Sundays in Ibadan

An excerpt from Afro Vegan

I close my eyes and I’m back home. The West African sun beats down, and the air is thick with birdsong and barbecue smoke. Toasted cumin and devil pepper wafts through the air, as Dad is put to work, charring lunch on the grill. It’s Sunday in Ibadan, the lively city in Nigeria where I grew up.

The clink of cutlery and crockery folds into the harmonies of the neighbourhood children, chanting Sunday school anthems. We crowd around the frying plantain, listening to the oil sizzle, begging for a crunchy morsel before lunch.

In the afternoon, we go to Maggie’s salon to have our braids done. Every aunty entering is bemused by the òyìnbó (European) getting tight cornrows; my mother is as British as they come, and my father British-Nigerian, so yes, I do look quite white. Afterwards, at Mokola Market, we buy crested chameleons to free in our garden, and watch as they disappear into the thick of heliconia and hibiscus.

We watch Dad play polo, and at sunset we have dinner with the players: spice rubbed suya kebabs (p.84) and dodo (p.99), and a fizzy malt drink, Maltina. Chilli sauce spatters across our clothes, as we drench our plates.

As night draws in, my grandfather Ogie’s car breaks the stillness; he has brought ice cream from the factory down the road. We point to where we still have room in our stomachs, even after a day of gorging on our favourite foods with our favourite people.

This book is an ode to those Sundays. I dedicate it to the memory of my dad.

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