“No Egusi, No Peace”
My name is Kayode and there I was, standing in the middle of my tiny kitchen in London, staring blankly at a packet of rice cakes purchased four days ago from ALDI. It was 9 p.m., I’d just gotten off a long shift at the hospital, and my stomach was making sounds that could only be described as “angry thunder.” I knew what it wanted: Egusi soup. A rich, steaming bowl of Egusi, served with pounded yam so soft, you’d think it was made in heaven. But there was just one problem — I was in London, and the closest thing to Egusi here was probably some sad version of couscous.
I didn’t move from Nigeria to eat boiled vegetables and toast all day. So how did I end up here, half a world away, fighting the urge to cry over some plain ol’ dry bread and tea? Simple: homesickness. It sneaks up on you like that extra slice of yam you didn’t need, but couldn’t resist.
After three months in the UK, I found myself craving the foods of home like never before. The cold, Autumn grey weather just made it worse. I needed that feeling of warmth in my belly that only Nigerian food prepared at a local ‘YAKOYO’ could provide. But let’s be honest: getting a pot of fresh Egusi or Ogbono soup in central London isn’t the easiest thing. It takes effort, time, and most importantly — money. If you’ve ever Googled “Nigerian restaurants in London,” you know what I mean. (Gbese)
But, being the determined Nigerian that I am, I was not going to let a few miles of the Atlantic stand between me and my comfort food. The story of how I navigated my Nigerian taste buds through London is nothing short of a hilarious, delicious adventure.
Day 1: The Great Yam Hunt
I woke up with a mission: find yam. I could have gone for something simpler, like noodles, but no. Yam was calling me. The problem? I lived in an area filled with Tesco and Sainsbury’s, none of which were likely to have the real thing.
After what felt like an endless journey through the London Tube, I found myself at Brixton Market — the unofficial headquarters of African food supplies in the city. I walked in, and I was immediately hit with the smell of dried fish and pepper soup spices. My ancestors would’ve been proud.
There it was, shining like a trophy: Yam tubers. They weren’t as big as the ones back home, but beggars can’t be choosers. I grabbed two, thinking about how my kitchen would finally smell like my mother’s.
But then the cashier hit me with the price: £15. For two yams. ₦35,000 for yam??? I could almost hear my mother gasping in shock from thousands of miles away. But hunger and homesickness will make you do strange things, so I handed over the cash, trying not to think about how much jollof rice I could’ve cooked with that money.
Day 2: Pepper Soup Fiasco
You know when you wake up with an idea that seems brilliant, but by midday you regret every decision you’ve ever made? That was me on Pepper Soup Day.
I thought, “Why not make a big pot of Goat Meat Pepper Soup? It’s cold, it’s grey, I need something to warm me up.” In my head, it was foolproof. But let me tell you — finding correct goat meat in London isn’t the same as strolling into a Lagos market and yelling “baba, abeg, give me that ‘Ogufe’ wey fresh.”
After an hour of searching, I settled for some questionable “goat” from a local butcher. I didn’t ask too many questions. I just took it home and prayed to the Pepper Soup gods that everything would work out.
Spoiler alert: it did not.
The soup smelled like home, it even looked like home, but the taste? Let’s just say, if my mom tasted that, she would disown me. I sat there, staring at the bowl, fighting the tears that threatened to spill. This wasn’t comfort; this was culinary betrayal. The goat tasted like something that had never been to a farm. I couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation — £20 and four hours later, I was still hungry.
Day 3: Victory with Jollof
After two days of failed attempts, I decided to stick to what I knew best: Jollof Rice. There’s no way to mess up jollof, right? And so, I embarked on what would be my greatest culinary victory since arriving in the UK.
I gathered all the essentials — rice, tomatoes, scotch bonnets, onions, and the star of the show: Maggi. If you know, you know.
As the rice simmered, the rich smell filled my tiny apartment. My neighbours probably thought I was running a Nigerian restaurant because it smelled that good. When I finally sat down to eat, it was everything I needed. One bite and I was back in my mom’s kitchen, arguing with my siblings about who gets the biggest piece of fried plantain. The stress of work, the cold weather, the homesickness — all of it melted away with every spoonful.
The Lesson?
Japastreeters, sometimes, all you need is a good plate of Jollof Rice to remind you that everything will be alright. Sure, I’d spent a small fortune on two yams, and yes, I’d failed miserably at pepper soup, but in the end, I found my comfort in something simple, familiar, and distinctly Nigerian. Food isn’t just about feeding your stomach — it’s about nourishing your soul. And when you’re thousands of miles away from home, that’s the comfort you need. If you’re a Nigerian in the UK, don’t let the cold weather and bland food defeat you. Go out there, find your yams, cook your jollof, and remember — even if it costs £15, it’s worth every bite.
