I never thought a day would come when cooking would bring a sense of calm and stillness to the chaos that is sometimes my life. From prepping the ingredients, which sometimes involves slicing vegetables into delicate pieces, to the gentle bubbling of the pot as the aroma of the food being cooked makes its way around the kitchen. I never thought I would come to see the kitchen as a place to soothe my racing thoughts, considering how much I hated cooking while growing up. 

I grew up in a typical Nigerian home where cooking was considered a woman’s duty. Everyone expected me to know how to cook and do it well, whether I liked it or not. As a child, I did not like it. 

I resented the hours I had to spend in the kitchen, chopping onions and washing dishes. All I wanted to do was read my Enid Blyton novels in peace. To make matters worse, my mum loves cooking. She loved to tell me stories about how people travelled from far and wide to eat her catfish pepper soup and black soup. 

To me, cooking seemed like an unnecessary chore. The worst part was that my brothers were never expected to partake in kitchen work, even in things as simple as washing plates. Every time I pointed this out, my mother would remind me that I was training to be a wife to some nobody soon and it wouldn’t matter to my imaginary husband and his family whether I was the smartest woman in the room if I didn’t know how to cook. 

I really wanted to not learn how to cook so I would prove that theory wrong. For a long time, I avoided cooking with everything in me. Luckily, I was always surrounded by friends who loved to cook so I’d either opt of the cooking or volunteer buy the ingredients needed, or just wash the plates after eating. It was either that or going out to buy food . This arrangement worked for a while until I moved to another city where I knew no one and had to fend for myself. I started to cook for sustenance because I needed to feed myself, and eating bread and beans from Iya Aisha opposite my house every day was not an option I wanted to explore. My cooking started with simple things like shaking up my noodle recipe: introducing vegetables and stir-frying bits of meat. I noticed that I enjoyed the process. It wasn’t long until I found myself experimenting with new recipes, trying out different cuisines, and just generally discovering the joy of cooking. 

One of my favourite things to cook these days is pepper soup, which is ironic because I hated it growing up, when I had to help my mum prepare the assorted meat for her soups. But, I grew to find solace in the prep process: outlining your ingredients, slicing them up, and putting them in a pot to cook. The actual cooking process is pretty simple: cook all the ingredients together until you have a spicy, tasty thick broth you can serve alone or with rice, yam or potatoes, depending on how you like it. However, my friend introduced me to a different recipe that included steaming bell peppers, blending them and adding the fine paste to the boiling broth. That act of simmering the ingredients and checking for the perfect taste on my tongue after a period of time is a form of therapy for me. 

I love cooking because of the sense of control it gives me. Living in Nigeria means navigating a world of unpredictability daily, amid other social, economical, and physical blockers. Cooking is one way I get to deal with all that mess; the idea of transforming raw ingredients into something tangible and tasty calms me. I particularly like how when I’m in the kitchen, life feels softer. There’s something about the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the sizzle of oil in a pan, and the gentle bubbling of a pot that quiets the noise in my head. I could be slicing ingredients while thinking of a deadline I have to meet, but instead of letting the anxiety overwhelm me, the rhythm of my chopping helps me stay calm and confident.

There’s something deeply satisfying about having someone eat your food and enjoy it. I like to cook for my friends and lovers as a way of showing them I care. I think of the act of nourishing a person’s body as an expression of love. I particularly enjoy when they’re a part of the process — maybe not necessarily prepping the ingredients with me, but just being present. In the kitchen. With me. Bonding. But the best part for me is being able to share a piece of myself and my ability with someone I care about. 

While cooking, I meditate. The repetitive motions of chopping vegetables, whisking eggs, and stirring pots, soothe me. It’s a therapeutic practice I return to over and over to still my thoughts. 

Looking back at how much I hated being in the kitchen, I’m glad I found cooking the way I did because I don’t think it’d mean the same to me as it would if I ingrained it as something that was expected of me. But it’s become a source of comfort. Even though I didn’t intend to, I think my mother would be proud of the cooking skills she taught me. 

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