Elevated experiences celebrating the culture through dance and rhythm
Elevated experiences celebrating the culture through dance and rhythm
Picture this: You’re watching television when an ad for a familiar Nigerian staple flashes across the screen. The product looks exactly like what you grew up eating, but the name printed on the package reads “Cassava Grits.” If you felt a disconnect in that moment, you’re not alone. Cultural commentator Juliet Tontoye recently called out this troubling trend of rebranding Nigerian foods with Western-sounding names, sparking an important conversation about cultural preservation in the modern marketplace.
The issue goes far deeper than marketing strategy. Garri, for instance, carries centuries of West African history in its very name. Linguistic evidence suggests the term evolved from the Hausa word “garin,” used across Northern Nigeria to describe powdered or grain-form foods. Through intercultural trade spanning Nigeria and West Africa, this became the garri we know today—a staple that connects Nigeria, Liberia, Ghana, Cameroon, Togo, and the Republic of Benin. The food itself traveled from South America through Portuguese colonial routes in the 16th century, but West Africans transformed it into something distinctly their own. From Delta State’s rich Owho soup to the countless ways garri serves as both swallow and refreshment, this isn’t just cassava flour—it’s living heritage with roots stretching across continents.
What makes this rebranding particularly painful is watching other cultures successfully protect their culinary identities. Asian cuisines dominate global markets without compromising their language—gochugaru remains gochugaru, not “red pepper paste,” and kimchi needs no Western translation. Europe has formalized this protection through legal frameworks like Geographical Indications and Protected Designation of Origin, making it illegal to call sparkling wine “Champagne” unless it originates from France’s Champagne region. Meanwhile, Nigerian food companies are voluntarily stripping away the very names that carry cultural and economic value. The examples pile up: Akara reduced to “bean fritters,” Moi-Moi dismissed as “bean cake,” Abacha simplified to “African salad.” Each anglicized label represents a missed opportunity to claim space in the global food conversation on our own terms.
Our ancestors preserved these recipes and their names through migrations, colonial disruption, and societal transformation. They didn’t pass down generic descriptions—they passed down Akara, Egusi, and Garri with the full weight of history intact. The question isn’t whether Nigerian cuisine can evolve or reach international markets; it’s whether that evolution requires cultural amnesia. As Tontoye powerfully argues, we should be custodians of our heritage, not liquidators selling it off piece by piece for perceived Western palatability. The world learned to say sushi, dim sum, and feta. They can learn to say Garri too.
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