Chapter One: A Taste of Tradition

Hope  balanced on her toes, straining to see over the tall, scarred wooden counter in her mother’s kitchen. The room was alive with color: the green of fresh peppers, the crimson of tomatoes piled high in a woven basket, and the golden glow of the afternoon sun streaming through the window.  Mama bustled about, her gele perched high and regal on her head, her movements precise as she chopped onions. “Hope, come closer,” she called, glancing over her shoulder. “It’s time you learned to make jollof rice.”

Hope froze. Her eyes widened at the mention of the iconic Nigerian dish, the one every auntie at every family party swore her version was the best.

“But Mama,” Hope stammered, “What if I ruin it?”

Mama’s laughter filled the room, rich and warm like palm oil heating in a pot. “Nobody starts out perfect, my dear. Even your grandmother burned her first pot of jollof. What matters is that you try.” Hope took a deep breath and stepped forward. If she was going to learn, there was no better teacher than Mama.

The Ingredients
Mama began pulling items from the pantry and fridge, setting them in a neat row on the counter.

Optional: cooked chicken or fish to serve alongside.

“Every jollof recipe is a little different,” Mama explained. “But the key is the seasoning and the balance of flavors. Watch closely.”

The Process Begins
Mama handed Hope a knife. “Start with the onions. Chop them fine.”

Hope gripped the knife awkwardly, her brow furrowing as she tried to mimic her mother’s swift, confident motions. The first few cuts were clumsy, but soon she found a rhythm.

“Good,” Mama said with a nod. “Now heat the oil in the pot.”As the oil shimmered, Hope added the onions, their sharp, sweet aroma filling the kitchen. 

Mama instructed her to add the tomato paste next, stirring it into the onions until the mixture darkened and thickened.

“This is called frying the base,” Mama said. “It’s what gives the jollof its depth of flavor.”

Next came the blended tomatoes, bell peppers, and scotch bonnet peppers. Hope poured them in carefully, the mixture bubbling and hissing as it hit the hot oil.

“Add the spices now—thyme, curry powder, paprika—and don’t forget the bay leaves,” Mama instructed.

Hope sprinkled the spices in, watching as the sauce transformed into a vibrant, aromatic red. She stirred it gently, feeling a small thrill of accomplishment.

The Rice Joins the Party
“Now comes the important part,” Mama said. “Wash the rice.”

Hope rinsed the rice under cold water until the water ran clear, then added it to the pot. She stirred it into the sauce, making sure every grain was coated. Finally, she poured in the stock, lowered the heat, and covered the pot with a tight lid.

“Now we wait,” Mama said, pulling out a chair.

They sat together, the kitchen quiet except for the soft hiss of steam escaping from the pot. Hope fidgeted, her nerves returning.

“What if it doesn’t taste right?” she asked.

Mama reached over and took her hand. “Cooking isn’t just about following a recipe, Hope. It’s about love, patience, and connection. Even if it’s not perfect, it will still be yours. And that is enough.”

The Reveal
After what felt like hours, Mama lifted the lid, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. Hope leaned in, her mouth watering at the sight of the vibrant red rice, each grain perfectly cooked.