Ebiripo No Be Moin-Moin: A Sagamu Day meditation, wrapped in leaves – by Wọlé Awé

Ebiripo No Be Moin-Moin

A Sagamu Day meditation, wrapped in leaves – by Wọlé Awé

Sagamu is dressed to the nines today. The drummers are warming up, the aṣọ-ẹbí was ironed last night under strict supervision, and somewhere an aunty has been awake since 4 a.m. with a grater and a grudge. Whatever the programme says, the true celebrant of Sagamu Day comes wrapped in a leaf.

First, some scholarship. Our elders say the name tells the whole story: Ebi rí i, ó pòórá. Hunger saw it, and hunger vanished. Ebi-ri-po. No university has confirmed this. To be fair, no university has tasted it either.

Now, a public service announcement for our in-laws from Lagos: ebiripo is not moin-moin. They share the same leaves, the same shape and the same steam, and that is where the relationship ends. Moin-moin went to boarding school and learned to mix with eggs and sardines. Ebiripo stayed home, served its parents, and inherited the land. Every year one Lagos cousin bites in expecting beans, meets pure kókò with full confidence, and spends the rest of the afternoon reviewing his life choices.

Then there is the grating. Kókò does not go quietly. It itches. It fights back. Our mothers grate it with the calm of surgeons, while the city boy who volunteered to “help” is found two hours later with his palms under the tap, whispering “ọwọ́ mi ń yún” to nobody in particular. In Remo, we don’t ask who grated the kókò. We just look for whoever is scratching.

Unwrapping is a ceremony of its own. You untie the leaf slowly, the way you open a letter from the family meeting, because what is inside will decide your next three hours. They will be quiet hours. Ebiripo does not fill you; it annexes you. After the second wrap, your body submits its leave letter without consulting you.

Then comes the great constitutional question of Remo: egusi or pepper sauce? Families have split over it. Engagements have been delayed. There are two parties in this land, the Egusi Congress and the Pepper Sauce Alliance, and no tribunal has ever settled the matter. A small breakaway faction eats it with nothing at all. We pray for them.

Our children abroad know the struggle. They pack ebiripo in three nylons and a prayer. At Heathrow the X-ray machine pauses, the officer frowns, and our boy says with a straight face, “Documents, sir.” Technically, he is right. It is Remo history, filed in a leaf.

Sagamu gave the nation kola nut: obì for the visitors, obì for the prayers, obì for the trade. Ebiripo we kept for ourselves.

So today, as the drums roll and the dancers raise the dust, find yourself one wrap. Open it with respect. Choose your party and defend it with your life. And if a visitor calls it moin-moin, forgive them. They know not what they chew.

Ẹ kú àjọ̀dún, ẹ wen ọmọ Sagamu. Ebi rí i… ó pòórá!*