Egusi stew is the comfort food of your dreams

My hatred for bullies had introduced me to Egusi, the stew of my dreams. And you can enjoy this beautiful dish with little to no salt. 

I was a 9th grader in a new school. Luckily, I had an older cousin named Bunk, who hung around the school even though he didn’t go there and knew everyone, so I just mixed right in. 

By the second week, multiple upperclassmen were asking me, “Are you okay? Do you need anything?” and shooting me compliments like, “I love those Jordan’s, lil man. Do you have every color?” I had the school on lock and didn’t have to deal with some of the hardships my classmates faced. 

“A stinky, are you mixed with monkey?” I overheard a guy named Travis saying to a student that I didn’t know, “I know you are monkey because you be swinging from trees in Africa . . . you are African right? Stinking ass!” 

Some kids piled around Travis as he went on his tirade; they laughed as if he was the funniest person in the world. The poor kid’s eyes started to well up as the crowd egged Travis on, who was now making ape sounds and hopping on and off the lunch table. I’m in minded business. 

I went to middle school with Travis and I remember when he was bullied because his sneakers had holes in them and his clothes were often too small and dated. While we wore Coogi sweaters and Boss jeans, Travis had corduroy trousers that stopped above his ankles and shirts with butterfly collars from the 70s, even though we were in the 90s. People always told him he looked like a cast member from the television show Good Times.

Travis never fought back; he just cried and volunteered in the principal’s office to avoid being picked apart in the cafeteria. Something positive must have happened in his life because, in high school, he began to wear new Nikes like us and even had a First Down puffer coat. For the first time since I’ve known him, he was actually fly and punishing this kid in the same way that he used to be punished. 

I noticed that the African kid was in my algebra class. Quiet, thin and sharp, he only spoke when spoken to and always did his work. I found out that his name was Charles, and yes, he was from Africa, but not the whole continent–– just Nigeria . . . Lagos, to be exact. 

“Yo, what’s Lagos like?” I asked Charles one day doing group work, “Ya’ll got a flag? Do they sell drugs over there?” 

Charles laughed, “I came here when I was 3, grew up in Washington DC and just moved to Baltimore last year.” 

Charles has been to Lagos a few times and said basically any and everything that happens in Baltimore could happen in his birth city. 

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“Why you let Travis punk you?” I asked, “I don’t know how they get down in Lagos, but if you let somebody play with you over here, you are going to be running from that person for the rest of your life.” 

Charles said Travis was a bum and his ignorance did not bother him. I wish I had that kind of temperament or insight, especially at 14. Travis would continue to bully Charles until I couldn’t take it anymore. This led to me smashing a history textbook into the side of Travis’s head during the middle of one of his monkey dances. Once you start, you can’t stop, so I angled my knee across Travis’s chest and continued to hit him with the book until I got suspended from school for three days. My dad wasn’t upset, but proud because he hated bullies too. We laughed about the incident over a cheese pizza. 

When I was reinstated, I had been accused of setting a girl’s hair on fire. I didn’t know who set fire to the young woman’s curls and didn’t snitch on or finger the guy they wanted me too, so I was kicked out of that school. Charles looked sick on my last day –– not because we were close, but I think I was the only person who ever stood up for him. 

It would be two years before I saw Charles again. We had bumped into each other in front of a nightclub called the Paradox. By now, he had mastered Baltimore culture, wearing New Balance 996 sneakers and an Avirex leather jacket. He was confident and cool and had introduced me to his friend group, made up of mostly first-generation kids, as the guy who taught him how to communicate in Baltimore (mostly with his fist), an inside joke that we both laughed at. Charles had a birthday party coming up, which he described as a small gathering with some friends at his mom’s house and he invited me. 

From her kitchen wafted one of the most beautiful smells I had ever experienced in my life. While the other teenagers danced to Charles’s playlist, I kept my eyes on the kitchen. Shortly after, his mother brought out some plates of Jollof, Plantain, fried fish, and my new favorite, Egusi. I feel like I ate enough for ten people. 

Egusi would become one of my favorite dishes in years to follow and a mandatory order every time I’m in a city that sells West African cuisine. It was also one of the first dishes I wanted to try to prepare since I decided to consume less salt, and as always, for me, if you add enough spice, you can do without the salt. Here’s my personal recipe.