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And finally it arrived, two whole mortars of goat head, comprising mainly bones,

 conversations ceased momentarily as we got ready to settle down to business. Chuks

objected, his reasons . . . the isi-ewu parts [were] missing. .



Isi-Ewu:  The Anatomy of a National Delicacy

By Uche Nworah


It was one of those evenings, and all I could think of was food, not just any type of food but some traditional un-everyday-like food, the type that is best eaten or enjoyed in the company of friends and family in a gay environment, over some bottles of shine-shine bobo (Star beer), or odeku (big stout), best complemented by a football game showing on the small or large screen (depending on which joint you choose), and spiced up with arguments and debates over the different aspects of our national life.

I also wanted to listen in on societal gossips as well as hear the latest conspiracy theories making the rounds. More over, a friend (Chuks) was visiting from Nigeria, and we had been planning to take him out and so what better opportunity to do that than now, I thought.

As a South London resident, we narrowed down our choices to two joints along Old Kent Road - 805 and Presidential Suya. In the end, we decided against 805, although the restaurant has very good ambience and customer service, unlike most Nigerian restaurants in London, and also serve great roast fish with fried plantain (dodo) which they call Monica, we decided against it because we wanted someplace ‘very Nigerian’, where we could bump into friends, and visitors/politicians (real and wannabes) from Nigeria who are usually the ones that bring in the latest gist. And so off to Presidential Suya we went.

Parking is never a problem on Old Kent Road if you know your way around, even in the days of the now defunct Bamboo Inn and Nite club, then operated by Fidelis Abor, you could always make use of the parking facilities at the Tesco supermarket near the restaurant.

On this particular day, we parked at LIDL supermarket behind Presidential Suya, about two minutes walk away. We could already feel the buzz inside from outside the main door, as we stepped in, cigarette smokes swirled around the air as customers shout and scream on top of their voices in the name of having a conversation. This is home I thought.

Luckily, as our party was arriving, another was getting ready to leave, so we hovered around until they settled their bills. The leaving party was made up of two scantily clad women, probably of East African origins and 3 Nigerian men, the men seemed to be in their late 30s or early 40s and looked very married. Anyway wetin concern me? At that point I remembered the words I once saw on a car sticker that says – to wives and sweethearts, may they never meet, and chuckled.  

Tips are not very high on the agenda of most customers in these Nigerian restaurants, and I wasn’t disappointed either, that the party leaving didn’t leave any.

We settled down in our seats, I recognised a few faces across the table, and we shouted Nna, Kedu Ije at each other. I never bother going through the menu cards each time I visit any of these restaurants because I already know what I want, the menu are fairly standard ranging from pepper – soup, pounded yam, fried, jollof and white rice, fried plantain and different types of soup such as Egusi, okro and so on, served with assorted meat – a mix of shaki, kpomo, tozo etc.

This particular day, pepper-soup was not high on our agenda; we were not in the Nigerian army officer’s mess, neither were we planning a coup (apologies Alozie Ogugbuaja). We had come to sample isi-ewu (goat head) once again, which is fast turning into a Nigerian national delicacy, but this time I was bent on dissecting fully its anatomy.

Our orders were taken after a ‘small’ wait (depends on which time you keep, African or European), we weren’t bothered by the delay either, it was typical and expected, the surprise would have been if the service had been faster. Funnily, Chuks who was visiting London from Nigeria for the first time didn’t also mind, to him it was all part of the fun and we joked about it.

As we waited for the arrival of our orders, we carried on with our conversations, our beers arrived, and we quickly rushed to douse our thirsts. The wait for isi-ewu continued.

And finally it arrived, two whole mortars of goat head, comprising mainly bones, conversations ceased momentarily as we got ready to settle down to business. Chuks however objected, his reasons being that the isi-ewu parts which normally come in a side plate were missing. To him, this was a serious offence.

“How can we eat isi-ewu without seeing the parts?” he queried. We all completely agreed with him, and attributed  this ‘great sin’ to the London factor. Chuks will have none of it, and demanded to see the restaurant manager. I loved this all the way, the scene reminded me of scenes in restaurants back in Nigeria, either at Mama Nnenna’s buka or at Nwanyi Nnewi’s mama – put joint. 

Meanwhile, while these protests and summons were going on, we couldn’t resist the steaming hot contents set before us, and so by the time the manager arrived ‘decades’ later, our fingers had already dug deep holes and burrowed deep into the depths.

Stripped bare, you will be surprised that isi-ewu is nothing but bones, and some surviving thin skin layers from the boiling water used in cooking it, throw in the ‘parts’ (the ears, tongue and eyes) and some native spices, not forgetting the hype and you have your delicacy.

The question and answer session continued. The manager went on about policy, London, staff, and several other reasons, in an effort to justify his restaurant’s inability to serve us the isi-ewu parts in a side plate. Our friend from Nigeria won’t let him off lightly; he then launched another attack, querying the ingredients used in preparing the isi-ewu. He was piqued that the isi-ewu which had since settled inside our bellies had not been prepared with utazi (a native bitter leaf), and couldn’t understand why any restaurant worth its onions will ever think of serving the delicacy without utazi, arguing that it is actually the sweet-bitter flavour of utazi that makes isi-ewu the special delicacy that it has become.

At this point, I couldn’t fathom which was the greater sin, serving isi-ewu without the parts in a side plate, or the non-inclusion of utazi in the preparation?

Chuks promised to issue the manager a complete isi-ewu recipe before we leave. This then swung our conversations to the art or science of isi-ewu making, we explored many dimensions, including the various ingredients that can be used, we also recounted stories of the places where we had each eaten our best ever isi-ewu, here I gave the vote to my dear mum, who in her days held Aba residents ‘hostage’ with her isi-ewu making skills which they all came to taste and savour in her Amaka restaurant.

The discussions also covered which tribe in Nigeria could lay claim to the discovery of isi-ewu as a national recipe; we were both unanimous in that, as we all felt that the credit should go to Ndigbo, not for any bias because we were all Igbo but because the delicacy seemed to be served more in Igbo operated restaurants.

As we were leaving, Chuks called the manager once again and announced his all-time isi-ewu recipe; cooked goat head cut into pieces, palm oil, onions, utazi leaves, Maggi or other flavourings and native spices such as salt, crayfish, and eruru.

Whether the manager will use this closely guarded recipe is still unclear, but I intend to find out during my next visit, just before we stepped out into the warm summer night, Chuks quickly pointed out to the restaurant manager that the same way the cassock does not make the wearer a priest, so also do the ingredients alone not make isi-ewu the delicacy it is, according to him “the perfect isi-ewu benefits from a combination of cooking skills and passion”.

We concurred.

August 2006.

posted 19 August 2006

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Wild Women Don’t Have the Blues

                                                         By Ida Cox

I hear these women raving 'bout their monkey men
About their fighting husbands and their no good friends
These poor women sit around all day and moan
Wondering why their wandering papas don't come home
But wild women don't worry, wild women don't have the blues.

Now when you've got a man, don't ever be on the square
'Cause if you do he'll have a woman everywhere
I never was known to treat no one man right
I keep 'em working hard both day and night
because wild women don't worry, wild women don't have no blues.

I've got a disposition and a way of my own
When my man starts kicking I let him find another home
I get full of good liquor, walk the streets all night
Go home and put my man out if he don't act right
Wild women don't worry, wild women don't have no blues

You never get nothing by being an angel child
You better change your ways and get real wild
I wanna tell you something, I wouldn't tell you no lie
Wild women are the only kind that ever get by
Wild women don't worry, wild women don't have no blues.

 Born Ida Prather,25 February 1896 in Toccoa, Habersham County, Georgia, United States. Died 10 November 1967 (aged 71) Genres Jazz, Blues Instruments Vocalist.

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Africa Unite: A Celebration of Bob Marley’s Vision

Directed by Stephanie Black

In 2005, to celebrate what would have been Bob Marley’s 60th birthday, his widow, Rita Marley, and several of Marley’s offspring staged a gala concert in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, in celebration of the iconic reggae singer’s commitment to African unity. In addition to the concert, a week of Unicef-sponsored workshops, discussions and debates took place, in which delegates such as actor and human-rights activist Danny Glover and controversial Jamaican politician Dudley Thompson contemplated what it means to be an African descendant outside Africa. Young people from all over the continent also gathered to discuss their own roles in Africa’s future.

Africa Unite: A Celebration of Bob Marley’s Vision is Stephanie Black’s documentary of the event. Black has already given us the hard-hitting Life and Debt, which explores the destructive impact of the IMF and the World Bank in Jamaica, and H-2 Worker, which exposed the unbelievably exploitative situation facing Jamaican sugarcane cutters in Florida. In Africa Unite, she makes efforts to keep a political-activist focus intact, which is difficult, because much of the movie is devoted to bland concert footage. But the film’s most heartening bits come in testimony from the young Africans who will themselves make up Africa’s next generation of leaders. Also captivating is the sub-plot provided by Bongo Tawney, a poor, elder Rasta who travels to Ethiopia for the first time and who is visibly moved by what he encounters there.

On the downside, the film is generally disjointed. It is sometimes difficult to get a sense of how the events unfolded, and of the exact significance of each segment, as there is so much concert footage interspersed. The concert footage itself does not translate particularly well to the small screen; you probably had to be there to understand the magnitude of the concert, which lasted 12 hours and drew over 350,000 people. And no disrespect to Marley’s children, but every time I’ve seen them live, I wish they would leave their father’s work alone and concentrate on their own talents. But needless to say, as this concert was in celebration of Daddy’s birthday, every one of the Marley boys presents a classic number from the 70s, and for some reason, each feels the need to remain on stage for the entirety of his siblings’ performances, which only adds to the dragging sense of what features here.

The bonus concert footage fares little better than that on the main DVD, though a duet by Rita and Marley’s mother is kind of sweet. In contrast, there are illuminating, though brief, interviews with Rita Marley and several of Bob’s sons, giving some context to the proceedings in terms of their own views on Africa in general and Ethiopia in particular. In summary, although it’s hardly essential viewing overall, Marley fans will probably find something of interest.


Uche Nworah is freelance writer, lecturer and brand strategist. He studied communications arts at the University of Uyo, Nigeria and graduated with a second class honours degree (upper division). He also holds an M.Sc degree in marketing from the University of Nigeria, Enugu campus and obtained his PGCE (post-graduate certificate in education) from the University of Greenwich where he is currently enrolled as a doctoral candidate. His articles have been published by several websites and leading Nigerian newspapers. He received the ChickenBones Journalist of the Year award in 2006.

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Africa Unite

                       By Bob Marley


Africa, Unite
'Cause we're moving right out of Babylon
And we're going to our father's land

How good and how pleasant it would be
Before GOD and man, yeah
To see the unification of all Africans, yeah
As it's been said already let it be done, yeah
We are the children of the Rastaman
We are the children of the Higher Man

Africa, unite 'cause the children wanna come home
Africa, unite 'cause we're moving right out of Babylon
And we're grooving to our father's land

How good and how pleasant it would be
Before GOD and man
To see the unification of all Rastaman, yeah

As it's been said already let it be done
I tell you who we are under the sun
We are the children of the Rastaman
We are the children of the Higher Man

So, Africa, unite, Africa, unite
Unite for the benefit of your people
Unite for it's later than you think

Unite for the benefit of your children
Unite for it's later than you think
Africa awaits its creators, Africa awaiting its creators
Africa, you're my forefather cornerstone
Unite for the Africans abroad, unite for the Africans a yard
Africa, Unite

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Salvage the Bones

A Novel by Jesmyn Ward

On one level, Salvage the Bones is a simple story about a poor black family that’s about to be trashed by one of the most deadly hurricanes in U.S. history. What makes the novel so powerful, though, is the way Ward winds private passions with that menace gathering force out in the Gulf of Mexico. Without a hint of pretension, in the simple lives of these poor people living among chickens and abandoned cars, she evokes the tenacious love and desperation of classical tragedy. The force that pushes back against Katrina’s inexorable winds is the voice of Ward’s narrator, a 14-year-old girl named Esch, the only daughter among four siblings. Precocious, passionate and sensitive, she speaks almost entirely in phrases soaked in her family’s raw land. Everything here is gritty, loamy and alive, as though the very soil were animated. Her brother’s “blood smells like wet hot earth after summer rain. . . . His scalp looks like fresh turned dirt.” Her father’s hands “are like gravel,” while her own hand “slides through his grip like a wet fish,” and a handsome boy’s “muscles jabbered like chickens.” Admittedly, Ward can push so hard on this simile-obsessed style that her paragraphs risk sounding like a compost heap, but this isn’t usually just metaphor for metaphor’s sake. She conveys something fundamental about Esch’s fluid state of mind: her figurative sense of the world in which all things correspond and connect. She and her brothers live in a ramshackle house steeped in grief since their mother died giving birth to her last child. . . . What remains, what’s salvaged, is something indomitable in these tough siblings, the strength of their love, the permanence of their devotion.—WashingtonPost

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The New Jim Crow

Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness

By Michele Alexander

Contrary to the rosy picture of race embodied in Barack Obama's political success and Oprah Winfrey's financial success, legal scholar Alexander argues vigorously and persuasively that [w]e have not ended racial caste in America; we have merely redesigned it. Jim Crow and legal racial segregation has been replaced by mass incarceration as a system of social control (More African Americans are under correctional control today... than were enslaved in 1850). Alexander reviews American racial history from the colonies to the Clinton administration, delineating its transformation into the war on drugs. She offers an acute analysis of the effect of this mass incarceration upon former inmates who will be discriminated against, legally, for the rest of their lives, denied employment, housing, education, and public benefits. Most provocatively, she reveals how both the move toward colorblindness and affirmative action may blur our vision of injustice: most Americans know and don't know the truth about mass incarceration—but her carefully researched, deeply engaging, and thoroughly readable book should change that.—Publishers Weekly

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The White Masters of the World

From The World and Africa, 1965

By W. E. B. Du Bois

W. E. B. Du Bois’ Arraignment and Indictment of White Civilization (Fletcher)

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Ancient African Nations

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Negro Digest / Black World

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The Death of Emmett Till by Bob Dylan  The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll  Only a Pawn in Their Game

Rev. Jesse Lee Peterson Thanks America for Slavery / George Jackson  / Hurricane Carter

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The Journal of Negro History issues at Project Gutenberg

The Haitian Declaration of Independence 1804  / January 1, 1804 -- The Founding of Haiti 

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