On The Frontline With Boma
When a nation begins to debate akara and kuli-kuli, it is often discussing something much bigger than food—it is discussing survival.
Sometimes, a nation can be measured not by the height of its skyscrapers, the number of its billionaires or the promises of its politicians, but by the food its people discuss in moments of hardship. In prosperous societies, conversations revolve around innovation, technology, investments and opportunities. In troubled economies, people speak of bread, garri, beans and survival. Nigeria appears to have reached that difficult point where even akara, a humble bean cake that once merely accompanied pap and childhood laughter, has suddenly become a subject of national debate.
When the wife of the President, Senator Oluremi Tinubu, recently advised Nigerians to consider trades such as frying akara and producing kuli-kuli because they require little capital, her remarks ignited a storm of reactions. Some Nigerians applauded her, seeing practical wisdom in her advice. Others considered the comments insensitive, arguing that a country blessed with enormous resources should not reduce the dreams of its citizens to roadside survival enterprises.
Yet beneath the noise, insults and political divisions lies a deeper question: What exactly is Nigeria arguing about? Is it akara? Is it poverty? Is it dignity? Or is it the frustration of citizens whose expectations of governance have become increasingly distant from their daily realities?
To be fair to the First Lady, there is absolutely nothing shameful about frying akara. Akara has fed families, trained children, built houses and rescued homes from economic collapse. In many Nigerian communities, women who sold akara became silent heroines whose sacrifices kept their families alive during difficult years.
As a child growing up, akara was more than food. It was memory. It was community. It was survival.
I particularly loved what we called akara roy-roy, the crispy, golden delicacy prepared by our neighbour, Mama Kaine. The aroma from her kitchen travelled through the street like a public announcement. Nobody ignored it, not even babies. The mystery of how she achieved that unforgettable taste remains unresolved.
Mama Kaine’s husband was a low-ranking civil servant and a church priest in a denomination that was not financially buoyant. There were difficult days in their home. School fees became burdensome. Feeding the family became challenging. Her daughter often shared their struggles with us during our childhood interactions.
Then came akara.
What began as a simple frying business transformed the household. School fees were paid. Books were purchased. Food returned to the dining table. Smiles gradually replaced anxiety. The little balls of fried beans became instruments of dignity.
Back in Port Harcourt Township, another woman, now late, became famous because of her akara. People from several streets queued every morning and evening to buy from her. School children, workers, bachelors and married couples all depended on her trade. Alongside hair braiding, she built a respectable livelihood.
One of our younger relatives learned the trade from her while still in secondary school. That young girl, determined to support her struggling family, embraced the business with determination. She helped her household navigate difficult economic waters. She represented the values that society claims to admire: hard work, entrepreneurship, sacrifice and resilience.
There is also the case of a university graduate in Abuja who gained public attention for his akara business. He openly declared that he earned more from frying akara than many white-collar employees. When asked whether he would abandon the business for office employment, his answer was immediate: no.
These examples demonstrate one truth: honest labour can never be a curse.
However, the anger generated by the First Lady’s remarks cannot simply be dismissed as elitism. Many Nigerians are not rejecting akara itself; they are rejecting what they perceive as a lowering of national expectations.
Citizens ask legitimate questions. Should graduates spend years in universities only to be advised to fry akara? Should a nation with enormous oil wealth, abundant natural resources and millions of talented youths merely encourage survival businesses while unemployment, inflation and poverty continue to rise? Is self-help replacing government responsibility?
These questions deserve answers.
The reality is that two truths can coexist.
First, small businesses matter. Across Nigeria, countless women survive through food vending, kuli-kuli production, roasting corn, bole’ and fish,tailoring, hairdressing and petty trading. Many families depend on these occupations. Thousands only need small capital—sometimes as little as thirty thousand naira to begin.
Second, government has an obligation to create conditions where citizens can aspire beyond mere survival. A country should produce engineers who engineer, teachers who teach, journalists who report, doctors who heal and graduates who find opportunities consistent with their training.
The criticism from many Nigerians may therefore reflect accumulated frustration. Food prices continue to rise. Transportation costs remain high. Young people battle unemployment. Families struggle with school fees and rent. Under such conditions, even well-intended advice may be interpreted through the lens of hardship.
Some critics also pointed to the vehicles reportedly distributed to women leaders within the ruling party, questioning why broader economic assistance could not reach struggling women across the country.
The truth is there is logic on both sides.
Political mobilisers perform functions within party structures, and political rewards are hardly new in democratic systems. Yet ordinary women selling vegetables, frying bean cakes or struggling to educate their children equally deserve support. They are the invisible backbone of the economy.
What if thousands of women received grants instead of loans? What if vocational support programmes reached rural communities? What if local food producers received equipment, training and access to markets? The impact could be enormous.
The greatest lesson from this controversy is perhaps that nothing is too small for an industrious mind. Some of Nigeria’s biggest businesses began modestly. The problem is not akara. The problem is when akara becomes the ceiling rather than the starting point.
A nation must encourage enterprise while simultaneously creating opportunities for advancement. The daughter of an akara seller should have the opportunity to become a doctor. The son of a kuli-kuli producer should be able to become an engineer. Small businesses should lift families upward, not become evidence of shrinking national ambition.
As Nigerians continue to debate the First Lady’s remarks, perhaps the country should ask itself a more profound question. How did a people blessed with enormous resources arrive at a point where bean cakes and groundnut snacks dominate national discourse?
Akara is not the enemy. Kuli-kuli is not the problem. Honest labour has never disgraced any society.
But every nation must decide whether its citizens will merely survive or truly prosper.
And therein lies the burden of our time.
For when citizens celebrate akara, let it be because it represents entrepreneurship and dignity, not because it has become the final refuge of crushed dreams. Let kuli-kuli remain a symbol of enterprise, not evidence that hope itself has become a roadside commodity.
Nigeria deserves citizens who are hardworking enough to fry akara if necessary, courageous enough to start small businesses, and ambitious enough to dream beyond them. Equally, citizens deserve leaders who create an economy where those dreams can become reality.
Until then, the aroma rising from the frying pan may continue to remind us not only of childhood memories and honest labour, but also of the painful burden of survival in a nation still searching for prosperity.
On the Frontline, the questions remain: Must Nigerians merely survive, or should they also be allowed to dream? Must akara become a destination, or should it remain a stepping stone? Until those questions are answered, the frying pan may continue to tell the story that statistics and political speeches often fail to tell—the story of a people struggling not only to live, but to live with dignity.
On The Frontline With Boma is published by The Port Harcourt Telegraph Newspaper authored by the managing editor
