By Garba Shehu
A story of modern migration has had extraordinary results
At akoko, an upscale restaurant in central London, Nigerian staples such as moi-moi, a stodgy bean pudding, and mosa, a savoury doughnut made from overripe plantain, become fine dining. Sta! shuttle steaming bowls of jollof rice across the restaurant to clients paying £120 ($160) for a tasting menu, plus another £95 for a wine pairing. (A shorter £55 lunch menu exists for the time-pressed, the tightwads and those husbanding expense accounts.)
This year Akoko won its first Michelin star. It was joined by Chishuru, another Nigerian joint. Its owner, Adejoké Bakare, has gone from being a have-a-go chef working out of a temporary spot in Brixton Market in south London to a Michelin-star-winning West End mainstay in barely four years.
What is happening in food is happening elsewhere. From politics to YouTube to sport to music, members of Britain’s Nigerian diaspora have established themselves in the country’s elite. “That beaming West African mothers are now such a regular fixture on award-show red carpets and stages tells its own story,” points out Jimi Famurewa in “Settlers”, a recent memoir-cum-history of black African London. A Nigerian moment has begun.
British-Nigerians are curiously overlooked in the folk tales Britain tells itself about immigration. There is no iconic episode to match the arrival of hmt Empire Windrush, the boat that brought a few hundred people from the West Indies in 1948, points out David Olusoga, a historian (himself a British-Nigerian). They lack the numbers of, say, British-Indians or the geographic spread of Poles. Instead, theirs is a prosaic story of modern migration. Airplanes bearing the parents of future chefs, footballers, politicians and musicians arrived in steady numbers throughout the 1980s and 1990s. The results, however, are extraordinary.
Michelin stars are just the start of it. British-Nigerians have put their stamp on the country’s music scene. Grime, probably the most influential British genre in the past few decades, was shaped by British-Nigerians. Or as Skepta, who won the Mercury Prize, a prestigious award, in 2016, put it: “I’m a badboy from Nigeria/Not St Lucia/Joseph Junior Adenuga/Big lips, African hooter.” Skepta’s brother, jme, is another well-known mc; their sister, Julie, is a prominent dj.
It is not just a family a!air. Four of the eight Mercury Prize winners since Skepta have had Nigerian heritage.
Much of their success can be traced to geography. All the recent British- Nigerian Mercury winners were raised in London, which is the heart of the country’s Nigerian population.
A home in the British capital is often vital to making it into Britain’s creative elite, whether that is in wealthy Hammersmith or, as in the case of the Adenugas, on a council estate in Tottenham. What is big in London becomes big in Britain. A niche genre like grime can spread from pirate radio to critical acclaim in a few years.
Bukayo Saka, a British-Nigerian who plays football for England and Arsenal, is another London boy made good. Mr Saka is the golden child of a golden generation of England players. No profile is complete without a mention of the fact that Mr Saka achieved four a*s and three as in his gcse exams. Homework was done during the 90-minute drive from West Ealing to Arsenal’s academy ground in Hale End.
That application is a typical British-Nigerian story. For a demonstration, head to any train station in south-east London during term time, says Mr Famurewa. While commuters head into central London, British-Nigerian children in oversize blazers travel often absurd distances in the other direction to outer London boroughs and Kent, which still have selective grammar schools.
Not everyone can play for England but anyone can hop on the 7.30am train to Gravesend (providing they have the grades).
