An Ode to Puff Puff
Hot puff puff tastes like home. Like a party in the backyard, with the sun beating through the canopy, juju music from the live band booming and sand scratching our feet. The distant smell of sugar frying against the backdrop of smoky jollof, setting the vibe for the fun to come.
To compare puff puff to a doughnut would be unfair, lost in translation. We wonder what the singular word for puff puff is. But who cares? Nobody ever eats just one — puff puff exists only in the plural, to be enjoyed in bulk. Always a lot, but never too much. To be shared with family and friends. To be eaten at birthday parties while watching children dance like their lives depend on winning. At weddings, while waiting for the bride and groom to arrive. On the seventh day after a baby is born and at funerals, reminding us that life is to be celebrated at inception and conclusion.
Hot puff puff makes you think of your grandmother, the one that always had it frying in her house. The one that sent a black nylon bag to you when you were ill. The one who tried to teach you how to make puff puff the traditional way, how to wait for the batter to rise and how to scoop the mix with your hands. You never learnt how to make it the way she does but you keep trying anyway.
Hot puff puff lands in your mouth and then melts, making you feel like all of your problems would be solved if you chewed slower, if you savored the disintegration in your mouth for just a little longer. There’s something about hot puff puff that makes you feel wholesome. Benign in its simplicity, uncomplicated in its consistency. The oil dripping with each sweet bite a reminder that sometimes, doing something sinful can feel good at the right moment. Hot puff puff makes you think of December in Lagos, going from party to party, the real reason you left your house. Hot puff puff, the ray of sunshine in a plate of small chops. Did you even go out if you didn’t have any? Was the party really lit if puff puff wasn’t served?
Hot puff puff, beloved of Nigeria. Called different names across Africa, maybe even the world, but essentially the same. The diaspora fry puff puff with fond memories, the stayers continue to hold onto hope in the shape of a doughy ball. From the CEOs, the Tech bros, the hairdressers and the drivers, Christians and Muslims, old and young, we are united in our love.
Puff puff, thank you for all you do. We are grateful.
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*Puff Puff photo cred @Superflycook
