By Eben van Tonder, 8 March 2025
Lagos, 1920s – A City of Salt, Smoke, and Spice
The morning mist still clung to the waters of the Gulf of Guinea, shrouding the wooden canoes that bobbed gently along the shore. Fishermen moved like shadows through the haze, their nets flung in perfect arcs, silver flashes of fish breaking the surface before vanishing into the woven traps. The air was thick with the scent of brine, seaweed, and the distant tang of wood smoke curling from the city’s markets.
Beyond the docks, Lagos stirred awake. The streets were alive with the shuffle of bare feet on sun-warmed earth, the rhythmic calls of traders, and the clatter of hooves as camels arrived from the north, burdened with sacks of salt, kola nuts, and the earthy, nutty aroma of Bambara groundnuts. The markets were a riot of colour—spices heaped in ochre pyramids, dried fish stacked like books on old wooden tables, bolts of bright indigo cloth catching the light. The scent of roasted suya was already in the air, the beef sizzling over open flames, its surface crackling with a crust of peanut, ginger, and cayenne.
Amidst this city of scents and stories, Armi, Sigi, and Eben were preparing something new.
The Old English Mansion and the Chilling Room of Charcoal and Water
Their laboratory was a mansion, its grand wooden doors worn smooth by decades of touch, its white walls streaked with the dust of the Harmattan winds. Inside, time itself seemed to slow and settle. The scent of old books and pipe tobacco mingled with the faintest trace of saltpetre and spices, the ghosts of past experiments.
In the back courtyard, shaded by ancient mango trees, stood the chiller room—a marvel of simple ingenuity. Double-layered bricks, packed with charcoal, with water dripping slowly from an overhead clay pipe kept the room cool, its breath like a whisper of harmattan wind on a fevered brow. This was where their emulsions and gels would set, where the raw would be tamed into something new.
The Gulf and the Harvest of the Sea
Before dawn, Eben had gone out to sea, slipping into the Gulf with a group of local fishermen. The canoes were carved from single iroko tree trunks, polished by decades of salt and sweat. They glided across the dark waters, their paddles dipping soundlessly beneath the surface. Beneath them, the seaweed swayed in slow, hypnotic rhythms—brown algae, thick and strong, its fibres hiding the secret of gelation.
Back on the shore, Eben worked quickly. The algae was rinsed, sun-dried on woven mats, then gently heated to extract kappa carrageenan, the very substance that would lend their experiment its structure.
In the cool depths of the mansion’s kitchen, he examined the wispy strands left after extraction. Unlike iota carrageenan, which yielded a flexible, elastic gel, or lambda carrageenan, which thickened without setting, kappa formed something firmer, something that could hold shape yet yield to the bite. It was exactly what they needed.
The First Emulsion – A Balance of Fat, Water, and Salt
In the cavernous kitchen, Sigi stood over a great wooden table, a heavy iron bowl before him. The chicken skins, trimmed of excess fat, had been minced into a smooth, glistening paste. He scooped a handful, testing the texture between his fingers—it was almost there, but it needed structure.
Eben added the Bambara nut flour, its fine granules catching the morning light, a warm ochre colour against the silver sheen of the minced fat. They worked quickly now, adding water, a little at a time, kneading the mixture with their hands. The water vanished into the paste, absorbed as if by thirst, but the moment of transformation had yet to come.
Then—salt.
Armi measured it carefully, sprinkling it in with the precision of an alchemist. Almost immediately, the texture changed. The emulsion formed, the fat and water no longer separate but intertwined, each drop of moisture held within the fat’s grasp. What had been an unstable mix had become something smooth, almost glossy, yet firm—like the first stroke of a new painting.
Now it was ready for the fire.
The Slow Dance of Heat and Fat
Sigi set the iron pot over the open flame, watching as the heat licked at its edges. The emulsion began to warm, the Bambara nut flour working its silent magic, binding the fat and water as the heat coaxed them to the brink of separation—but not beyond. He stirred, slowly, ensuring the balance remained, keeping the temperature just below the threshold where the fat would break free.
The scent changed, deepened—warm, nutty, almost sweet. A richness filled the air, something fuller than mere fat, something that promised depth. When the time was right, Eben lifted the pot from the fire, setting it to cool.
Tomorrow, it would become something more.
The Market – The Soul of Lagos
The streets of Lagos Market throbbed with life. The air was thick with the scent of ginger, cloves, and alligator pepper, the heat rising from the stone pathways carrying with it the metallic tang of fresh-cut meat and the smoky perfume of dried fish.
The Bambara nuts they needed were piled high in woven baskets, their skins still dusted with the red earth of the northern plains. Eben handed the woman selling them a coin, watching as she scooped them into a sack with hands worn strong by labour.
They passed stalls selling fermented locust beans, their pungent, umami-rich aroma filling the space between baskets of millet and sun-dried tomatoes.
“We must bring Kristi here,” Eben told Sigi and Armi as they walked. “She has to see this, taste this. She must know this place.”
They agreed.
The Sausage of Lagos – A New Creation
The final blend was simple in its parts, yet revolutionary in its execution:
- 54% beef, hand-cut and minced through a 4.5mm plate
- The gelled Bambara nut mixture, adding body and structure
- The emulsified chicken fat, lending juiciness without excess grease
- The seaweed extract, binding it all together
- Suya spices: a rich, fiery blend of ground peanuts, cayenne, ginger, and dawadawa
They stuffed the mixture into sheep casings, tying them off with twine before hanging them in the chiller room to set.
The Fire, The Feast, and the Eagle’s Flight
The following afternoon, as Eben prepared the fire pit, the scent of woodsmoke wrapped around them. In South Africa, the Boers called it a braai, but here in Lagos, it was a feast—a gathering, a celebration of heat and spice, of something new forged in the old ways.
As the sausages sizzled, Armi and Sigi sat beneath the great old mango tree, parchment and ink in hand, writing a letter to Christa.
“We have made something new,” they wrote. “Something neither the butchers of Vienna nor the spice traders of Timbuktu have ever seen. A sausage made of land and sea, of nut and beast, of Lagos itself.”
But how to send it?
Eben whistled, sharp and clear. From the high branches of the baobab tree, a majestic Nigerian super eagle unfolded its wings. Its feathers gleamed like burnished gold, its gaze as keen as the desert wind.
It took flight, soaring above the city, past the bustling market streets, over the broad expanse of the Sahel, across the Sahara, where the dunes whispered ancient names in the night. It followed the hidden currents of the wind, past the Nile, past the great forests of Europe, until at last, it reached the Wechsel mountains.
There, as the sun kissed the peaks with gold, Christa stood, waiting.
She reached up as the eagle descended, its claws outstretched, the letter clutched firm in its grasp.
She smiled as she read.
The adventure was only just beginning.