Photo by Malick Sidibe

Fermented foods, bitter teas, and the quiet wisdom in our kitchens

There’s something deeply comforting about watching an elder prepare food, not in a rush, not for Instagram, but with that soft rhythm passed down through generations. You may not have known it then, but that spoonful of pepper soup, that bowl of ogi, or that cup of warm, leaf-scented tea was doing more than feeding you.

It was healing you. Gently. Quietly. Patiently.

These days, everyone’s talking about gut health. There are probiotic powders, green drinks, supplements, and scans. But for many of us, our first lesson in wellness didn’t come from a book or a brand. It came from home.

The Things We Ate Without Thinking

In many African homes, fermentation wasn’t new or trendy. It was normal.
Ogi in Nigeria. Kenkey in Ghana. Injera in Ethiopia. These foods were alive, bubbling, tangy, made with care.

In Northern Nigeria, the strong, savoury bite of iru (fermented locust beans) didn’t just deepen the taste of soups—it made them easier to digest.

And in the hills of Burundi, families passed around calabashes filled with banana beer—a slightly sweet, slightly sour drink made by fermenting ripe bananas with sorghum or millet. It wasn’t just a celebration drink. It was a living brew, teeming with naturally occurring cultures that supported gut health before we had a name for it.

Banana beer at a Burundian family ceremony

Now, things are circling back.
The world is looking to fermented foods again.
Herbs are making their way into detox kits.
But really, they never left us.

Maybe the next chapter of wellness isn’t new.
Maybe it’s just home.

A Few Gentle Ways to Start

• Brew a pot of bitter leaf or scent leaf tea after dinner
• Add a spoon of iru to your soup or stew
• Try a homemade banana beer if you ever find yourself in Burundi—or make a small batch yourself
• Eat slowly. Use your hands. Honour your body’s rhythm
• Ask your elders what they used to cook when someone “wasn’t feeling right” 

Because sometimes healing doesn’t need a prescription. Just a memory. And a little bit of trust.

Photo by Malick Sidibe

Fermented foods, bitter teas, and the quiet wisdom in our kitchens

There’s something deeply comforting about watching an elder prepare food—not in a rush, not for Instagram, but with that soft rhythm passed down through generations. You may not have known it then, but that spoonful of pepper soup, that bowl of ogi, or that cup of warm, leaf-scented tea was doing more than feeding you.

It was healing you. Gently. Quietly. Patiently.

These days, everyone’s talking about gut health. There are probiotic powders, green drinks, supplements, and scans. But for many of us, our first lesson in wellness didn’t come from a book or a brand. It came from home.

The Things We Ate Without Thinking

In many African homes, fermentation wasn’t new or trendy. It was normal.
Ogi in Nigeria. Kenkey in Ghana. Injera in Ethiopia. These foods were alive—bubbling, tangy, made with care.

In Northern Nigeria, the strong, savoury bite of iru (fermented locust beans) didn’t just deepen the taste of soups—it made them easier to digest.

And in the hills of Burundi, families passed around calabashes filled with banana beer—a slightly sweet, slightly sour drink made by fermenting ripe bananas with sorghum or millet. It wasn’t just a celebration drink. It was a living brew, teeming with naturally occurring cultures that supported gut health before we had a name for it.