Today was one for the books! My department at the university hosted its very first multicultural festival, and let me tell you, it was a sensory rollercoaster—colors, spices, music, and enough food to feed a small nation.
There were food stalls from everywhere—India, Poland, even countries I had to Google to pronounce properly. I was doing what any loyal festivalgoer would do: taste everything in sight. Then… I saw it. A stall with a green-white-green flag. Nigeria had entered the chat.
Now, being Ghanaian, you already know what this means—Jollof War time. It’s basically our version of a friendly sibling rivalry, except it involves rice, tomatoes, and national pride.
As I approached the Nigerian stand, the lady behind the counter greeted me with a smile so sweet, I momentarily forgot the culinary beef our nations share. Then she asked the golden question:
“Where are you from?”
“Ghana,” I replied, proudly.
She grinned like she just won a prize. “Ah! Then the jollof debate is over!”
I didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, exactly. Ghana has won already!”
She laughed, but then came with the plot twist:
“What if I were the jollof?”
My brain paused. Was this a setup? A metaphor? A romantic subplot?
I leaned in with a smirk and replied, “Then I guess I’m already served!”
10/10 would go to that festival again—next time, I’m bringing extra spoons and Ghanaian flags.
BreathPharma 