I didn’t miss Nigeria first. I missed taste. That specific kind of taste that tells your body, “You are home.” Abroad, food is everywhere but familiarity is rare. The first months, I ate what was available and pretended it was fine. Bread, cheese, strange sauces, meals that looked beautiful but didn’t settle my spirit.
Then one weekend, someone said, “There’s an African shop two train stops away.” I entered and my chest loosened. Plantain. Crayfish. Bitterleaf. Pepper that actually respected heat. I walked the aisles slowly like I was visiting old relatives.
When I cooked that night, the smell was a time machine. It pulled memories from deep places—Sunday afternoons, noisy kitchens, the sound of somebody complaining that the stew is too much. I ate and my mood changed. Not dramatically, but enough to notice.
Later, I realized it wasn’t just about food. It was about belonging. Abroad teaches you that comfort is not automatic—you have to build it. You have to hunt for small things that keep you human.
Now, whenever a new Nigerian arrives and says they’re struggling, I don’t start with motivational speeches. I ask: “Have you found your food plug?” Because sometimes healing begins with a proper meal.
