For Black History Month, I Decolonized My Diet. Here’s How to Eat Like Your Ancestors.
During Black History Month last year, I googled the phrase decolonize on Instagram and discovered accounts like @decolonizemyself and @decolonizeyourbookshelf, as well as the term decolonized diet, created by author Devon Abbott Mihesuah in her 2020 book Recovering Our Ancestors’ Gardens. It refers to eating in the manner that Indigenous and Black people did before to colonization and has become something of a social movement; the hashtag #decolonizeyourdiet appears in over 15,000 Instagram pictures. Prior to last February’s deep dive, I had no idea how much Western European staples — from ketchup to mustard and hamburgers to pasta — influenced not just what I ate but also what I read and the products I used on my face and hair. As a lady of African descent, It made me ponder what it would be like to return to my roots and enjoy cuisine without the influence of Western Europe.
So, at the start of Black History Month, I decided to decolonize my personal diet in the hopes of feeling more connected to my ancestors and reaping the health advantages of West African food. I quickly discovered that this entailed far more than simply substituting a plant-based stew or seasoned fish with steamed sweet potatoes for my monthly trip to In-N-Out Burger. Before I began, I researched which countries had conquered African nations and discovered that I would have to avoid foods and products from England, Belgium, Germany, the Netherlands, France, Spain, Portugal, Italy, and the modern-day Ottoman Empire. What I expected to be a horror story — one filled with nightmares of collapsing over a platter of fried food and an ice-cold soda — turned out to be a new way of life.
Decolonizing my cuisine also taught me a lot about the bad influence of colonizers on African Americans’ health: As African Americans, we take pleasure in preparing and serving delectable cuisine during family gatherings, cookouts, and sporting events. Nonetheless, the food we call “ours” has been contaminated by colonial additives. Many “traditional” African American meals are made from leftovers that the masters refused to consume. During the slavery era, African Americans were given leftovers such as pigs feet, oxtail, and cornmeal. Today, fatty and salty meals are the major elements of soul food, which we proudly consume. What started as a meal rich in freshly steamed sweet potatoes, maize, and kale has evolved into sweetened sweet potatoes, grits soaked in butter, and okra saturated in beef fat.
As the worldwide epidemic progressed, I began to seek solace not only in soul food, but also in sugary drinks and fast meals, and I was afraid of becoming a statistic: Four out of every five Black women in the United States are overweight or obese. With 40.7 percent of Black people classified as obese, we have the highest obesity rates of any demographic in America. The decolonization of our diets is about more than simply appreciating our past; it is also about addressing the fact that African Americans have historically suffered with high blood pressure, cardiac issues, and obesity. Perhaps by going back to our roots in terms of what we put into our bodies, African Americans can get healing from health problems that have disproportionately affected us.
For a week, I determined to keep track of everything I ate. There will be no more oily food from major firms. On “soul food Sunday,” no more sweets. I started by stockpiling fruits, nuts, and legumes. I began my days with West African flatbread from a local market, which I paired with fried bananas and fruit. Everything was fried in palm oil, a common ingredient of West African cuisine. My mornings were made better by the flavor of sweet, crisp bananas combined with proteins like crunchy almonds and grilled pork. I also began my days by sampling different black teas from Kenya and South Africa, which were far stronger than I had anticipated.
While decolonizing my diet, my favorite meal to make was lunch. The majority of my meals consisted of beans and wild rice with a piece of chicken or fish on the side. I seasoned both meats and grains with rich spices like turmeric and nutmeg, and found that most of my meals were naturally sweeter than I had anticipated. To satisfy my desires for french fries and buttered fettuccine, I snacked on almonds and coconut milk yogurt throughout the day. When it came time for supper, I discovered I was hungrier than usual; I craved French bread, a side dish I used to eat virtually every day, accompanying an Italian or Mediterranean cuisine. This month, though, I’ve been finishing my days with chicken or seafood seasoned with palm oil and sea salt. I’ve fallen in love with palm oil’s full-bodied flavor and intend to continue using it on a regular basis. Late at night, I become caught in the sweet flavor of chin chin, a West African treat consisting of fried dough.
The initial idea was to have a normal West African diet for seven days. After that, I didn’t only feel better; I recognized it was time to abandon colonial influences entirely, and I now want to eat this way for the duration of Black History Month. I choose to decolonize my food as an act of self-love and acceptance. Decolonizing my food was not mainly about me; it was about appreciating and acknowledging my ancestors’ effort. Yes, after hundreds of years of suffering at the hands of colonizers, I wanted to treat my body with the respect and kindness it deserved. But decolonizing my diet was mostly about refusing to eat the things my grandmother ate while picking cotton instead of attending high school.
As I continue decolonizing my diet, I feel compelled to think about the remnants of slavery and have noticed how its repercussions affect me every day. Eating a decolonized diet is an act of rebellion and liberation. I hope that all Black people can find that sense of liberation too. Or at least a taste of it.
