Smoke from the hot palm oil, peppers, and onions bobbed in the air and a cloud of steam covered the pots. The market-goers were gone for they had mostly dispersed, leaving only the really ambitious vendors and buyers in the market by mid-morning. Ema’s Kitchen I received as a part of the legacy to continue and not simply as an enterprise to develop. Originally owned by my grandmother, this restaurant was created by her working hard, loving it and using her brains. So it was not only a restaurant, but people also wanted to come there to relax; they wanted to be fed not only with but also for their soul.
”Femi, are you listening to me?” I came back to my senses, turning my attention away from the boiling pot. Behind the counter stood Dame Lydia. Her posture was strong even in the tiredness highlighting her face, now so different from the woman I had heard so much about when growing up.
“Oh, I am sorry Madam”, was my response which was accompanied by wiping my hands on the apron I wore. "I didn't catch that". All she did was make a frustrated sigh. I said I need your help anon, Femi. I was admitted to many hospitals, many specialists, doctors in other countries, and no one can do anything for me. I’m... losing myself."
Ako. This word danced in my head like a grim shadow. I knew what it was before she opened her mouth to say it. Stress is a common reason you might hear from the doctors for memory loss, confusion and mood swings, my medication for Ako – the ailment that doctors do not recognize but my grandmother did. Though she had seen it once, a few years back, she had healed it. I was not very wise in those days, so I did not grasp many particulars, but the picture of the woman ‘she’ repaired, that is, revived – remained in my memory, it became my shadow.
“My grandmother used to treat a case like yours,” I spoke gently, “but that was many years ago.”
Thus young Dame Lydia’s eyes sparkled with hope – hope that was thin, yes; hope that was starving, nevertheless.
Dame Lydia stared in hope, flickering and so dim, yet burning with passion. "That's why I'm here. I heard about her. They claim this one, this *Ako* was cured by her. I had other things in mind I said, may be you have inherited her knowledge.
Her words, as if heavy as a material like a garment which slapped on my shoulders, and felt cumbersome to bear. ‘I still know,’ I said, and paused, ‘but there is a problem.’
Her facial expression shows that she is worried and her eyebrows are more forwarded up. "What is it?"
That recipe for the cure is inside of the book that belonged to my grandmother, the one she used when making the stew we now know as *Oya’s Stew*. But there is one ingredient that is absent. The Akoko seed."Dame Lydia frowned looking bewildered for a moment before the confusion set in on her face. "Akoko seed?"
"It's rare," I explained. "Almost impossible to find. It has been out of the markets for years. By not adding it, I really don’t know how the stew will turn out.
Heavy silence dominated the room again, tense silence. I could feel her disappointment hanging over me, and with it the responsibilities of accepting the role my grandmother had laid out for me.
But I will find it,” I said out loud, almost against my will. On the hunt for the Akoko seed I replied; “I shall make the preparation of the stew.”
The hand on her purse clamped even more and the blonde opened her mouth in I presumed an expression of relief. "Thank you," she whispered.
A book of my grandmother’s was lying on the counter, the pages were old, yellowed in fact. Every page was a map of her life, a document of the every remedy, cure and meal she had attempted to concoct for the purpose of making things better. With my fingers I began to recall the ingredients they used in preparing Oya’s stew: The Egusi seeds, the Uziza leaves, the Cocoa yam, the Palm oil and, of course, the Akoko seed. It did not matter that it was the main ingredient, the core that made the stew powerful. But without it I was lost!!!!!
I leaned back in my chair and started to rub my eyes with the realization of what I needed to do. How in the world was I expected to get a seed that has not been in Lagos for five years?
The following morning, I hurried out of Ema’s Kitchen as early as I could, and headed for the only place that might have anything to offer—the Balogun market. the massive market which was a single, endless network of tables and shops and stands, in which you could buy anything at all if only you could find where it was.
I started with the herbalist a question on the Akoko seed. Each one gave me the same answer: they hadn’t seen it in years. A sixty year old woman said; ‘Gone’ while she was tying bundles of dried leaves. "No one plants it anymore. Not here."
Anger was corroding the inside of me. But for the Akoko seed the fate of Dame Lydia would have been sealed, and I had sealed it—my failure to fail my grandmother.
I had to look for an entire day, hopping from one vendor to the next, or one corner of the market to the next. The day’s last rays of sunshine were shining as bright as the disappointment that filled my chest whenever my feet screamed pain.
Just before leaving the headquarters, I saw a man whom I knew was Baba Olumide, a friend of my family and more specifically of my grandmother. He sat behind a small stall, which sold traditional remedies like his father did before him.
"Femi!" He took the time to give me a hearty handshake and then hugging me tightly like you would a bear. "It's been too long. How are you, my boy?"
“I’m… fine,” I replied, which was a lie. "Baba, I need your help. Interestingly, I want to find the Akoko seed. It may be called something different, do you know where I can find it?
His smile faltered. "Akoko seed, you say?" He run his hand across his cheeks, looking deep in thought. It’s been quite a while since I saw that. Though your grandmother could always find things in the easiest of places, she would always manage to lead you in the most roundabout way possible. I merely gave a head gesture out of realization, that made me think of the good old days. "She did."
‘I think you’re right,’ he replied and then leaning in, said louder, ‘Listen Femi,’. >There’s an old herbalist outside the city in the outskirts. But anyone who has Akoko seeds is him. But beware, it takes a long time – and he does not speak with guests.)
"Where can I find him?"
Baba Olumide then, wrote directions on a piece of paper and gave it to me. "Good luck, my boy. And it is worth recalling — often the medicine is not in the reagents, and in the fingers of the person who prepares it.
I thanked him, then took the directions and returned to the restaurant. These words of his were going round in my head. Then could it really be that simple? Was there something more to the cure than just the seed?
---
The next day I left early having been given directions by Baba towards the outskirts of Lagos. The roads become worse as I drove deeper into the country as now buildings were less and less, replaced with lots of huge areas of green land.
It later seemed like hours but I finally reached the small compound. It was an older man who I was to consult with; he was a tall man with gray hair, and the weathered look on his face and shrewd look in his eyes told me he was not exposed only to the elements in the course of his work as an herbalist.
‘The Akoko seed?’ he asked without even a greeting.
“Yes” I said feeling my pulse race all the way up my neck. "Do you have it? "Who are you and what do you need the Akoko seed for?" He asked looking in another direction. "My name is Femi, grandson of the popular late chef and healer, Ema", I replied. He looked at me with utmost surprise like he has seen a ghost. "Your grandma was a very dedicated chef and healer, she saved my son's life in the past with her gift", the old man replied.
He shook his head slowly. "Well I used to. But the last of the Akoko plants died years ago Now that all the plants are gone, the Chinyanja people use it as the table to cook their food. Sorry sweetheart, I think you are too late”.
My stomach dropped. Too late. Those words were as though a death sentence in my ears. "But... I need it,” I said my voice getting smaller and smaller as if I was asking for a lifter. ‘It is impossible that there are no some left, in the world.’
The herbalist nodded at me and took a deep breath. "I can’t help you. But let me assure you this—one grandma was not short of ingredients and she didn’t need to be either. She believed in the ideal of the food. Herbs were to her more than plants and herbs seen as powers that could be used to make cures to people. Perhaps that is something that you should bear in mind." His words were enigmatic – a one, a question that I am far too tired to answer. I thanked him and walked away empty handed.
When I arrived back to Ema’s Kitchen, I sat with the book that once belonged to my grandmother and looked at the recipe for Oya’s Stew. What ever happened to the Akoko seed that was supposed to have germinated stood on the page as a reminder of my loss. But as I was reading the words I noticed them the second time, I connected the dots. When the herbalist told me the same as Baba Olumide did, that healing wasn’t just in the ingredients she understood. It was about the actor preparing the dishes, and the thought process which has led to creating the meals.
Perhaps the Akoko seed was not important for me after all.
Getting to my feet, resolve flooded with this most potent form of adrenaline. I collected the other components that included; Egusi seeds, Uziza leaves, Cocoa yam, Palm oil, and others. I followed all the instructions on preparing the stew to the letter, giving all of myself to it. While boiling the stew, my mind was thinking of Dame Lydia, how desperate she was, living in pain. As I stood realising that there was blood everywhere, I remembered my grandmother and how she used to treat scores of people in that kitchen alone. When at last the stew was cooked, each gulp smelt of spices as well as centuries of EW and Afrocentricity. I scooped a portion of the stew into a bowl and my hand shook as I bring it to Dame Lydia who was seating in the corner of the room waiting for her turn.
“Here,” I said, putting the bowl in front of her. "This is Oya’s Stew. She suspended in indecision for a second and then put a piece into her mouth. I sat with her closely observing for any sign of change, any sign that the stew had started working. But nothing happened—not right on the spot, anyway.
This continued for days, and Dame Lydia kept patronizing the restaurant by coming back several times. Each time, and although the stew was the same, the intention had been the same, and the preparation had been the same. And step by step she started transform into somebody else. Her memory started to return. The changes of mood became less severe. The confusion lifted.
It was not a serious infection that would be fixed in the blink of an eye, but it was getting better. As I looked at her regaining her strength, it then dawned on me that the strength of Oya’s stew is in the thought process of it's preparation.
