S4, E5: A Culinary Journey in Lagos

In the fifth episode of Travel Tales by Dinogo, season four, food writer Yewande Komolafe ventures to Lagos, discovering family, flavors, and her own identity.

Transcript

Aislyn Greene, host: I’m Aislyn Greene, and you’re listening to Travel Tales by Dinogo. Each episode features a traveler sharing a transformative journey. This season, I'm also having in-depth discussions with each storyteller about significant travel dilemmas. Technically, I'm not physically with them, as I’m recording from my houseboat in Sausalito, but you get the idea.

This week, we delve into themes of identity, cuisine, and the essence of home with Yewande Komolafe. Yewande is a writer, recipe creator, and the author of the new cookbook, My Everyday Lagos. I discovered her work through the New York Times cooking section, where she writes a monthly column filled with enticing recipes for dishes such as maafé, a savory Senegalese stew, and bolo de cenoura, a delightful Portuguese carrot cake that I’m tempted to try this weekend.

As you will soon discover, Yewande was raised in Nigeria but has spent the majority of her adult life in the United States, which led to a sense of disconnection and a struggle with her own identity. However, in 2018, she made her way back to Lagos. This return seemed to unify her various selves and fostered a powerful reconnection with the foods of her childhood.

Before diving into Yewande’s narrative, instead of an interview, we will listen to a brief excerpt from My Everyday Lagos, an exquisite book filled with stories and recipes that inspired me to do two things: throw my computer out the window and rush to the kitchen, and book a flight to Lagos. I think I’ll start with the cooking first. Alright, let’s hear from Yewande.

Yewande Komolafe, excerpt: This is how I might convey Lagos to someone asking about my origins and what it’s like there. The energy is intense, and its chaos can be quite unsettling. Yet, once you acclimate, it feels like your senses are heightened. Even at midnight, the traffic can threaten to drain your enthusiasm for the day. However, stepping out into a vibrant late-night spot revives that energy. What might be crises elsewhere feel like minor issues in Lagos.

Lagos has no more chaos or confusion than any other major city. Yet, to me, it embodies a uniquely African megacity that maintains a bond with nature even as it develops. Lagos was not brought into existence through colonization by the Portuguese or English, nor was it born in the years immediately following its independence. For centuries, it has been adapting, growing, and transforming. For those of us in the diaspora who return for short visits or only in our memories, it continually unveils itself. In Lagos, change serves as a force that redefines both the present and the past. In this context, I hesitate to make any definitive claims through my cooking.

I can vividly picture my grandmother hunched over a pot in the backyard of her Surulere home, tending the flames to infuse the jollof rice with a smokiness that no stovetop or jarred sauce can replicate. I see my mother at Oyíngbo Market in Ebute Metta, meticulously selecting the best herbs and dried plants for her medicinal concoctions. I visualize my aunt in her kitchen in Ikeja, unwrapping a bag of yaji spice, arguably the finest in the world. There is a brilliant and resilient order to Lagos, rooted in its people and their connections with one another. From this foundational context outward, Lagos is a place where anything can happen.

Yewande: I was born in Berlin but grew up in Lagos. My family relocated to Nigeria because both my parents are Nigerian and had met as students in Berlin. However, at 16, I packed up once again to pursue my college education in the United States.

In our family, there was always an expectation that we kids would eventually move away from home—we were meant to attend college abroad, just like our parents had done. When I moved to the U.S., my older brother was already in Maryland, so I was going to join him there.

I was quite young. Now that I have kids of my own, the idea of them leaving home at such an early age horrifies me. But in the Nigerian education system, students graduate high school at 15 or 16. That was the age I left Lagos for college in the U.S.

I believe that was one of the first moments when my spirit left my body.

After about a year of living here and attending school, I lost my older brother. He was two years my senior. At that time, I was 17, and he was 19. He passed away during my first summer here, and that experience changed me profoundly.

That was a moment when I realized I couldn’t process what was happening to me and my family. Looking back, I can see that I essentially left myself behind, wandering around like a shell of a person. My body was moving, but my spirit was absent.

For that reason and others, a traditional four-year college wasn’t the right fit for me. I was struggling academically and feeling unhappy. Then one day, I came across a flyer for a culinary arts school—and that flyer changed the trajectory of my life.

I did graduate from college, and then I applied to culinary school. It captivated me completely. I cherished the intimacy of working with food, breaking down ingredients, and watching how they transformed while cooking. Engaging with food also helped me forge connections during a time when I felt very isolated. Even though I spent long hours in windowless kitchens, working with food allowed me to tune into the seasons. I could spend hours hulling strawberries or slicing fennel. The precision of that work was incredibly calming for me.

However, this journey also led to me becoming undocumented. When I first arrived in the States, I came on a student visa, which is quite strict and specific. When I switched to a two-year culinary program, the registrar made a minor error, and as a result, I lost my legal status. I attempted to rectify the situation, but I was not granted reinstatement.

At that time, I thought, “I can’t leave in the middle of my school year; I’m striving to achieve something.” It was also a period in my life when I was finally starting to feel like myself again after my brother’s death, and I didn’t want to disrupt that newfound stability. I didn’t want it to feel like “OK, the past five years of your life mean nothing; you have to start all over again.”

After I graduated, I began cooking in restaurants across the country. Eventually, I transitioned to working as a recipe developer in test kitchens and collaborated with publications like Bon Appétit and the New York Times.

I was completely immersed in my life in the West. While I still regarded Nigeria as home, it felt like a distant one. In many ways, I was starting to accept all facets of myself. Yet, with each passing year, Lagos seemed to drift further away.

I even ceased cooking Nigerian dishes at home. Deep down, I knew I could always whip up rice and stew, my ultimate comfort food. But I felt hesitant to explore that part of myself since I wasn't sure when I could return home. It was easier to avoid those childhood flavors altogether.

Then I met my husband, Mark, who used to run a supper club in New York. We shared mutual friends, and by the time we were around 35, we quickly realized we wanted to marry and be together. We knew we were meant to be life partners.

That was a wonderful realization. I thought, “This will also help resolve my undocumented status, and I’ll be able to travel.” So, we got married, I applied for my green card, and in 2018, I found myself holding a plane ticket to Nigeria. It had been over 15 years since my last visit.

I vividly recall stepping off the plane with my husband, and there were people lined up in that tunnel—the one you walk through right after disembarking. Every single one of them was Black, and they all greeted us with smiles, saying, “Welcome to Nigeria! Welcome to Lagos!”

It felt as if they were speaking directly to me. Once we got into the car, my mom started pointing out familiar spots: “Do you remember where you used to get this? That’s where you met your friends!” But I was sitting there thinking, “I have no idea where I am right now. Nothing seems to connect—it’s not adding up at all.”

Then we arrived at my parents' home. It wasn’t the house where I grew up, but I recognized it instantly. The house is nestled within a compound, surrounded by a lush garden. I would know that greenery anywhere. My parents have always had a passion for gardening; they cultivate various plants and food.

I wandered through the garden, feeling the leaves and plants. We visited at the perfect time, just as the trees were bursting with ripe fruit. I spotted trees laden with bright yellow starfruit. I picked some scent leaf and brought it to my nose—it's like a cross between mint, oregano, and basil. In that moment, I thought, “I can’t believe I’m in Lagos.”

Throughout my time there, I was overwhelmed with emotion and sensory input. You have to understand, Lagos is simply hectic. There's non-stop traffic, a throng of people, the constant noise of horns, and a whirlwind of activity in the streets. It's vibrant with color and there's so much to take in.

I found myself spinning around, constantly asking, “What’s happening here? What’s happening there? What’s over there?” The excitement was palpable—I couldn’t believe I was here, by my own choice, and that I would be allowed to return to the United States. It all felt so surreal, especially since I had long wondered if this moment would ever come.

A few days into our visit, my parents took my husband and me to a smaller city just outside Lagos called Ile Ife. Ile Ife is an ancient Yoruba city, historically significant as the first Yoruba city-state and a center of tradition, renowned for its statues and historic buildings.

The journey felt like it took ages. I vividly recall how the sand on the roads became increasingly red the further we ventured into the country. While Lagos is coastal, we were heading inland, deep into the southwest. Eventually, we arrived at the Oòni’s palace, where Yoruba kings have resided since the 18th century, including the current monarch, Ojaja II.

The palace is surrounded by tall iron gates painted black and gold. Inside, however, it felt almost intimate. It wasn't lavishly decorated; instead, there were mats on the floor, and nothing that would signify, in a Western sense, that I was in a king’s palace. Yet, it felt spiritually resonant right from the start.

With our tour guide, we entered a room where he explained, “This is where the kings are laid to rest.” He elaborated on Yoruba beliefs, stating, “We don’t say the king dies because we view death as not being finite. We believe in reincarnation.” He spoke extensively about cultural perspectives and beliefs surrounding death.

In that moment, my thoughts were consumed by memories of my brother. After his passing, I often found myself wandering through New York City, half-expecting to encounter him again. It was difficult for me to fully accept his absence because I always felt his presence alongside me.

I also reflected on my long-standing fascination with Day of the Dead traditions. I decorated my apartment with little skulls, much to my mother's dismay. She would frequently ask, “Why surround yourself with reminders of death?” I struggled to articulate my feelings but managed to say, “It’s the first time I see death represented in such a vibrant way.”

I didn’t fully grasp why, but I was inexplicably drawn to it. So when I was in Ile Ife and the guide mentioned, “We Yorubas never say the king dies,” everything began to fall into place, like a series of clicks in my mind.

Suddenly, I thought, “Yes, I believe in reincarnation.” My name, Yewande, literally translates to “mother has returned.” It signifies that my spirit has existed before; that I am someone who has come back to this life. I’ve always felt, deep within, that I carry the essence of a past existence.

In an instant, it felt as if the floodgates of understanding burst open in my mind. That experience in Ile Ife set me on a journey to explore what it truly means to be Yoruba.

Later during our journey, we encountered a remarkable relic: a statue of Moremi Ajasoro, a legendary figure who aided the Yoruba in their struggle against oppression. The essence of this warrior, who fought against tyranny and enslavement, deeply moved me. I felt her strength resonating within me, empowering me in ways I had never experienced before. It was a profound moment, and the insights I gained in Ile Ife enabled me to embrace my own power more fully.

Nigeria certainly has its challenges, yet being in a place where I felt truly seen and accepted allowed me to start reconciling all the different aspects of myself. This trip marked the beginning of my journey to integrate my many identities and understand my being through the lens of Yoruba culture.

For instance, I now perceive myself as a spirit navigating the world, constantly learning the nuances of being human. I’ve always identified as gender fluid, and in Yoruba tradition, much like in many Indigenous cultures, the rigid gender binary doesn’t exist—which resonates deeply with me.

Upon returning home after my trip, I was flooded with emotions. It took me years to process all that I was discovering about myself. Eventually, another realization dawned on me: I could weave my passion for food and my career into the narrative of who I am becoming as a Yoruba individual.

It was around this time that I seriously began to reconnect with cooking Nigerian cuisine. For years, I hadn’t felt the need to explore it deeply. At the start of my culinary journey, I was more focused on traditional cooking techniques, which were predominantly Euro-centric. For example, I aspired to be a classic pastry chef, driven by a desire to master French pastry techniques.

I also noticed a lack of representation for myself in the culinary world and food media. Eventually, I began to challenge that notion. I started to wonder, “Why is the focus always on bread or pasta?” This question emerged both personally and within the broader food community.

Just before my journey to Nigeria, I was creating recipes for the New York Times, and they commissioned me to work on a project centered around Nigerian cuisine. It was the first time throughout my cooking career that I could openly discuss my Nigerian heritage and my experience as an immigrant.

From that project emerged a cookbook titled My Everyday Lagos.

The writing of that book flowed effortlessly for me. It felt like a chance to share a narrative about myself that I had never fully articulated before. In it, I candidly reflected on my experiences and began to process them through my writing.

Delving into my immigration story and memories of my older brother was intense and painful, but it was an essential part of my healing process, making it crucial and necessary.

I believe the narrative of immigrant cuisine is integral to the story of America. Writing this book forced me to confront my identity repeatedly. Although I still find it challenging to label myself as American, it holds less significance for me now. I primarily identify as Yoruba.

These days, I find myself preparing the Nigerian dishes of my childhood. This practice connects me to both my past and my present. One dish, in particular, has become a staple for me: ogi, a fermented corn porridge I enjoyed every Saturday morning during my upbringing. I resumed cooking it in 2020, after returning from another trip to Lagos. My daughter was one year old then, and ogi is ideal for weaning children. Plus, having just landed a book deal, this recipe felt like the perfect starting point.

Making ogi from scratch is a lengthy process, but that’s part of its charm. I begin with dried corn, soaking it overnight until the kernels swell. Then I blend it into a cornmeal. This cornmeal goes into a fine mesh sieve, rinsed with fresh water to extract the cornstarch, resulting in a milky liquid that ferments until it becomes tangy, bubbly, and yeasty. After pouring off the liquid, I’m left with a paste of fermented cornstarch. Each morning, I take one or two tablespoons of this paste, heat it in a pot, and enjoy it as porridge with maple syrup.

It’s delicious and feels like a shared creation between my daughter and me. In the midst of the pandemic, preparing this dish reconnected me to my roots. It’s a recipe I learned from my mother in Lagos that I can now pass on to my daughter, whom I’m raising in Brooklyn. It’s a comforting bowl that ties together the past and looks forward to the future.

Aislyn: That was Yewande Komolafe. With fall upon us and colds making their rounds, the idea of a warm bowl of ogi each morning sounds incredibly comforting. Yewande is about to embark on a book tour for her cookbook, My Everyday Lagos, which we’ll link to in our show notes. You can also find more about her appearances on her website and via social media. Next week, we’ll return with a special bonus interview featuring the queen of country music: Dolly Parton.

Eager for more Travel Tales? Head over to Dinogo.com/podcast and don’t forget to follow us on Instagram and X. We’re @Dinogomedia. If you enjoyed today’s adventure, I hope you’ll return for more incredible stories. Subscribing makes it simple! You can catch Travel Tales by Dinogo on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or your preferred podcast platform. Please remember to rate and review the show, as it helps us secure fantastic guests like today’s, and makes it easier for fellow travelers to discover us.

You’ve been listening to Travel Tales, a production by Dinogo Media. The podcast is crafted by Aislyn Greene and Nikki Galteland, with music composed and produced by Strike Audio.

Everyone has a travel story to share. What’s yours?