Urhobo, But Make It Global: Culture, Food & Vibes

You can take the girl out of Nigeria, but can you take the Nigeria out of the girl? Absolutely not.

I moved abroad for love, life, family, but I packed my pepper, my pronouns, my swallow (fufu), and my people with me. Being Urhobo is not just something I say; it’s how I move, how I eat, how I raise my child, how I dance in my kitchen, and how I make them stare in a European supermarket.

Let’s gist.

Where I’m from will always show... even if I’m holding a coffee and croissant.

My Accent Might Bend, But My Culture Doesn’t

Yes, I live in Spain now. Yes, I sometimes say "vale" and eat dinner at 9 p.m. But don't get it twisted, I’m still the same girl who:

• Grew up with banga soup and starch and rice and stew on Sundays

  
  

• Refuses to eat bland food (salt and pepper are NOT seasoning)

  
  

• Teaches her child to greet properly (because respect is not a suggestion)

  
  

• Can spot bad plantain from a mile away

  
  

• Still calls her mom Mama — not mum, not mami, just Mama

I might be global now, but I didn’t download a new identity.

Urhobo Food Abroad: The Struggle Is Real

Try explaining banga soup to a Catalan. I dare you.

Where I live, finding palm oil is like looking for gold dust. Stockfish? I might need a visa for that. So we improvise. I’ve made:

• Jollof rice with bomba rice (because Spanish rice refused to cooperate)

  
  

• Pepper soup with local fish that tastes like betrayal

  
  

• Moi moi in cupcake tins (don’t judge me)

  
  

But when I do get proper Nigerian groceries (shoutout to that one African shop Menjar del Mon in Hospitalet de Llobregat, Barcelona), best believe I cook like I’m feeding the ancestors.

The Culture Clash is Entertaining (And Humbling)

Here are a few cultural things that still shock me every time:

• Spanish kids calling adults by name, where I’m from, that’s how you get side-eye from every elder in the room.

  
  

• No knocking before entering a child’s room, eh? Not in my house, please.

  
  

• Children telling you “no” directly, one time, my toddler did this and I had to pause and look around like, “Who taught you bravery?

  
  

But I also love it. I’ve learned to:

• Listen more

• Laugh more

• Loosen up

I'm blending, not erasing.

Passing Culture to Jaume (My Son Deserves Both Worlds)

One thing I’m intentional about is raising Jaume with a full plate, not just literally, but culturally. I want him to:

• Know where he comes from

  
  

• Speak at least one Nigerian word besides mama

  
  

• Taste real food, not just pasta and purée

  
  

• Dance with shoulder, not just foot taps

  
  

Will he be Urhobo-Catalan? Maybe. Will he know how to pronounce Eguono? Hopefully. But I’ll keep playing Afrobeats and correcting his accent until further notice.

You Can Be Global and Still Local. It’s Not Either/Or

Sometimes people think living abroad means forgetting who you are. But I think living abroad made me more Nigerian, more Urhobo, because now I choose it. I fight to keep it.

Whether I’m using shea butter on Jaume’s skin, doing hair with thread, or adding pepper to everything, that’s identity. That’s pride. That’s me.

You can find me drinking agua con gas with my husband and also chewing dried kuli kuli while watching Nigerian skits on YouTube.

I’m not confused. I’m cultured.

Where I Shop for Nigerian Goodies in Europe

If you’re in Abroad and missing home, here are a few hacks:

• African shops (even if they look sketchy, go inside)

  
  

• Amazon (but you’ll cry at the prices)

  
  

• Ask aunties from church groups (they always know the plug)

  
  

• Travel bag imports (ask friends to “escort” you palm oil in their luggage)

PS: If you love clean, effective, sustainable skincare, I use Ringana — no chemicals, 100 % natural, just like my Nigerian delicacies.

So, my dear readers, I’m Urhobo. But Make It Global.

I live in Barcelona. I speak some Catalan and Spanish. My kid eats spaghetti and fufu. My husband says Babe, that pepper is too much at least once a week. And yet, I am still me.

I’m Urhobo in my mouth, my music, my memory, and my motherhood.

This isn’t a crisis of identity. It’s a celebration of it.

Now let me go check my pot before my banga soup burns.