The meal was ekpang n̄kukwọ, a delicacy I promise to tell you more about later. Picture a group of five, my husband and I included, gathered around a steaming pot, heaping generous portions into individual plates, then savouring each morsel with spoons and fingers, pausing between bites to lick every trace of flavour. 

We had accepted a dinner invitation from a couple in our new congregation where we worship, and I was finally going to try this meal that many had gushed about for the first time—the mix of grated white cocoyam, wrapped in cocoyam leaves, brought to boil with palm oil, shelled periwinkles, dried fish, goat meat, kponmo, and spices. The food was so good that naturally, the conversation drifted to other delicious meals. When the food is this satisfying, there’s nothing better to talk about than more food. 

Since I arrived in Uyo, I had cooked the Nigerian signature red stew twice, but something was missing. I sorely missed the reddish, rich flavour of tatashe—the red bell peppers that add both sweetness and depth to any pot of stew. I’d blended in some peppers and the mix had the fiery kick of atarodo and habaneros, but not the delicate layering that tatashe brings. I had almost given up on recreating the only version of stew my palate could accept before I brought it up during that evening’s conversation. 

My host smiled. “We bring them in from Jos. I’ll add you to the WhatsApp group where you can send in your order. Then, stop by to pick them up at the Raw Food Shelf off Oron Road.” 

Within a week, I ordered buckets of UTC tomatoes, tatashe, onions, and shombo. When that first meal was cooked and tasted, I was amazed at how quickly the craving could be satisfied. Memory and palate were in harmony. I had created my perfect pot of stew—and finally felt complete. 

 

If the age-old question, “What am I going to do with my hair?” has kept you up on many nights and left you frustrated on countless sunny afternoons, you’ll understand my struggle to find a salon that might deliver me from my perpetual state of hair dissatisfaction. Permed at age one, shorn by age eight, didi at age fifteen, natural by age twenty-three, crochet braids at thirty; what will I be by thirty-seven? 

This was a question I was eager to toss at Uyo and see what would become of me and my hair. 

Driving through Plaza, Uyo’s most recognizable landmark, I saw the locs. Free-flowing, stylish, sculptural. I knew instantly that this must be a city with talented locticians. Now, how was I going to locate them? 

Eventually, I did. 

My first loctician experience in Uyo was at a fancy but empty salon. Each seat came with a miniature LED screen, and the entire space throbbed with the sounds of “Amapiano” by Asake and Olamide. I believe at least a thousand of the millions of streams it gathered came from that salon. 

But the locs? Too big. Too rough after the first wash. Too expensive to maintain. With every re-loc, I felt more adrift in a sea of unmet expectations. 

It would take a visit to my friends at Raw Food Shelf—yes, the same place I got the tatashe from—to discover the salon at the intersection of Nwaniba and Oron Road. There, I met Jay and his team at JJAL. Together, they helped me reclaim what I thought was lost, unravelling my failed locs while gently grooming my hair for months before I could finally install the micro sister locs I had admired for so long. 

At this salon, I would be confronted by my newly named highly sensitive personality while reading Elaine Aron’s The Highly Sensitive Child, finally understanding why my scalp always hurt during weaving, combing, or twisting. With tears in my eyes, I explained this to the understanding team who wielded the crochet pin with the gentleness needed to establish new locs. With every inch of hair growth, I return for my roots to be re-loced afresh. 

 

The opaque broth sizzles. A crab leg juts out from the corner of the bowl, surrounded by oysters, snails, diced okra, and the commanding presence of the king of the southern seas—inangha. What dish am I? 

If you guessed fisherman soup, you’re right. And if you guessed afang soup for the second one—once tough, now tender leaves simmered with waterleaf, periwinkles, and palm oil—then you understand why Akwa Ibom holds the crown for the most distinctive soups in Nigeria. 

In Nigeria, a true foodie isn’t measured by how many languages they speak but by their ability to pronounce the names of beloved local dishes—sometimes without understanding a single other word of the language. 

Let me clarify that when I say “soup” I don’t mean the kind served in bowls and eaten with a spoon. In Nigeria, soup is something more. It’s a symphony of ingredients—nutrient-dense vegetables, freshly extracted palm oil, rich proteins like fish or assorted meats, and seasonings such as crayfish, periwinkles, and local spices—all perfectly balanced. 

The star accompaniment to these soups is swallow: a dough-like meal made from cassava (transformed into garri or fufu), semolina, cocoyam, oatmeal, plantain flour, or even yam. Health-conscious eaters may choose lighter options, but the goal is the same—a harmonious blend of texture and flavour. 

A proper swallow-and-soup combination doesn’t just fill you up; it leaves you awed into silence as your taste buds savour the layers of flavour, while your body reverberates with nourishment. 

The Soups of Akwa Ibom 

In no particular order, here are ten of the region’s most celebrated soups. If you ate a different soup every day, you wouldn’t repeat a dish until the second week. What people miss most when they leave Akwa Ibom is the food. 

Now, you know why. 

With such a rich variety of native soups, Akwa Ibom is primed for food tourism. Top hotels in Uyo proudly showcase these soups, often featuring two or more in their buffets. Some go a step further, offering soup preparation, where you choose your ingredients, and the soup is cooked fresh before your eyes. 

For the people of Akwa Ibom, soup isn’t just food; it’s a cultural cornerstone. A friend once told me about her husband, who could eat fruits, beans, and pasta all day, but without swallow and soup would still say, “I haven’t eaten a proper meal today.” 

Yes, if soups could talk in Akwa Ibom, they would welcome your appetite with open arms. 

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Excerpt from VISITING AKWA IBOM, LIVING IN UYO. Copyright © 2025 by .

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