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JOURNAL OF A JOURNALIST NEXT DOOR ...The Garri That Refused to Be

Sunday started with high hopes and eager energy as I rallied the kids for a family project—processing garri from cassava harvested right from our small farm. It was supposed to be a fun, bonding experience, teaching them the age-old tradition of turning cassava into one of our favorite staples. Little did I know, the day would take a very different turn. The first few steps went smoothly, almost too smoothly. The cassava had been harvested for us and we peeled them with a sense of accomplishment, and tossed the tubers into water, feeling like seasoned farmers. Next came washing, then blending. Yes! I meant blending. We chopped them into small pieces and blended them at home with our blender, then went ahead to squeeze out the water with all the excitement in a properly washed pillowcase (we didn’t have the appropriate sac). The fermentation stage passed days before without drama, and by mid-afternoon of Sunday, we were ready for the final step—frying the cassava into garri. My younger daughter stirred with all the seriousness of a pro, while the others waited in anticipation for their turn. But then... it happened. As I watched the pan, things started to go awry. The cassava, instead of gradually transforming into those golden grains of garri, clung stubbornly to the pan, forming stubborn lumps that refused to separate. I scraped, the kids giggled nervously, but no matter what I did, the sticky mass wouldn’t budge, and then I began to change pans as though I suddenly found the perfect solution, but no! It wasn’t to be. “Why isn’t it working?” one of them asked, eyes wide with disbelief. Good question. I tried adding more heat. Big mistake. The lumps formed even faster, sticking to the ladle and pan like glue. “Mummy, it looks like mashed potatoes!” one of them yelled, clearly enjoying the chaos. It didn’t take long before we were all laughing at the absurdity of it. The pan was no longer a battlefield for smooth garri but a scene of chaos as the lumps piled up. My vision of teaching them the perfect garri-making process vanished, replaced by a more memorable lesson: not everything goes as planned. After what felt like an eternity of scraping, stirring, and coaxing the cassava, I accepted defeat. The garri had won this round. The kids looked at me with amused eyes, waiting for me to declare the project a failure. But then I realized—it wasn’t a failure at all. Sure, the garri refused to cooperate, but we’d spent the entire day together, laughing through the mess, and learning something new. As we cleaned up, sticky hands and all, I told them, “Well, this is just the universe’s way of making sure we have another family project soon.” We ended the day with lumps of semi-garri and a kitchen that looked like a war zone. But, strangely, I wouldn’t change a thing. After all, the best family moments are often the most imperfect. Until next time, The Journalist Next Door
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