Having coffee in a Nigerian home is like saying that snow fell in Lagos. My family's attitude towards coffee was a mix of suspicion, confusion, and hilarity; it was like we were all part of a coven to keep this beverage at bay, as if drinking it would turn us into oyinbo (foreign) people overnight.
In my home, the king of all drinks was tea. Mind you, it wasn't just any tea, but the almighty Lipton yellow label, brewed so strongly that it could wake the dead. What woke me every morning was the distinct aroma of lipton tea, mixed with fried eggs, and my mother's voice shouting, "Samuel! Chigozie! You guys should come and eat before your dad finishes it oo". Once we hear this statement, no matter how deep in sleep we are, we must wake up.đ
But coffee, on the other hand, was treated like some exotic, foreign invader. If you ever entered our kitchen and saw coffee, it's because we had a visitor from âabloadâ (that is the igbo pronunciation of abroad).
When I say visitor from abroad, I mean an uncle or aunt that just came back from London and started speaking using accent and we couldn't hear most of his or her words. He or she would bring a pack of instant coffee and offer it to my parents, who accepted it gladly, 'probably thinking, 'what are we going to do with this? How will someone drink this and be happy?.'
The first time I saw someone drink coffee in my family was when my cousin, Kamsi, came to visit us; he had just come back from university. He swaggered into our compound, putting on a T-shirt that said, 'I love New York' (even though he hadn't even been there before).
We all sat down and were discussing, and all of a sudden, he made mention of coffee and how it's his favorite drink. My younger sister then told him we have coffee in the kitchen and that Uncle Chibuike bought coffee for us on his trip, but we didn't drink it. He then asked for it, and we gave it to him, and he proceeded to make himself a cup of coffee.
We all looked at him, fascinated, as he stirred the dark liquid, added milk and sugar, and began to drink it. As soon as he took the first sip, my younger sister whispered in my ear, 'Sister, will he turn white now? I shrugged, half-expecting Kamsi to start talking like the âOyinbosâ (foreigners)
But here is where the comedy started, my dad decided to try this thing called coffee by himself. He marched into the kitchen, took the packet of coffee, and scooped a table spoonful of coffee directly into his mouth. If you see the look on his face that day, it was pricelessđ đ . He spluttered and coughed, reaching for a glass of water.
From that day on, coffee was officially banned in our house. My mother would always shake her head at coffee ads on the TV, muttering, 'is it not better to drink the good old tea?'
As for me, I grew up believing that coffee was some sort of magical potion that could either turn you into a sophisticated international person or a jittery, babbling mess. It was not until I went to university that I tried coffee myself, half-expecting to be transformed into a different person at the first sip.
Looking back, I can't help but laugh at our family's dramatic reactions to coffee. It was just a drink, after all, but in our house, it was treated like a mysterious alien substance. Now as an adult, I take coffee every now and then and sometimes my husband asks me, 'won't you turn oyinbo (foreigner) as you want to drink that coffee now?' I just laugh because I know what he means.
My family's attitude towards coffee was just another quirky part of growing up Nigerian. It was a reminder that sometimes the simplest things can become sources of great humor and family bonding. And while I might enjoy my latte and cappuccino now, there's nothing as strong as a cup of lipton tea to make me feel at home.
All images are mine
