Up the mountain called Okele

Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart talks of one such mountain. The story is told during every new yam festival: “...of a wealthy man who set before his guests a mound of foo-foo so high that those who sat on one side could not see what was happening on the other, and it was not until late in the evening that one of them saw for the first time his in-law who had arrived during the course of the meal and had fallen to on the opposite side. It was only then that they exchanged greetings and shook hands over what was left of the food.”

Someone… a Nigerian, a long time ago, loaned me a charming definition of the word “Òkèlè” – Mound of swallow, he said whether gari, àmàlà, pounded yam, semovita, - A hill or mountain that must be erected, built up, only to be razed, leveled, debris swept clean. The word Òkè in Yorùbá means hill, elevation, mountain. Our Nigerian stomachs and palates require the gastronomic conquering of solid mounds.

With all our fluency - at and friendliness-with other countries’ cuisines- weeks of perhaps happily eating salad and pasta and grilled sandwiches and sushi - at the end… without warning is that familiar malaise that descends and drags the soul into a funk. The only remedy is swallow and soup - a mountain surrounded and immersed in lubricating hot broth.

Food in any culture is never just about filling stomachs in any case. It will never… ever be. It is about love affairs and pleasure and passion and myriad routes to nurturing restless targets we call appetite…scratching itinerant itches; about textures and aroma, addiction, about cultural identity and the end of husband and wife quarrels… If it were just about the functionality of eating, then it wouldn’t matter what we eat as long as we are full of food, but as-it-is we must consider many symbolic and somatic challenges in satisfying hunger.

To pound yam in the back garden; to lift such pestle up high and bring it down with force, over and over, the alien kpo kpo kpo sound filtering over into the neighbours homes: To do it quickly enough to stop the boiled slices of yam from freezing over and refusing to yield that desired elastic texture after all the hard work and exposure to cold and horrified stares from all around…Was it worth it? In Nigeria, if you brought your pestle and mortar out into the garden to pound yam, no one would pay any attention to you. They would glance quickly and go about their business. In London, it was unwanted attention when all you were trying to do was make a mound of delicious pounded-yam.

The sisters agreed they would make Àmàlà instead. Another hill but one that can be conjured safely indoors. Safely…not easily mind - Àmàlà for more than four people categorically cannot be made on the hob. It is hard enough to make it up in a Nigerian kitchen where the floor will be appropriate concrete or terrazzo. Even if one starts making it on a hob, it eventually ends up on the floor where some vigorous beating and turning is administered… So the sisters started to make the Àmàlà on the stove; hot water briskly added to yam flour until a stodgy light brown mixture is formed.

Then the important skillful/quick beating and turning to ensure not a single lump forms…The beating is obligatory otherwise the Àmàlà at the end won’t be fluffy and light and smooth and slip down into the stomach and spread like a warm blanket...The sister picked the pot of Àmàlà up to transfer it to the floor. She wrapped a rag around the pot so that it could be maneuvered without burning the hands... and feet… used to hold the pot in place on the floor. So far so good…but wait in barely a few minutes after the pot was on the floor there was a hole burnt straight through the flooring!

I would like to suggest that we are addicted to the way in which heavy foods move down our digestive systems. In contemporary settings there is not a ground to till, no need for 6:00am fufu, but the craving need-not make corporeal sense if we acknowledge there is the brain in the head and one in the stomach. Everybody has a reference point in memory to somebody, some Nigerian who they have offered a meal: rice? fried plantains with stew? That person scratches their head, shuffles their feet, frowns, their head moving demurely from side to side “hmmm” “Okay gari?” You offer, and immediately, their face breaks open like the sun from behind clouds.