Juliet Tontoye: Why Are We Renaming Nigerian Food to Make It Sound More Western?

I was watching TV recently, and an ad came on for a popular food brand. The product on screen looked incredibly familiar, but the name of the product sounded unfamiliar, which caused a massive disconnect between me and the product. What should have been proudly called Garri was being marketed as “Cassava Grits.”

I sat there with so many questions for the marketing team. Was this rebrand for the upscale domestic market? An attempt at creativity? Or a desperate bid to polish the food so it sounds posh enough for international shoppers?. Whatever the goal, it felt like Garri had been stripped of its colour and made bland.

While there is no clear source, Garri, as a word, could be said to have originated from Northern Nigeria. The Hausa people of Northern Nigeria refer to any food that comes in powdery or grain form as Garin. Maize flour is called Garin masara, Wheat flour is called Garin alkama and Cassava flour is called Garin kwaki. Garin being a common name for food produce that has been ground into powder, naturally evolved to being called Garri. This name change was a result of inter-cultural trade between Northern Nigeria, the rest of Nigeria and West Africa.

Over the years, Garri has become a staple, not just in Nigeria, but also in Liberia, Ghana, Cameroon, Togo, and the Republic of Benin.

This might be news to you, but Garri is used to make soup in some parts of Nigeria. You may enjoy your Garri, paired with cold water, sugar and groundnut on a hot afternoon, while someone else loves Garri as a swallow. Moulded into a soft, pillowy perfection, accompanying their favourite local soup. In Delta State, especially with the Urhobo, Isoko and Itsekiri peoples, Garri can be both the swallow and the soup. Owho is a rich, flavorful soup, made with soaked garri, palm oil, and potash mixture. In my experience, it is the elders who are usually treated to the fine experience of Owho soup and swallow at special events.

Before its arrival on the shores of West Africa, and Nigeria through Portuguese traders, Garri was native to Brazil and South America, where they call it Farinha de Mandioca. Farofa is an indigenous Brazilian dish made from garri, toasted with butter, meat and other spices. It wasn’t until the 16th Century, that Portuguese colonisers started shipping cassava from South  America to West Africa. When we first started eating cassava, we used to either boil it or pound it like yam, until slaves returning from Brazil brought with them the knowledge of South American Cassava processing methods, which involved the fermentation and roasting of Cassava to get the dry, powdered cassava granules that we now call Garri.

Garri has an identity; it has history. 

So, when we slap a Western or different name onto a food with an origin, we are stripping off the history of what that food is, and ignoring its cultural essence. Global acceptance should not be at the expense of heritage.

How the World Protects Its Food

If we look across the globe, we see that successful food cultures don’t blend in; they stand out. They treat their food names as intellectual property and cultural goldmines.

Look at Asia. They are global leaders in exporting their culture without compromising their language. Gochugaru isn’t sold as red pepper paste. Miso isn’t soybean mash. Soju isn’t rice vodka. They ship Kimchi, Kimbap, and Dim Sum to supermarkets worldwide, and the world learns the names.

Even more formally, Europe protects food through legal frameworks such as Geographical Indications (GI) and Protected Designation of Origin (PDO).

What does that mean in plain English? It means it is illegal to call a sparkling wine Champagne unless it was made in the Champagne region of France using specific traditional methods. If you make it anywhere else, it’s just sparkling wine. The same goes for Parmigiano-Reggiano (Parmesan) from Italy, Feta from Greece, or Kalamata olives.

These laws exist because Western societies realised that a food’s name is tied directly to its geography, its regional history, and the unique craftsmanship of its people. They protected their names because they knew that losing the name meant losing the economic and cultural value.

So why, in Nigeria, are we voluntarily doing the exact opposite? Why are we erasing ourselves?

Our parents and grandparents did the heavy lifting of preserving these recipes and names through centuries of trials, migrations and societal changes. They didn’t pass down bean cakes; they passed down Akara and Moi-Moi. It’s our turn to be good custodians. Let’s hold onto our local names and homegrown ingredients so that the generations to come inherit a culture that is bold, unique, and admired by the world, wholly on our own terms.

It is Akara, not bean fritters. It is Moi-Moi, not bean cake. It is Abacha, not an African salad. It is Egusi, not melon seed soup, and it is certainly Garri, not cassava grits. Culture isn’t static; it evolves with technology, society, and global shifts. But evolution shouldn’t mean erasure. We are supposed to be the custodians of our heritage, not the liquidators.

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