25/05/2026
Let's rebuild humanity in our communities, world wide
READ , LEARN, MEDITATE & BE IMPARTED
Grandma Adunni always said the world didn’t break in one loud crack. It broke in small, quiet ways — when neighbors stopped greeting, when doors closed a little tighter, when people forgot the taste of each other’s cooking.
In our compound in Surulere, you could feel it. Mr. Bello argued with the NEPA man every week. Iya Tola shouted at the children for playing too close to her stall. Even the Harmattan wind felt sharper, like it had picked up everyone’s irritation.
“Humanity,” Grandma Adunni would mutter, stirring her big black pot, “doesn’t need a revolution. It needs a spoon.”
So one Wednesday, when the light was stubbornly orange and the power had been gone since noon, she dragged her pot to the center of the compound. No firewood. No meat. Just water, three seasoning cubes, and a stubborn look in her eyes.
“Ada,” she called to me, “go tell Iya Kemi to bring pepper. Tell Mama Emeka to bring yam. Tell Sister Funmi — yes, the one with the headphones — to bring herself.”
We thought she’d lost it. But grandmas have a way of making you obey nonsense.
Iya Kemi came first, grumbling, holding two red peppers. “Adunni, if this is another of your proverbs, I’m busy.”
“Drop it in the water,” Grandma said. “And drop your grudge too. It’s too heavy for stew.”
Mama Emeka brought yam, but also brought the story of how her shop hadn’t made sales in three days. She cried into the pot. Grandma didn’t stop her. “Salt,” she whispered. “Every stew needs salt.”
Sister Funmi came last, earphones still in. “Grandma, I don’t cook.”
“You don’t have to,” Grandma said. “Just sit. Be here. That’s an ingredient too.”
By the time the sun gave up, the pot had everything — yam from Mama Emeka, crayfish from Iya Tola who swore she wasn’t joining, tomatoes from Mr. Bello who “just happened to be passing,” and even Sister Funmi’s phone flashlight when it got dark.
We didn’t have bowls enough, so we shared. We didn’t have spoons enough, so we waited. We didn’t have enough words, so we listened.
That night, NEPA didn’t bring light. But the compound was bright anyway. Mr. Bello told a joke and Iya Tola actually laughed — a real one, not the angry bark we’d gotten used to. Sister Funmi taught Grandma how to take a selfie. Mama Emeka went home with yam in her stomach and less weight in her chest.
Grandma didn’t preach. She just served. When the pot was scraped clean, she said, “See? Humanity. It was here. We just forgot to feed it.”
Now every last Wednesday, the pot comes out. Sometimes it’s stew. Sometimes it’s pap. Sometimes it’s just tea and groundnuts. The rules are simple:
1. Bring something — food, or a story, or just your presence. 2. Leave something — your anger, your hurry, your fear that nobody cares. 3. Take something — a full belly, or a lighter heart.
The women in our community call it “Evening Stew.” The children call it “Wednesday Magic.” Grandma Adunni calls it nothing. She says kindness and sincerity don’t need names. They just need hands.
And slowly, door by door, Lagos feels a little less broken. Not because we fixed the country. But because we remembered how to look at each other and say, “You sit. You eat. You belong.”
Kindness is the spoon. Sincerity is the fire.
And humanity? It’s just been hungry.
