Were They locusts or grasshoppers? A Nigerian delicacy brought to life

My earliest memories of the creatures; grasshoppers, were ones consisting of ridiculous sandcastles constructed by mounds of sand heaped on one foot, then slowly eased out, forming a little sand igloo. We would then construct fences and other tiny apartments, and whenever we were done, we would rush into nearby overgrown elephant grasses to capture the smelly creatures.

I hated bugs and I was scared of them, but we never saw grasshoppers as insects or bugs. They were just harmless critters who loved to chew holes into the leaves of the crops on our parents’ farms. For us, all we knew was that there were three kinds of grasshoppers. The green ones- that we were told could turn to green snakes, so we avoided those. The big boy – what we called the one with a bright yellow body with black stripes and spots, and a slight red patch around the neck. It had an unmistakable smell that our parents found offensive but we, the children, couldn’t care less about it. The final is the skinny hopper- a black grasshopper with yellow spots and stripes.

Establishing these facts and getting used to our version of the grasshopper status quo meant that I was more than shocked when my brother returned from school one sunny Friday afternoon and declared that he was going to cook and eat my grasshoppers the next day.

Perhaps I was more annoyed by the fact that he chose my grasshoppers, all twenty-nine of them as his sacrificial lamb than I was over the part where he mentioned cooking them.

My sister though, was interested in his thought process. She wanted to know why he suddenly developed an overnight craving for the insects. It wasn’t very strange to us though, and if you knew my father and how we grew up, you’d understand. We’d eaten other edible insects like crickets, the highly proteinous and delicious flying termites, rhinoceros beetles, and palm weevil larvas. Grasshoppers though, always appeared to be out of edible bounds for us. She asked him what brought about the strange palate he had curated. He said a boy in his class had resumed the Easter break with fried and delicious grasshoppers.

We insisted it was impossible until our oldest sister intervened in all her 20-year-old wisdom that it was a delicacy. She was in Nursing school at the state capital and she had classmates and colleagues from all over the nation. She said the Ikare and other Akoko people of Ondo State ate them. We lived in Owo, Ondo State and we hardly travelled, except to Dad’s hometown in Ilesa, Osun State. Both states are in Southwestern Nigeria.

I drew the attention back to my dilemma in all the ongoing drama- my grasshoppers. It had taken me quite the time to learn how to keep my grasshoppers alive and I wasn’t ready to let them go. The easier task had been learning how to keep them from hopping. We achieved that feat by cutting off the tarsus attached to their tibia and femur. They needed them to hop but would now only walk or crawl without them.

My brother laughed and hissed at what he termed my childish obsession with weird objects or creatures. He was going to eat my grasshoppers and there was nothing I could do about it.

That was what he said and thought until I reminded him that I had one more card to play. The last born card.

As the last child and a child that came seven years after the third one, I enjoyed getting pampered and spoiled by my parents, siblings, and overbearing neighbours. All I had to do was shed a few tears and whatever I wanted would be mine…most of the time though. My mother never hesitated to give me a good spank or say a firm no when she thought it was necessary.

After supper that night, I made myself comfortable at the living room door, wrapped myself with the curtains and began to cry. I coached myself and told myself it should not be loud, but my sniffles had to be heard.

My efforts paid off and in five minutes, my mum found me.

“Why are you crying? Has Junior taken your fish again?” She asked.

I sniffed loudly and pretended to subtly wipe my tears. “No.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“It’s Junior.” I hiccuped.

“Junior!” Mum bellowed loud enough for the whole neighbourhood to hear.

The urgency or annoyance in her voice must have registered to my brother because his response was immediate; which was an unusual occurrence for him. He always held on from responding most of the time, hoping that if it was an errand, Mum or Dad would call someone else.

Junior came out of the adjoining passageway, looking innocent and persecuted.

Pointing at me, Mum asked him. “What did you do to your sister this time?”

My brother looked confused as his eyes trailed back and forth between Mum and me.

“What? I didn’t do anything to her. I have been in the backyard under the orange tree since we finished eating.”

“The orange tree?” Mum frowned. “Did I not specifically tell you to leave those fruits until they are fully ripe?”

Junior began to scratch his head. “Erm…I saw some ripe ones.”

“Junior! Leave those fruits alone. You have already eaten…”

Realising the attention was waning from me, I had to divert it back to my predicament.

“Boda Junior wants to eat all my alatete.” I interrupted her.

We call grasshoppers alatete in Yoruba, the language of the Southwestern people of Nigeria. The big boys, the yellow species are called akuta.

“Ha! Seun! When did I say that?” He denied.

“This afternoon.” My eldest sister cut in as she walked by us without stopping.

Mum did not say a word as she stared Junior down. When she made him promise not to touch my bugs, I gave him a grin that said “This is what I’m doing about it.”

After Mum left us, he huffed and puffed about how the grasshoppers he would catch would be plenty and delicious. He promised to make sure I washed the pots and plates that would be used to prepare them, yet, I would not be allowed to taste the hoppers.

I wish he was right but around 11 am the next day, he was dragging me with him to the grassland in front of the house. He said he had spent half an hour hunting for the grasshoppers but he had only found twenty, fifteen of which were skinny hoppers while only five were big boys. He wanted me to tell him how to get a larger number. I made him promise that I would eat out of them. His promise was swift, bringing another smile to my face.

I pointed at Dad’s cassava and corn farm beside the house. I told him grasshoppers loved nutritious leaves of actual crops and you could always find them faster in a farm than in a regular bush.

True to my words, we were bombarded with hundreds of hopping grasshoppers as soon as we stepped on the farmland.

We set to work. My brother had five empty tins of 200g Milo beverage that we had finished in the house. He made multiple holes with nails on the covers, so the insects would be able to breathe when covered.

He gave me a tin, he took one, my immediate elder sister took one, and the twins from next door had the other two. We began to pick grasshoppers. We ensured that big boys were the bulk of our catch and we worked mostly in silence.

My sister was the first one to break the silence.

“Aren’t these things also called locusts?”

My brother shook his head. “No. I read that locusts are brown and they destroy crops in hordes.”

“Aren’t these destroying Dad’s crops too?” My sister countered.

Junior shrugged. “Just the leaves.” He stopped picking the grasshoppers and looked at her. “Why would you think they are locusts?”

“Because John the Baptist ate locusts and the description sounded similar to this.”

“God sent locusts to plague Egypt. Were they also like this?”

She was quiet after that but she wouldn’t stop calling them locusts and I began to call them that also, all to the annoyance of Junior. Sadly, he needed our help, so he had to endure our name-calling a little longer.

By noon, we were all sweating and the sun was hot, high, and unforgiving. Junior finally declared our catch to be enough.

We left the farm and took the side gate attached to the backyard’s wooden fence. Junior went into the kitchen and brought out a plastic bowl. He ordered each person to de-wing and remove both the hind and fore legs of the grasshoppers in our can. He also asked us to remove their heads.

“That’s so barbaric,” I whispered but he could hear me.

“You can always eat yours with the disgusting head, spiny limbs, and weird wings.”

I gulped but did not respond anymore. We continued working, following Junior’s order. He was nowhere to be found at first until I saw him blowing the fire from the firewood arranged inside the cooking hearth made from clay. When the fire caught on and was burning well enough to cook, he placed a big pot of water on it and returned to join our task.

“I thought you said the locusts would be fried.”

“Grasshopper!” He insisted. “And yes, they will be. But we have to get rid of the smell of the akuta and make both species soft.”

I nodded and resumed my work. Soon, we were all done and the big bowl in front of us was almost filled with headless and limbless grasshoppers.

The water was hot too. Using two small clean rags, Junior lifted the hot pot of water away from the hearth and brought it to our side. He poured the water onto the creatures and to my surprise, they began to turn pink. None of us could explain what was going on except Junior. His classmate had told him that they would turn pink. Junior said we should add the seasonings to the bowl and cover it so that the steam would ensure that the seasonings were absorbed by the grasshoppers.

“Look at this bush boy.” My eldest sister said as she passed behind us, not one to join the younger ones in immature activities.

“Is there another way to go about it?” Junior asked with his chest puffing out in reflex.

She sighed, rolled her eyes, and folded her arms, feigning disinterest.

“You have to boil them as if you’re boiling regular meat.” She stretched her hands towards the bowl. “Bring them. Go and put the pot back on fire and get fresh water.”

Somehow, Angela, our eldest, took over the preparations. She added seasoning cubes which we fondly called Maggi, because it was the commonest brand available then. She added salt, thyme, curry, and whatever product was inside a sachet of ajinomoto seasoning powder. To give it an extra twang, she asked me to go pluck fresh scent leaves which we called efinrin and clove basil leaves.

I was salivating when the mixed aroma filled the air and I was seriously anticipating how juicy the insects would taste.

After boiling, Sis put a bigger pot on the fire and poured palm oil into it. Vegetable oil was a precious commodity and only mum was allowed to cook with it. After the oil had bleached and we were all coughing, she poured the now-drained insects into the pot and a loud sizzling followed.

She said they would become tasteless if we made them crisp. Fry them to be dry but juicy, she said.

Sis had to go drink water inside the house and Junior saw that as an opportunity to steal five pieces from the hot oil. It was a bad idea though, but watching him jump and juggle insects from palm to palm while shouting ouch was a thrilling sight to behold for me.

That afternoon, as we accompanied the delicacy with garri (fried cassava flakes) and cold water, we began another round of argument about the differences between locusts and grasshoppers.

Those are the kinds of conversations you have when you are full and now lazy.