Leaves, Banana
By: Foundation For Liberating Minds
Tags: Food, Home, Global, Flm

by Stephanie Eyocko (she/her)

Stephanie Eyocko (she/her) is a conservationist, foodie, and urban gardener. She’s passionate about locally-grown food and locally-sourced stories and writes about it in Mixed Mag where she is the food Editor. This piece is part of a series by the Global Vision Initiative titled “Every Dish, A Struggle”. To read more , please head to our Medium account or to our website here.

Banana Leaf

When I called my mother to tell her I’d be writing about the “feuilles de banana,” she chuckled. “Ca ce n’est pas de la nourriture, c’est la tradition,” she said. “That’s not food, it’s tradition.”

Thinking back, she’s right.

As a child, we did not have playgrounds, instead we climbed the tallest banana plant. “La Roseee, où es-tuuu,” my elder brother said as he searched for me. “La Rose, where are youuu?” The past hour, we had been engaging in an intense game of hide-and-seek, and as small as I was, he’d been unable to find me in a field of Musa plants. Our front yard in Bisseke prefecture, Edea, Cameroon was and still is full of Musa plants.

Though the plantain and banana are valuable foodstuff, it is the stems and leaves of the plant that tie much of Cameroonian cuisine together — literally.

Musa Plant in front of my Grandparents house — Bisseke, Edea, Cameroon December 9th, 2020

“It is about taste, La Rose,” she reminded me, “Le gout de xa aaach” — the taste…beyond words. And she’s right, it is about taste and tradition.

My grandmother would come home with buckets and buckets of manioc, cassava — a versatile tuber in preparation of Ntoumba, a Cameroonian delicacy. We would spend hours removing the skin, washing it with water gathered from the not-so-nearby-well, and soaking it in clean water. The act of peeling and soaking manioc root easily took a day. With the sub-tropical climate of Edea, fermentation would take approximately three days. These actions are necessary, because as important as this tuber is, it contains traces of cyanide and proper care is essential. As we waited for the manioc to ferment, we gathered our Musa leaves, making sure to harvest the leaves with green color and strong midrib (the line dividing the leaf in two). On the third day, my grandpa and male cousins would gather the wood and prepare the fire using kerosene. And the women would clean the Musa leaves, warm them on top of the fire to soften the leaves; pilling them to the side as we finished, one by one. The fermented Yucca would then be pounded in a larger-than-life mortar pestle by my grandmother to which she would add a rich medley of palm oil, creamed scotch bonnet pepper, salt and mbongo, a pungent spice.

She’d wink and invite me over just to remind me of the most important and delicate step: putting the pounded yucca in a sturdy leaf — one that you chose yourself and believe to be strong and sturdy enough to carry the yucca. And we’d do just that, wrapping enough Ntoumba packets to feed us through the wet season. To seal the deal, we’d use the midrib to tie the Ntoumba so we could boil our labor without any mishaps. We’d then go on together eat as a family, all fourteen of us.

There are many dishes like Ntoumba that are cooked in slender Musa leaves to preserve taste: Miondo, fermented cassava usually served with our National dish, Ndole. Koki Corn, a distant cousin of fresh corn tamales. Mpuh Fish, spicy fish in Plantain paste. Kwakoko, grated cocoyam mixed with smoked crayfish, smoked fish, and a whole lotta goodness.

Ntoumba

Cameroon is known as “Africa in miniature” — a land of diverse climates, landscapes and cultures. But whether you’re Bassa from Littoral, Ewondo living in Yaoundé, or like me, Bakoko from Edea — everyone uses Musa to wrap and cook their food to ensure it is tasty and often times, earthy.

There is no other way that it can be done, not with plastic or foil. Seeking out and using Musa leaves is way to thank our ancestors for being pioneers of the circular economy. It is a commitment to taste and tradition, and for generations to come, it is resistance. Not to say this doesn’t happen to date, but capitalism and mass production introduced us to a quicker way of life.

I’ve always had plants around me. But at the onset of the pandemic, I found myself wanting a very specific plant. One that reminded me of my home, something familiar. While on an errand one day, I noticed an older gentleman packing up his plants and as I watched, I saw a banana plant. Without hesitation, I ran after him. We spoke for a while and it turned out he was from Congo. He then sold me the plant and told me to take good care of it and it will take good care of me. This banana plant is now the reason I, too, am fermenting my own manioc, so I can have a taste of home.