Jollof, Memory, and the Taste of Home

There are smells that pull you through time. For me, it’s Jollof. Tomatoes simmered with pepper, garlic, ginger, onions — the smell of celebration, but also of routine. It’s not just food. It’s memory.

Growing up in Luton, Jollof wasn’t just on the plate. It was in the air: at weddings, birthdays, christenings — and in the back kitchens of community centres where aunties debated whose version was best.

In our house, my mum cooked it when she missed home. I didn’t realise until much later that she was feeding us resilience. That those meals were protest, joy, and longing all at once.

For those of us raised between cultures, food is a translation tool. It explains us when words fall short. It links us to places we’ve never lived, and people we miss in our bones.

And now, something new is happening. Across towns like Luton, Jollof is showing up in school projects, community cookbooks, supper clubs. It’s become a way to connect — not just with Nigeria, Ghana, or Sierra Leone — but with each other.

In a Britain where immigration stories are too often flattened, food lets us say: we are here, and we bring flavour.

Jollof isn’t just a taste of home. It’s the heat that reminds us we never left.