunrin does not write for a living. This is how she has so far, avoided the woes and horror of this world. But alas! her best ideas remain unheard.

Questions on Food: Ingredient, Recipes and Cultures was published on September 20th, 2021, with the tags , , , , under the Art, Fun, Guest Post category. There are currently no comments on this article so far.

“A Parable from National Urban Reality” – An excerpt from Wole Soyinka’s new novel

Introduction

While the formal fact-finding panels pursue their assignment, and bewildered minds attempt to absorb the turn of events, reflect upon, and engage in informal caucuses on ‘what really happened’ during, and following the authentic #ENDSARS campaign, both in the Lekki arena and in horrifying dimensions across the nation, I believe that it will not be out of place to offer a parable extracted from a forthcoming work of fiction. A parable, yes, but an actuality that has become virtually institutionalized across the nation. It is offered as a public service before the events of the month of October 20/20 congeal in the minds of participants, onlookers and consumers of the Nigerian staple of the now mandatory UFN (Unidentified Flying Narratives).

The forthcoming novel from which it is extracted — CHRONICLES FROM THE LAND OF THE HAPPIEST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD (BookCraft) – will be published towards the end of the month of November, 2020. – Wọlé Ṣóyínká

Read on:

Excerpt from CHRONICLES

Adjusting to a new culture was his main concern, but not an insurmountable culture shock. Badagry, after all, albeit closely intertwined with Lagos, was still Badagry. Pitan-Payne was on hand, though keeping a frenetic pace to wind up his affairs and proceed to his UN assignment on schedule. The engineer seemed to thrive on interlocking calendars, and in any case, he now had Menka to pick up the loose ends for him in his absence….

  The timing could not have been more thoughtfully ordained. The unexpected and the planned seemed to dovetail neatly, like the finely adjusted sprockets or his mechanical prototypes. And while Lagos/Badagry lacked the excitement of receiving sudden cartloads of human debris from Boko Haram’s latest efforts to out-Allah Allah in their own image, one could count on gratuitous equivalents from multiple directions. Such as the near daily explosion of a petroleum tanker on the expressway or city centre. Or a roofless lorry bulging with cattle and humans tipping over on a bridge and dropping several feet onto an obliging rock outcrop in the midst of the river.  Sometimes, more parsimoniously, a victim of military amour propre – in uniform or mufti, it made no difference. That class seemed to believe in safety in numbers, and all it took was that even a low-ranking sergeant should take offence at another motorist, who perhaps refused to give way to his car, a mere ‘bloody civilian’, never mind that the latter had the right of way. An on-the-spot educational measure was mandated. Guns bristling, his accompanying detail, trained to obey even the command of a mere twitch of the lip, leapt out of their escort vehicle, dragged out the hapless driver, unbuckled their studded belts, whipped him senseless, threw him in the car boot or on the floor of the escort van and took him to their barracks for further instruction. However, the wretch sometimes created a problem by suffocating en route – which left society to develop structures for neutralizing such inconvenience.

The contradicting, ironic sequence occurred to Menka only for the first time – yes, come to think of it, the military hardly ever recorded a fatality – once or twice, maybe even three times in a month — yes, the accident of excess did happen, but mostly such terminal disposal was left to the police, whose favourite execution site was a road block, legal or moonlighting. Perhaps a recalcitrant commuter, or passenger bus driver had refused to collaborate in providing a bribe on demand, or insulted the rank of the demanding officer with a derisive sum.  And it did not have to be the original offender but some too-know grammar spouting public defender who had intervened on behalf of the potential source of extortion. The outcome was predictable – victim or good Samaritan advocate instantly joined the statistics of the fallen from ‘accidental discharge’. The expression was still current, but often it was anything but. Accidents had become infrequent and unfashionable. Oftener to be expected was that the frustrated, froth-lipped police pointed the gun, calmly, deliberately, at the head of the unbelieving statistic and,  pulled the trigger. Again, the inconvenience of body disposal.

But then, the community of victims themselves – what a specialized breed of the species! The roles, it constantly appeared, had become gleefully, compulsively interchangeable. Allowing him only a few days to ‘catch your breath and get your bearings’, Pitan-Payne lost no time in taking Menka to inspect the land designated for the Gumchi Rehabilitation Centre, for victims of Boko Haram, ISWAP and other redeemers – nothing like striking while the iron was hot! On their way, the familiar sight of crowd agitation – how would the day justify itself without some kind of street eruption somewhere, wherever! Trapped in the chug-stop-chug of traffic, the favourite commuter distraction was to attempt to guess what was the cause, and even place bets on propositions. That morning, Menka’s first in nearly a year down south did not disappoint. But for the milling blockage by intervening viewers, they could have claimed the privilege of ringside seats. Compensating for that obstructed viewing however was the sight of men and women trotting gaily, anticipation all over their faces, towards the surrounded spot of attraction. From  every direction they came, some vaulting over car bonnets, squishing their legs against the fenders, squeezing through earlier arrived  bodies or simply scrabbling for discovered vantage viewing points. They climbed on parked vehicles and the raised concrete median. Commuter buses slowed down and stopped, keke napep — the motor-cycle taxis — pulled aside, drivers and passengers alike rubber necking on both sides of, or in the direction of a wide gutter that sank into a culvert. The lights changed to green and Pitan-Payne drove on, their last shared image a pair of muscular arms raised above the bobbing heads, clutching an outsize stone, slamming that object downwards into the gutter. Very likely a snake, Pitan suggested. With the rainy season, quite a few sneaked through the marshes into culverts and slithered their way into parking lots and even offices. 

A police van came racing down the road, against the traffic, strobes flashing and sirens blaring, so Menka looked back, saw the crowd drawing back and drifting reluctantly away from the uniformed spoilsports. This opened an avenue just in time for Menka to obtain the briefest glimpse of an object slumped over the rim of the gutter, once human, but not any longer. Indeed the only human identity left him was his iodine-red tunic and black trousers, still recognizable as the uniform of a LASA officer, an unarmed unit whose function was simply to unplug traffic – stoppered as readily by truculent drivers as by the roadside markets, vendors of all the world commodities who had taken over the streets, haggled, negotiated, delivered change and goods at their own pace. If the activities delayed movement over half a dozen changes from red to green and back again, it did not concern them in the least. 

Later that evening, the television newscast narrated the full story. After futile spurts of preventive measures, Authority had commenced arrests of vendors and seizures of their wares. The LASA team, their van parked in a side street, had pursued several such malfeasants.  In a desperate attempt  to escape capture however,  one ran straight into the snout of a speeding vehicle, was tossed up, landed with an ominous thud on the sidewalk and remained there, unmoving. In a trice, a mob had gathered. They set the parked LASA vehicle on fire and worked up further appetite for vengeance. The unarmed officers had already fled. A hunt party pursued and eventually brought down a scapegoat, quite some distance from the actual scene of crime. They proceeded to the ritual battering of their catch. He broke free, ran into the gutter, tried crawling into the culvert for safety. They dragged him out by his feet, trunk and head smeared and reeking from the accumulated sludge of the blocked tunnel. Passers-by, totally ignorant of the beginning or mid-act of the mayhem, refused to be left out. They grabbed the nearest assault weapon to hand and joined in the gratification of the thrill for the day, a newbreed citizen phenomenon. The massive stone, raised above a throng of heads, quivered lightly against a Lagosian skyline of ultra-modern skyscrapers before its descent onto bone and brain. It took on an iconic dimension that stuck instantly to Menka’s surgical album of retentions, a rampant insignia of the transfiguration of a collective psyche. 

“I envy you” Menka remarked the following morning, as they confronted the print media coverage, their scalding coffee no match for the nausea aroused by the photograph sensationally smeared across the front page.  “You are going away for a while. You’ll be spared such sights.”

“I feel guilty”. confessed Duyole. “Guilty, but yes, that is one spectacle I shall not miss.”

“Careful!” Menka quickly cautioned. They have their equivalents over there. Ask the black population.”

“No. Not like this. Occasionally yes, there does erupt a Rodney King scenario. Or a fascistic spree of ‘I can’t breathe’. America is a product of slave culture, prosperity as the reward of racist cruelty. This is different. This – let me confess – reaches into – a word I would rather avoid but can’t – soul. It challenges the collective notion of soul. Something is broken. Beyond race. Outside colour or history. Something has cracked. Can’t be put back together.”  And then Pitan-Payne gasped, paused, folded over the pages and passed the newspaper to Menka. “Take a look at this. Not that it changes anything but – here, read it yourself.” 

There was a chastening coda. It altered nothing. The fleeing vendor, whom no one had even thought to help, was very much alive. He had picked himself up, salvaged most of his scattered goods, and found his way home despite a sprained ankle and some bruises. Most of the earlier spectators had retreated to a safe distance. They continued what they had been doing earlier – filming the action with their phone cameras. The police did however capture the Goliath with the terminating stone who had administered the coup de grace. He remained on the spot, to all appearance, admiring the evidence of his work. 

He vehemently protested the injustice of his arrest: “I thought he was an armed robber.” 

The END.

“A Parable from National Urban Reality” – An excerpt from Wole Soyinka’s new novel was published on October 31st, 2020, with the tags , , , under the Uncategorized category. There are currently no comments on this article so far.

“Identity Thieves on the Rampage” – a Statement by Wole Soyinka

Undoubtedly in order to promote the video clip of an ethnic revanchist calling on Igbo to leave Yorùbá land, this same lunatic fringe has exhumed, and embarked on circulating an ancient fabrication – several years mouldering in the grave – once attributed to me and vigorously denounced. 

That statement impudently expounds, as my utterance, what the Hausa want, what the Yorùbá want, and what the Igbo want.  Such an attribution – let me once again reiterate – is the work of sick, cowardly minds that are ashamed, or lack the courage, as the saying goes, “to answer their fathers’ names.”  At least the current ethnic rabble-rouser has the courage of his convictions, not so the sick brigade of identity thieves. 

Normally, one should totally ignore the social dregs. However, in the present atmosphere where FAKE NEWS is so easily swallowed and acted upon without reflection, I feel once again obliged to denounce this recurrent obscenity. As for our brother and sister Igbo, I hope they have learnt to ignore the toxic bilge under which some Nigerian imbeciles seek to drown the nation.

It is time also, I believe, to also enter the following admonition: one cannot continue to monitor and respond to the concoctions of these addicts of falsehood, and their assiduous promoters who have yet to learn to wipe the filth off their tablets. The patrons of social platforms should develop the art of discrimination.  Some attributions are simply so gross that, to grant them even a moment’s latitude of probability diminishes the civic intelligence of the recipient. 

Wọlé ṢÓYÍNKÁ

October 24,  2020

“Identity Thieves on the Rampage” – a Statement by Wole Soyinka was published on October 24th, 2020, with the tags , , under the Uncategorized category. There are currently no comments on this article so far.

“President Buhari, Say Something.” – By Niyi Osundare

Dear President Buhari,

It is now two days since members of the Nigerian Army opened fire on youthful protesters at Lekki Toll Gate in Lagos, mowing down twelve of them (according to press reports) and injuring many others. Before this final military ‘solution’, Nigerian youths had embarked on a largely peaceful demonstration against police brutality, much to the admiration and support of the public. Then came that brutal Tuesday night and the impenetrable darkness that covered and enabled the murderous act. As is to be expected, the aftermath of the Lekki Gate massacre has been an outbreak of civil riots and arson in many parts of the country, especially the Southwest. Once again, the country is on fire.

President Buhari, can you see the fire and the smoke from the remote grandeur of Aso Rock? Can you sense the ghosts of the slain, the groans of the wounded, the wails of the bereaved, and the miasma of Nigeria’s shame as it spreads across the world? Mr. President, your silence is so loud that it is bursting the nation’s ears.

Many see your silence as a sign of contempt; others say it is due to lack of concern. You have an urgent, even existential reason to prove them wrong. Tell us: who ordered the Lekki Massacre? Who oversaw its execution? What sanctions are you putting in place for those perpetrators? The Nigerian people are waiting to know. The whole wide world is waiting.

As I said to your predecessor in office at another  critical juncture in our nation’s history in 2015, the country  you swore to protect and preserve is falling apart under your watch; so Mr. President, say something, do something! The time is NOW.

Your Compatriot,

Níyì Ọ̀ṣúndáre                                                 

Oct.  22,  2020

“President Buhari, Say Something.” – By Niyi Osundare was published on October 22nd, 2020, under the Uncategorized category. There are currently no comments on this article so far.

‘DÉJÀ VU – In tragic vein’ by Wole Soyinka

OPINION

 

By Wọlé Ṣóyínká

Photo from http://www.shadesofnoir.org.uk

I arrived home from external commitments just over a week ago to an extraordinary homecoming gift. It took the form of a movement — sometimes angry, sometimes entrancing, poignant, sometimes strident, certainly robust in expectations but always moving, visionary and organized. That movement demanded an end to brutality from state security agencies, focusing on a notorious unit known as SARS. But, of course, SARS merely stood for the parasitic character of governance itself in all ramifications. That dimension – albeit not in those very terms of course – was acknowledged by the first formal response of government, delivered through the Vice-President. 

The movement involved members of the Nigerian Bar Association, Feminist Groups, Professionals, Technocrats, Students, Prelates, Industrial institutions, and Artistes – writers, cineastes, actors, musicians. It was markedly a youthful movement, its energy, creativity and resolve diffused throughout the nation through impressive strategies. It was, above all, orderly.  In places, one felt vibrations that seemed to echo concert grounds like Woodstock, other times, the massed processions of France’s Yellow vests or waves of Lech Walesa’s Solidarity movement.  Even closer, more recently and pertinent, the patient, stoical gatherings in Mali that lasted weeks and, in whose resolution, our own nation played a critical role.  

As I stated in my Message to Youth at the Freedom Park 10th anniversary events on Saturday, 17th, these youths brought fresh blood into tired veins. It was bliss indeed to be alive, to watch youths finally begin to take the future into their own hands.

But – and haven’t we been here before? — suddenly, virtually overnight, it all changed. State security services – which specific branch, we have yet to identify – transported thugs to break up the protests. The videos exist, they have been widely disseminated – sleek motorcades with number plates covered – moved to recruit and disgorge thugs and breeds of hoodlums to break up the peaceful protests. Those mercenaries set fire to the protesters’ vehicles where parked, set upon the gathered youths with cudgels and machetes. They broke open at least one prison to let out the inmates. It has since been established that some of those vandals were actually recruited prisoners who, we can only presume, have been paid not only in cash but in kind. Casualties began in single, sporadic numbers, climaxing in the shooting dead last night of a yet undetermined number of protesters in a Lagos sector called Lekki.

The mood, and climate of protest changed abruptly, and devastatingly with that diabolical intrusion. For the first time, anger and nihilism entered the lists, moving to dominate emotions. Organized militancy has been replaced by vengeful, omni-directional hatred. The capital, Abuja, has been torched in places, including the famous Apo market – that name itself evoking memories of an ancient massacre of youth – known as the APO Six — by SARS.  

Yesterday, October 20, I set out to drive to my hometown, Abeokuta, to be on my own turf as the violence was spiraling mindlessly in multiple directions. After negotiating my way through some eight or nine protesters’ road-blocks, I was compelled to turn back. It was all déjà vu – the uprisings in the former Western Region of Nigeria, the anti-Abacha movement etc. etc. etc. The attempt however enabled me to assess the mood and transformation of the movement.  I was better prepared.  I rescheduled my trip for the following day ,– that is, this morning. 

In the meantime, however, that is, within the next eight to ten hours, the tension has become unimaginable! At that earlier mention Lagos sector, Lekki, where most of the affirmative action gatherings had taken place, soldiers opened fire on unarmed demonstrators, killing and wounding a yet undetermined number. One such extra-judicial killing has drenched the Nigerian flag in the blood of innocents – and not symbolically. The video has, in accustomed parlance, ‘gone viral’. I have spoken by phone to eye-witnesses. One, a noted public figure has shared his first-hand testimony on television. The government should cease to insult this nation with petulant denials.

I resumed my trip to Abeokuta at 6 am, this morning as scheduled, again negotiating road-blocks -– this time somewhere between twelve and fifteen, all distinguished by an implacable state of rage. It was in stark contrast to the inclusivity of the protesting ‘family of common cause’ of earlier days. All inherent beauty of instant bonding and solidarity evaporated. At the block just before the Lagos Secretariat, the protesters proved the most recalcitrant.  In the end, they exacted from me just the one offering to the rites of passage – I could sense it coming — I had to come down from the car and addressed them. I did. Little did they know what was churning in my mind: This is not real. This is Back to Abacha – in grotesque replay!  

It is absolutely essential to let this government know that the Army has now replaced SARS in the demonic album of the protesters. My enquiry so far indicates that the Lagos governor did not invite in the Army, did not complain of a ‘breakdown in law and order’.  Nevertheless, the Centre has chosen to act in an authoritarian manner and has inflicted a near incurable wound on the community psyche. Need I add that, on arrival in Abeokuta, my home town, I again had to negotiate a road block? That went smoothly enough. I expected it, and have no doubt that more are being erected as this is being written. 

It is pathetic and unimaginative to claim, as some have done, that the continued protest is hurting the nation’s economy etc. etc. COVID-19 has battered the Nigerian economy – such as it is – for over eight months. Of course it is not easy to bring down COVID under a hail of bullets – human lives are easier target, and there are even trophies to flaunt as evidence of victory – such as the  blood-soaked Nigerian flag that one of the victims was waving at the time of his murder. 

To the affected governors all over the nation, there is one immediate step to take: demand the withdrawal of those soldiers.  Convoke Town Hall meetings as a matter of urgency. 24-hr Curfews are not the solution. Take over the security of your people with whatever resources you can rummage. Substitute community self-policing based on Local Councils, to curb hooligan infiltration and extortionist and destructive opportunism. We commiserate with the bereaved and urge state governments to compensate material losses, wherever. To commence any process of healing at all – dare one assume that this is the ultimate destination of desire? — the Army must apologize, not merely to the nation but to the global community – the facts are indisputable – you, the military, opened fire on unarmed civilians. There has to be structured restitution and assurance that such aberrations will not again be recorded. 

Then both governance and its security arms can commence a meaningful, lamentably overdue dialogue with society. Do not attempt to dictate — Dialogue!

Wole SOYINKA

A.R.I.  Kemta Housing Estate

Abeokuta, OGUN State

11a.m, October 21, 2020

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Published with permission.

‘DÉJÀ VU – In tragic vein’ by Wole Soyinka was published on October 21st, 2020, under the Uncategorized category. There are currently 3 comments on this article so far.