Every morning, palm oil goes into the pot before anything else. Before the onions. Before the pepper. Before the day properly begins. In kitchens across Nigeria, palm oil is not a choice; it is a constant. It colours the stew, thickens the soup, carries flavour from one generation to the next. It is measured by eye, not by scale. Trusted by habit, not by label. And that is precisely the problem. Increasingly, what looks like palm oil is no longer just palm oil. It pours the same, smells almost right, stains the pot in familiar ways.
Every morning, palm oil goes into the pot before anything else. Before the onions. Before the pepper. Before the day properly begins. In kitchens across Nigeria, palm oil is not a choice; it is a constant. It colours the stew, thickens the soup, carries flavour from one generation to the next. It is measured by eye, not by scale. Trusted by habit, not by label. And that is precisely the problem. Increasingly, what looks like palm oil is no longer just palm oil. It pours the same, smells almost right, stains the pot in familiar ways.