Look at that. So beautiful.
- Are you ready for the spice?
- Yes.
What are you feelin'?
My brain is lit with pleasure
because my scalp is itching.
- Ooh, yes!
- I like when my scalp itches
just a little bit.
Tell me more about your kinks, Padma!
Mm!
Nigerian food is hot.
I mean really hot.
It's not, "Is it spicy?"
It's more of, "How spicy do you want it?"
The flavors of Nigerian food?
Unique, out of this world, spicy.
You have to be sweating
for them to know, "Oh, it's hot."
And it's not just their food that's hot.
From afrobeats to dance steps
to colorful ensembles,
Nigerian culture is on fire.
You know a Nigerian
without even looking at them.
We're a very proud people,
and, um, we tend to be loud.
We will say we are
proud to be Nigerian.
It's where we came from,
it's what we do, and it's in our blood.
But that pride has been put to the test.
You get pulled over by a cop,
they're not sayin',
"Oh, this Black person's Nigerian.
You can go."
It's like, "You're Black."
What does it mean
to be Nigerian in America
when you're confronted with bias,
one that comes out of a deep history
of racism and oppression?
I came to America when I was four.
I'm an immigrant and I'm not alone.
I've spent my life writing
about food and tasting the world.
Now, I wanna explore who we are
through the food we eat.
My game is strong.
What exactly is American food,
and what makes us American?
I'm Padma Lakshmi.
Come with me as we Taste the Nation.
For many, Houston,
Texas, might bring to mind
visions of cowboy boots or BBQ.
But there's much more to this city.
One of the most diverse in the country,
and home to the largest
Nigerian population in the U.S.
When I decided to come here,
I knew just who to call.
We have an amazing
comic visiting Houston, y'all.
Please make some noise for Yvonne Orji!
What it do, H-town?
It's good to be out here in Houston,
or should I say Little Nigeria
'cause that's what it is.
The ever-talented Yvonne Orji
uses her wit to illuminate
what it means to be Nigerian in America.
It feels good to be back in Houston.
This used to be my old stompin' ground.
Not 'cause I used to live here,
but because I used to host
mad weddings out here.
Nigerians love a wedding in Houston.
And y'all don't even need
to know whose wedding it is,
y'all just be like,
"Is it Friday?
Ah, well, there are two weddings this...
You know what? Let's just show up."
Fortunately for me,
she knows all the great joints,
and that the best part of a night out
is the food that follows.
Do you smell that spice?
It smells good.
Woo!
- Girl, you gotta try the suya.
- What is it?
Suya is thinly sliced chicken and beef,
a perfect after-club food.
But it's the suya spice.
Dip the beef into the suya seasoning.
Just... It's, like, bam.
Oh, that's good.
- Mm.
- You like that?
Mm-hmm. It's so savory...
and it has heat.
- Does your mom cook that spicy?
- Mm-hmm.
If it's not spicy, it's not good.
I'll taste, like, rice or I'll taste food,
and I'm like, "Something's missing."
And it's not salt.
It's, it's just like, "Uh, can I have?"
- It's heat!
- And it's, and it's specific heat.
It's like Scotch bonnet.
Like, it, it has to be a fiery pepper.
What's your favorite
Nigerian dish of all time?
Don't do that to me.
I mean, there's so many.
Like... you have white rice with stew.
Then you have plantain with stew.
There's always a stew
involved in our foods.
The menu is vast.
I will not pick one.
It's so delicious and beautiful.
- What's in the suya spice? Do you know?
- They don't tell you.
- They don't tell you. They don't...
- They don't tell you. They don't tell you.
'Cause they can't tell you.
For many of us immigrants,
spices are the link to our roots.
They have a story to tell.
And I wanna find out
more about the Nigerian story,
although some might not
be ready to give much up.
What's in the suya spice?
You see?
He just started laughin'.
- I can tell you for a billion dollars.
- A billion dollars with a B!
A billion with a B?
- Yes.
- I'm gonna figure it out.
I have a nose of a bloodhound.
I'm gonna figure it out!
I'm on a hunt to find that secret spice,
the spice they hold close,
and the heat that drives
their unwavering identity.
One thing to consider,
is why they wound up in Houston.
So let's go back a bit.
Thanks to the Immigration Act of 1965,
America opened its doors
to more immigrants of color.
And in the '70s and '80s,
many Nigerians seized this chance,
leaving behind government corruption
for opportunity in Houston
because of its warm weather,
booming oil industry,
and an extended roster of universities.
But how have they resisted
the pressure to conform,
not only in this so-called melting pot,
but also, in the face
of racism in America.
And Yvonne is the perfect guide.
So, the bride comes and be all...
She'll be like this.
- Is this, like, your hype girl?
- Dancin' along, and then you just
shake your a*s.
If you're not shakin' your a*s,
you're not dancing.
I don't think I have
enough a*s to shake, but.
I think you do!
Yvonne moved to the U.S. when she was six,
but she's still
deeply connected to the culture
and food of her motherland.
So, there's a bole truck.
You have to try it.
She's taking me
straight to a Nigerian food truck
for some beloved bole.
Bole is roasted fish,
roasted yam, roasted plantain.
Those are, like, the three staples.
If you go to a bole stand
and they don't have any of that,
- then it's like, "Uncle, why are you here?"
- Mm-hmm.
McDonald's has a special sauce?
Okay! Nigerians have special sauces!
There you go. Here is the croaker fish.
Ooh!
Oh, this is good.
This is a whole fish.
- All right. Thank you so much.
- Thank you so much.
- Let me know how you like it.
- If it's not good,
- I'll report you to my mom.
- Trust me, this the best.
Okay.
- What kinda fish did he say it was?
- It's a croaker.
- Croaker.
- Mm-hmm.
Oh, that's good.
My whole mouth is alive!
- It also has a funk to it.
- Mm-hmm.
The palm oil adds its own flavor as well.
That's what gives it the funk?
A little, little P-funk.
This reminds me of my childhood.
What is it like to be Nigerian now
versus Nigerian, like,
when you were growin' up?
Growing up, it wasn't like it was now.
Oh, now it's sexy. Now, it's like,
"Oh, you know, Afrobeats,"
and, "Oh, the clothing,"
and it's like, "Wait a minute,
y'all hoes weren't sayin' this
when you were callin' me
'African Booty Scratcher.'"
- What?
- Um, exactly.
And I went to a predominantly, like,
Black and Latino, brown middle school.
- Mm-hmm.
- And it was the Black kids
that were calling me
"African Booty Scratcher."
- Really?!
- Yes!
And it was the thing of, like,
we cooked with, like, stock fish,
so, like, yes, our foods
are very smell heavy, right?
- So...
- Listen, I can relate.
So, it's like, "You smell like fish."
I'm like, "I probably do,
but it tastes great," you know?
But it's that thing of like,
"We're always the best. We're on top."
That country pride, it's that essence.
What... Where do you
think that comes from?
Man, I just...
I think it's just steeped in us.
Especially, like, tribally.
Like, we were warriors.
And this essence of greatness.
My dad saw how Black men
were treated in America,
and so, for him, it was
really important for us to know
that, like, this is not the only place.
My parents were very much like,
"As much as the culture
as we can preserve, we will."
Like Yvonne's family,
many Nigerians who moved to the U.S.
in the latter part of the 20th century
doubled down on their culture,
almost as a means of protection
against inheriting the prejudice
they saw Black Americans face.
And as another means
of com batting discrimination,
they placed an especially
strong focus on higher education,
so much so, that they're the most educated
immigrant group in the country.
I went to my cousin's wedding,
and just to announce her
took, like, five minutes.
- It was like, "Ph.
- D, MSc, MPH."
I was like, "How many degrees
does she have?"
Degrees are the sixth love language
- of, of, of Nigerians.
- Yes.
So that's why when I became a comic,
I think my mom was thinkin',
"What will I tell people that you are?
You're a clown!"
And I was like,
"Wait a minute. I'm... I'm not a clown."
You... you have never seen
a clown look this good.
No, but I love bein'
Nigerian American, I do,
because we're so good at a lotta things.
We are. You know,
"Naija No Dey Carry Last."
I have a tattoo that says,
"Naija No Dey Carry Last,"
which translates to
"Nigerians don't finish last."
I love my culture and I say,
"God and being Nigerian
helped me get successful."
Because it was this drive of
anything that I was supposed
to put into being a doctor,
I put into being an artist.
So that same drive,
that same, like, work ethic.
- It was all from your Nigerian identity.
- Yes.
It's clear that Nigerian traditions,
values, and pride are a priority,
and that older generations
have played a big part in that.
Hi, Mom!
Hi!
We're eating the bole. That was the yam.
Oh, my God.
But alongside sacred recipes and customs,
how did elders pass down
a sense of self to the next generation?
I'm about to meet some
Nigerian matriarchs, or aunties,
and find out how they
navigated a new context
for their own identity in America.
Well, we gotta go finish the bole.
I'm headed to Safari,
the oldest Nigerian restaurant in Houston
to meet miss Margaret Chibuzo.
She's known for her traditional,
real-deal Nigerian dishes,
recipes she's now teaching
her daughter Kavachi.
Nigerians share something
in common with Indian folk,
big auntie culture.
And by auntie, I mean any
female elder you show respect to
by calling her as such.
They're who usually adhere
to the culture the tightest,
so how do they manage
to retain such a strong influence?
How is she as a cook,
Auntie, your daughter?
- Ohh!
- Spoken like a true Nigerian mom.
Margaret came as
part of the large wave of Nigerians
that immigrated to Houston in the 1980s,
and she found herself
amongst a growing population
that was starved
for their favorites from home.
Margaret, from the Igbo tribe,
has mastered a range
of Nigerian regional specialties.
When I arrive, she's already cooking up
one of the restaurant's
popular stews, egusi.
Said to originate from the Yoruba tribe,
egusi is nutty and protein-packed,
named after its distinctly
African primary ingredient,
the egusi melon seed.
Everybody loves egusi,
regardless where you come from in Nigeria.
If you don't have fufu with egusi,
it's not complete.
This stew is one of
many that's served with fufu,
a boiled and mashed starchy accompaniment
that Nigerians adore.
Fufu is our signature dish.
It's authentic Nigerian food.
You eat it with maybe,
like, 200 different kinds of soup.
There's about 320 plus
tribes in Nigeria,
so when it comes to fufu,
it's more than just a soup
and the swallow, which is fufu.
It's just, like, that map.
It lets us know where you're from.
Fufu is generalized,
but there are different ones.
It can be pounded yam, it can be cassava.
Cornmeal.
And traditionally,
it is made from scratch.
It's very good
for the body and for the soul.
Today, there are
instant mixes to make things easier,
but originally, fufu was made fresh.
- Tell me if I'm doing it right, Auntie.
- Yes, you are doing right.
Yes, pound... to take out the knots.
You wouldn't have to go to the gym
if you just did this all day.
- Is it good?
- Yes. You are doing it well.
So how many different
types of fufu are there?
They have so many,
depends on your tribe.
- And what's the most common one?
- Pounded yam,
- which is this, pounded yam.
- Ah, okay.
Some families and tribes
use the term fufu more broadly.
Others use the term more specifically,
based on the primary ingredient.
More generally,
it can be referred to as a swallow.
Aptly named because
the most important part of eating it,
is that you swallow it in one go.
Absolutely no chewing.
And so, once you pinch it in the center,
and then you're gonna scoop the soup.
- Okay.
- Yes.
No bites.
- No bites.
- Yes.
No bites.
I'm sharing Margaret's egusi,
and showing off my swallowing prowess
with another auntie,
gospel singer Stacy Egbo.
So, egusi is, actually, of the Yoruba
where my daughter's, uh, husband is from.
So, we made egusi
at my daughter's wedding.
- I can show you some videos.
- I would love to see some videos.
Let's enjoy some egusi,
and then I would love to see the videos.
- Did they show you how to eat the fufu?
- Yes.
Good.
My children didn't learn
how to swallow their fufu
until they were grown.
- Oh, really?
- They always chewed it.
And I never knew that
they were not swallowing it.
They thought we chew it a little bit
to... before you swallow it,
but you can't do that.
You can't... Why can't you do that?
Because that's why it's called swallow.
So, when raising my kids,
from six months old,
we start feeding them the fufu.
That's because you raised them right.
I've noticed that this community
is very, very tied to their culture,
and they're tied to it
in a way that is undiluted.
- Mm, yeah.
- Why was it so important to you?
When I came here,
I already understood who I was.
I knew my culture,
so I was not in doubt of who I was.
- You had a strong sense of identity.
- Yeah, I know who I was, you know,
and what I was coming here to do.
And that's what I taught my children.
I don't want them to let go of any
piece of that, of Africa, of Nigeria.
I want that strength for them.
Like Margaret,
when Stacy arrived in America,
she clung tight to her Nigerian identity.
It gave her strength and purpose,
a way to stand against the jarring,
unfamiliar concept of race and racism.
One thing that I didn't know...
coming to America was that
there were really a difference
between white and Black American.
You didn't know that?
Because we see Black people
on TV, we hear their music,
so we classify everybody the same.
We didn't understand that
people were ever treated differently
because of their...
The color of their skin.
You weren't aware of that at all.
Most Africans, it's not that
we're trying to ignore
or not acknowledge
what other people feel here,
it's just that, most times,
we, we didn't know.
But now, we from Africa,
are getting educated
because we don't get that education.
Because you don't carry
the same historical burden...
- No.
- ...that descendants
- of enslaved Africans here do.
- No, we don't. We don't.
We don't carry that burden,
and it's such an eye-opener.
You are learning more
of what really went on.
Stacy thought her Nigerian identity
would shield her
from systemic racism in America.
And to a certain degree, it did.
But she feared that her children,
growing up here and labeled as Black,
may not be as fortunate.
She understood the immense burden
that being Black in America carries.
She made sure her children
were steeped in their Nigerian culture
as a force to combat prejudice,
and also, to challenge the notion
of Blackness as a monolith.
All right, let me see these pictures.
I wanna see the dancing.
This is when she was comin' in.
All the girls that danced in that video
can sing the Nigerian song
with the languages.
- Can you sing the Nigerian song?
- Yes.
I have chills. That is so beautiful.
I have tears in my eyes.
You sing like an angel.
It's so beautiful.
What were you singing me?
I was just telling God
that I'm so grateful
because I'm so proud to be a Nigerian,
but then I am so, so proud
to be an American, too.
Stacy derives strength
from her Nigerian identity,
and now also, from being American.
But what about the next generation?
How are they using
their Nigerian identity
to disrupt the perceptions
of Blackness in America?
But my dad used to do this thing
when I would have, like, a lash in my eye.
And I be like,
"Daddy, somethin' is in my eye."
He be like,
"Okay, hold on. I will get it."
And he would open
my eyelid and blow.
"Dad, I had a eyelash.
Now I have goat meat."
What, what in the hell?
Many Nigerian parents
stood firmly in their culture,
and their kids
obviously took that to heart.
But today, Nigerian Americans
that grew up here are finding pride
in being both Black and Nigerian
because, in America,
they're considered one and the same.
And now, a new understanding
is beginning to take place.
This generation
of young Africans, young Nigerians,
I think we're more like,
"Listen, our parents' generation
tried to separate us.
We're grown now,
we, we see what's poppin'."
And I think that we're
also bridgin' the gap...
- Mm-hmm.
- ...between, like, African American
and, like, Africans, right?
And I think the, like, big conversation
within African Americans and Africans,
they were like, "Okay, you guys wanna
separate yourself so much from us",
"but, like, you get pulled over by a cop,
they're not sayin', 'Oh, this Black
person's Nigerian, you can go.'"
- It's like, they're... they're... "You're Black."
- Right.
So, I think, now, we're
getting away from the othering
and we're finding common ground of like,
"Yo, I wanna eat the food."
Okay, you know, Afrobeats
is now played in clubs,
and so, people are like,
"Okay, let me do the fufu challenge,
you know, on TikTok."
Recently, Nigerian culture has blown up
on social media and in pop culture.
Afrobeats are everywhere,
and there are even fufu challenges,
some that are...
well, quite challenging to watch.
Particularly in Southwest Houston,
supermarkets are stocked
from top to bottom with Nigerian goods.
- What's this?
- So, this is a suya spice mix
that they make in-house.
I'm gonna use this. All right, let's go.
But as more and more people
are eager to taste West African food,
chefs like Bethany Oyefeso and Tobi Smith
are taking this opportunity to share
their food with a wider audience.
Via their direct-to-consumer
company Adun,
Bethany and Tobi are able to share
their Nigerian cuisine
with all who want it.
So, if I ordered from you guys,
this is what would come to my house.
Yes, this would
show up on your front door.
You would
have some beef pies, some chicken pies.
And then, we have the condiments.
This is Scotch bonnet product,
so it's like the chili crisp.
And then, we have the goat meat stew.
- See, this is the mana right here.
- This is really good.
- Yeah.
- That's it.
We have what we're
gonna be making later on,
that's the asun.
And that's, uh, peppered goat meat.
It's really spicy.
- It's a party in your mouth.
- Yeah.
All right, I'm gonna have
to have my glass of milk ready.
Right.
Goat asun is a
favorite Nigerian party food.
A spicy bite of savory meat that pairs
perfectly with an ice-cold drink.
Asun means "smoked,"
or, "cooked over an open flame"
in the Yoruba dialect,
but Tobi and Bethany
cook their goat three ways:
Pressure-cooked, oven-roasted, and sautéed
for an evenly cooked,
tender morsel of meat.
There're different ways
of cooking this down,
but this is pretty fast,
and it makes sure, like, you get
an even cook all through, um, the meat.
So, we're just gonna put
the goat meat in a pressure cooker.
And what's in here?
- Um, so, just some water.
- Okay.
And I'm just gonna put
a little bit of seasoning...
- What seasoning?
- ...in there.
So, this is bouillon cube.
Just goes in there just a little bit.
And then, close it up.
How long do you pressure cook it for?
Um, 'til the pressure cooker
says it's ready.
Ah, yes. There it is.
Always holding something back.
- How long is that?!
- So, it... So, that's between,
sometimes, like,
15 minutes, 15, 20 minutes.
So, we are going to turn that off.
You turn the heat off first.
And then, we're gonna take that top off
to release all the pressure in there, so.
- Woo!
- Woo!
Yeah.
And then, we're just gonna let that go
'til, you know, that comes down.
Toot! Toot!
Sorry. I'm so sorry.
Luckily, for those
who can't take awkward silences,
or for customers who
order this to cook at home,
they can jump directly to step three,
when the chopped goat is added
into a pan with a mix of peppers.
Bell peppers or capsicum
are added for sweetness
and to cut the hot, hot heat
of the Scotch bonnets.
I think the spice level is really good.
It's can be handled
by quite a number of people,
- so.
- By a non-Nigerian like me?
Is that what you... is that what you
mean by, "a number of people"?
Let me see... Let's see.
- Let's go.
- Should I taste it?
Yeah, try it.
So, usually,
you want to use your toothpick
to grab some meat
and an... a piece of onion.
There you go.
It's so good.
It's dense like when beef is stewed...
- Mm-hmm.
- Right.
...but it's drier.
- Mm-hmm.
- Right.
It's not gamy.
The heat is perfect.
My scalp is not itching,
but it's sweatin' a little.
True to Nigerian form,
Bethany and Tobi's cooking is hot,
but they are finding ways
to make it accessible
to those who are less familiar.
I've always wanted
a more sustainable, long-term approach
to train people about the culture.
What do you think
of all these TikTok videos,
these, like, fufu challenges?
I tried to kinda see the good side of it
because I feel like, from that challenge,
there were people that
genuinely got to try something
that they probably would've
never been exposed to.
And from that one challenge,
it got to like, "Oh, you know what?"
"Let me explore this culture more.
"Let me try other things
from their cuisine.
Let me, you know, not just make,
like, comments about it."
I, personally, do not like
my culture being a trend,
or a trending topic, or a hashtag,
is because... it's dropped
as soon as it's not cool.
It's not trending anymore and that's it.
And a lot of people miss out
on the opportunity to learn
so much about the culture.
I would rather take the approach
to teaching people, you know,
basic steps of what this is,
what's in the food, why it's good for you.
While trends and
influences stoked by social media
can be a great tool
of cultural connection and discovery,
true culture isn't a trend that fades.
It comes from heritage,
and it's what the Nigerian American
community in Houston
is committed to expressing.
I'm headed to one last place
that's bridging Nigerian heritage
with an American one.
I'm meeting my friend
Ope Amosu at Plant It Forward,
a farm in Central Houston
maintained by refugees,
many of African descent.
It's here that Ope shows me how he cooks
with both his Nigerian
and American identities.
And of course, he's bringing
in the big g*ns, another auntie.
- Hi!
- Hey.
- Hi, how are you?
- I'm good.
- This looks great!
- Yes.
Thank you so much
for making jollof with me.
We're making a two-part recipe,
one that starts
with Auntie Dee's famous party jollof.
Its origins are traced
to the Wolof or Jolof Empire,
once situated in what is
now modern Senegal.
But today, many West African countries
claim this beloved dish.
Nigerians seem particularly skilled
at making party jollof,
known for its signature smoky flavor.
We smoke it from the firewood,
so, you know, you get
the authentic taste of the party jollof.
When you put
the jollof rice in your mouth,
you know that, yes,
the smokiness is there,
the taste is there.
- You can smell the firewood in the rice.
- Yes.
- Everything is in that rice.
- So, yes, yes.
So, we lookin' for
it, for it to be about level
- with the, with the sauce.
- With the sauce.
- Keep goin'.
- Keep goin'.
- That's good.
- That's good?
- That's good. Yeah.
- Oop, you put too much!
Oh no! Don't tell me that!
Rice dishes like
jollof originate in West Africa,
where a flourishing rice culture
has existed for generations.
Those recipes traveled with West Africans
who were sought out,
brought here in chains,
and enslaved because of their
rice-growing experience.
Dishes like red rice
from the Gullah Geechee,
which you may remember...
- Cheers, man.
- All right.
...and cajun jambalaya
are the descendants of jollof.
At his fast-casual restaurant ChopnBlok,
Ope highlights this connection,
marrying American influences
with West African staples.
- Is this ready to eat?
- All right. It is ready.
Officially ready.
Look at that.
Mmm.
So, in Nigeria, we say,
"That's correct." Correct.
You're gonna teach me now
how to make this into jambalaya?
Now we gon' jambalaya it up.
Part two of Ope's
recipe is the star on his menu,
his jollof jambalaya.
Jollof is the precursor
to Westernized jambalaya,
so again, we're just
taking other influences
that are still true
to that story of that dish,
and continuing to walk it through,
and help people bridge that connection.
Being of Nigerian descent,
growing up in Houston and the Gulf Coast,
I wanted to create a dish that
spoke to different people
from different backgrounds.
So what do you have frying up here?
We got the Cajun holy
trinity in here, the Creole holy trinity.
The mix of bell peppers
with the onions and the celery.
Then we throw down
some smoked turkey sausage.
- Let's get some of the rice in there.
- Alright, hold on.
We got a nice sauté goin' already.
And then look. Look at those burnt bits.
That's the one, that's
the ones we fight for.
I think we can kick it up a little bit.
Let's bring some
of that cayenne over here.
All right.
Ooh, there's a good...
That's good heat right there.
We can take a little bit
of that thyme as well.
This looks so beautiful.
- So, all this went into there.
- All that went in there, yeah.
We're very colorful people, right?
- Let the... let the visuals represent that, too, right?
- Yes!
You talk about bridging that gap.
That sounds like
your own personal story, too.
Absolutely. I mean, growin' up
in a very, very Nigerian household,
and then, opening the doors
and bein', you know,
part of the broader community.
Like, all of those have
a, a really big influence on myself.
And so, I guess you
can kinda say, you know,
this is my story, um,
that I'm also tryna put out there
because it's... in a sense,
it's not just my story.
It's a story
of, of Blackness in America.
Absolutely.
Initially, when even
West Africans were first
brought to this country as sl*ves,
uh, it was intentionally designed
for us to never be able
to reconnect those dots, right?
And so, we're breaking that down
at the same time as well,
lettin' people know, like, yeah, you know,
everyone kinda started
from the same place.
And I love seeing people even reconnect
with their roots through the food,
and they wonder why it speaks to 'em.
And I'm like, "'Cause it's been
in your bloodline this entire time."
- You know?
- Somewhere deep and down the cells recognize it.
Absolutely.
You can't deny the soul, right?
You can't deny the soul.
- You wanna try?
- I would love to.
All right.
Mm. It's delicious.
I didn't think it could be better,
but that is lovely 'cause you get
more texture with the vegetables.
- Absolutely.
- You get the heat and you get
extra richness
from the turkey sausage.
Absolutely.
Ope's jollof jambalaya
shows the shared roots
between Nigerian
and Black American cultures.
And to enjoy this meal with Ope
is particularly meaningful,
as he and his wife are blending
those same traditions into their family.
- She did that pretty well. Yay!
- You made it. Mm.
- Rice.
- Yes, it's rice. Good job!
You are Nigerian American
and you are African American.
Yes, and we wanna instill
both cultures into Simi.
She will know about my side of the family.
Like, the struggle we went through,
how we overcome, succeeded,
and his culture is very beautiful.
They're very bold, very loud
about what they, they have,
and they're prideful people,
and they should be prideful
because they put in the work,
effort to, to get where they are today.
Nigerians in America
have so much to be proud of.
And while their undiluted
culture and cuisine
are, in many ways, distinctly Nigerian,
the truth is, a lot of these influences
are deeply embedded
in the fabric of America, too.
In other words,
Nigerian food was always here.
And in this understanding,
comes ripe opportunity for connection.
It's this, like, ownership now
that everyone is taking, and I love it.
Like, especially, with, like,
people finding their, like, 23andMe.
And, you know,
I have a lotta friends, like,
"Oh, my God, I'm, I-I'm 12% Nigerian."
So, it's like, "Yo, I need
to learn Afrobeats. What's up?"
While Nigerian Americans
may see themselves differently
than others see them,
a natural give-and-take between Nigerian
and Black Americans is inevitable.
But Nigerians, for their part,
continue to rejoice
and pass down their rich heritage.
It's so good, and I'm so glad
that Simi was able to eat it
'cause it was a little spicier.
She loves some spice.
- More.
- More?
Auntie.
- Did you just call me "auntie"?
- Yeah, she very African.
Delicious.
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