Madam, Your Plantain Go Sweet Well Well?

Two weeks ago, I decided to try something new for my food blog.

I wanted a recipe that wasn’t just tasty but had a story—something Gen Z foodies would click, share, and actually cook. I stumbled across a viral TikTok thread: “The Forgotten Nigerian Pepper Soup Recipe That Brings Back Lost Memories.”

That title alone screamed SEO gold: Nigerian Pepper Soup, lost recipe, food memories, best comfort dish. Perfect.

So, I planned a cooking night at my place. I went to Mile 12 market, bargaining for fresh catfish, goat meat, and those spicy calabash nutmeg pods that make pepper soup sing.

The air in the market was thick with smoke, roasted corn, fried akara, and the constant shouts of sellers:

“Fine boy, buy tomatoes here!”

“Madam, your plantain go sweet well well!”

I stuffed everything into my woven bag and headed home, already imagining the headline:

“How to Cook Authentic Nigerian Pepper Soup That Tastes Like Home.”

In my tiny kitchen, I laid out the ingredients like it was a movie set.

Fresh goat meat cut into chunks

A fat, slippery catfish staring at me with dead eyes

Scotch bonnets, onions, garlic

Secret spices: uda seeds, ehuru, and calabash nutmeg

My friend Ada popped in, phone already recording.

“Guy, talk to your audience nau. Give them YouTube vibes.”

I laughed, holding up a piece of meat.

“Alright guys, today I’m teaching you how to cook Nigerian Pepper Soup the right way—forget all those watered-down versions you see online. This one go choke.”

Ada giggled. “Say it like a food vlogger, abeg.”

We started cooking. The aroma filled the room—spicy, earthy, warm. Ada kept dipping bread into the broth before it was even ready.

As the soup simmered, something weird happened.

I tasted it once.

Then twice.

Then… boom.

Memories I didn’t even know I had started rushing back.

Suddenly, I was five years old again, sitting on my grandma’s wooden stool in Benin, watching her grind spices on a stone, telling me, “Food is memory, my son. Cook with your heart.”

I blinked. My kitchen blurred. Ada looked at me.

“Why’s your eye red? Is it the pepper?”

I shook my head. “No… it’s like this soup just opened some portal in my brain.”

Ada froze. “Portal ke?”

Before I could explain, the doorbell rang. Strange. I wasn’t expecting anyone.

I opened the door. A frail old man stood there, holding a walking stick. His eyes widened when he saw the steam coming from my pot.

“That smell… it’s my mother’s recipe,” he whispered.

I froze. “Excuse me, who are you?”

He introduced himself as Mr. Okon, my late grandmother’s childhood neighbour. He said he lived two streets away and hadn’t smelled that pepper soup in over 40 years.

Ada whispered, “This is getting spooky.”

We invited him in. He took a spoonful, and tears rolled down his cheeks.

“This… this is exactly how she made it. The same balance of uda, the same fire of scotch bonnet. My God… it feels like I’m home again.”

We sat down, three strangers bound by one pot of soup. Laughter, stories, memories—it was like food time-traveled us.

After we ate, Mr. Okon looked me dead in the eye and said:

“Your grandmother hid something in her recipes. A diary. She wrote it in the margins of her old cookbook. Find it, and you’ll discover why she always said food is memory.”

I blinked. “Diary? Cookbook? Where?”

He smiled, stood up slowly, and whispered: “Check the back of her spice cabinet.”

Then—no joke—the man disappeared. Ada screamed. I almost dropped the pot.

That night, I went to my grandma’s old house. The spice cabinet was still there. I opened the back panel—and found a dusty notebook wrapped in brown cloth.

Inside, in her handwriting, were recipes mixed with stories, secrets, and even family history we never knew.

And that’s when I realized: food is not just for eating—it’s for keeping memories alive.

Now, every time I write a recipe blog, I don’t just list ingredients. I tell the story. The history. The feelings.

Because one pot of pepper soup didn’t just feed me… it reconnected me with who I am.