Akara: Fritters, Flatulence, and the Deep-Fried Diaspora.

The kind that sizzles in roadside oil at 6 a.m. The kind that puffs up golden and soft like it’s got dreams of being a pillow. The kind that dares you to wait till you get home but you know you’ll burn your fingers and tongue trying to eat it straight from the newspaper anyway. That’s the Akara I’m talking about.

Growing up in Nigeria, Akara wasn’t just a snack. It was a social situation. I remember classmates who would bring it to school, wrapped in soft serviettes or nylon bags, the oil already soaking through by third period. Meanwhile, my siblings and I were sipping Ribena and eating neat little sandwiches. But I wanted the Akara. I wanted the scent that made you turn your head before you even saw the food. I wanted the envy of those soft, peppered bean balls warming up someone else’s backpack.

Akara is made from black-eyed beans that have been peeled, soaked, and ground into a thick paste. The paste is whipped with onions and spices until it’s fluffy, then spooned into hot oil where it puffs up and crisps at the edges. You can eat it with pap, also known as akamu, which is the classic combo, or just slide it straight into Agege bread, which turns it into something close to spiritual.

When I think about Akara, I also think about university in Jos. Those Friday nights that blurred into Saturday mornings. My friends and I would stumble back from wherever we’d been dancing, and somehow, the one thing we could all agree on was Akara. Akara in Agege bread with a side of suya. Yes, suya. Don’t judge it till you’ve tried it. The grease of the beans, the spice of the meat, the sweetness of the bread. We’d sit by the roadside, not even caring about the flies, just chewing and laughing and passing around one big bottle of Coca-Cola — the Orobo size — like it held all the answers.

But Akara isn’t just for hangovers. It’s there at naming ceremonies, weddings, market stalls, funeral mornings, and break-of-fast evenings. It’s what you fry when you’ve run out of stew or patience or both. It’s street food and soul food. It’s what aunties sell at bus stops, what grannies make on smoky stoves, and what wakes you up when you weren’t even planning to eat. Sometimes it’s soft and round like a tennis ball, sometimes flat and a bit burnt at the edges, and everyone swears their mum or their village makes it best.

What’s beautiful is that Akara didn’t stop in Nigeria. When enslaved Yoruba people were taken to Brazil, they brought it with them. There, it became acarajé. Still made with beans, still fried, still sacred. In Salvador, you’ll see women in flowing white selling it on the streets, still serving tradition with every bite. It’s part of Afro-Brazilian religion and culture, eaten during rituals, sold during festivals, passed from hand to hand like memory wrapped in banana leaves.

Now, let’s be honest. There is a reason some people call it musical food. If you eat too much, the aftermath is not for the faint of heart. Akara has been known to stir stomachs in ways that will test your relationships. You might want to clear your calendar, or at least a room. But even with the risk, we keep coming back. Because some foods don’t just fill you, they follow you. In your memories. In your cravings. In the way your mouth waters when someone walks into the office with that faint, unmistakable smell.

Akara is more than a snack. It’s home. It’s Lagos traffic and Jos mornings and boarding school lunchtime and hangover recovery and Friday joy all rolled into one hot little ball. The beans are humble, but the feeling is mighty. And honestly, whether you eat two or ten, just don’t blame the Akara when your belly starts to play jazz. It warned you. We all know it did.

An acquaintance of mine writes about this beauty here. You see? Quite a few of us can testify to the awesomeness of Akara 😀