The Rhythm of the Pestle Makes More than a Meal

By Oladunni Olisa

What Pounding Yam Taught Me About Family and Togetherness

In my hometown, Ile-Oluji in Ondo State, Nigeria, pounding yam was about more than preparing a meal. It was part of family life, hospitality, honour and togetherness. As a child, one sound I remember clearly was the steady rhythm of the pestle rising and falling into a wooden mortar. Thud. Thud. Thud. That familiar sound often meant that something special was being prepared.

Fresh yam would be peeled, boiled until soft and placed inside the mortar. Then the pounding would begin. With strength, patience and rhythm, the boiled yam gradually changed into the smooth, stretchy food we call Iyan in Yoruba – pounded yam. But when I look back today, I realise that it was never only about the Iyan. It was about everything that happened around the mortar.

Everyone Had a Part to Play

Pounding yam was hard work. Sometimes all the grown-up adults in the house would take turns. One person would pound for a while, then another would take over when the first person became tired. As a child, I would stand nearby watching them. Of course, I wanted to be involved too. I could not lift the heavy pestle like the adults, but I still had a job to do. Sometimes, I would help to hold the mortar steady. As the yam became smoother, it also became sticky. The pestle could become caught in the thick pounded yam, and as the adult lifted it with force, the mortar could shift or even lift slightly with it. So, I would hold on. Looking back, it seems like such a small responsibility, but to me it meant I was part of the process.

The adults had the strength to pound. Someone else might be preparing the soup. Another person could be attending to something else in the kitchen. And I had my little hands on the mortar. Everyone could contribute something. Perhaps that was one of my earliest lessons in teamwork without anybody sitting me down to teach it. Some of the best food came from cooperation.

When Visitors Were Expected

Pounding yam became even more meaningful when visitors were expected. Sometimes the mother in the household would wake very early to start preparing the food. She wanted everything ready before the visitors arrived. The yam had to be peeled and boiled. The soup had to be prepared. Then came the rhythmic work of pounding the yam until the Iyan was smooth enough to serve.

At other times, people in the house would take turns pounding together. They did not treat this as an unnecessary inconvenience. It was part of receiving people well. In Ile-Oluji, a visitor could be welcomed warmly with the words: “Lee ooo, a n ku bo.”  A warm expression meaning, in essence, “You are welcome; we greet you.” But the welcome was not expressed only with words. It was also shown in the food prepared.

A guest could feel highly honoured knowing a family had taken the time and effort to prepare fresh Iyan by rhythmically pounding yam with a mortar and pestle. The meal carried its own message: We knew you were coming. We prepared for you. Your presence matters to us. Preparing good food for visitors was an important cultural norm. The effort behind the meal was part of the honour given to the guest.

The rhythm of the pestle was therefore also a rhythm of hospitality. The Reward at the end, and then, after all that work, came the moment everyone had been waiting for. The Iyan was ready. Most times, the Iyan would be served with Obe Ila Alasepo, a rich Okra soup, or Obe Efo, vegetable soup.

After watching the yam being transformed little by little, there was something satisfying about finally sitting down to enjoy the meal. But even the eating itself was about more than satisfying hunger. People gathered. There were conversations around the food. There was laughter. Children listened to adults. Stories were told. News was shared. Visitors became part of the family gathering.

Sometimes lessons were passed on without anybody announcing, “Now it is time to learn.” A child watched. You saw how adults welcomed people. You saw how food was shared. You learnt that when one person grew tired, another stepped in. You learnt that helping did not always mean doing the biggest job. You learnt that there was joy in preparing something together. The mortar produced Iyan, but the gathering around it produced memories.

When the Pestle Becomes Quieter

Today, things are different. Many of us no longer have a mortar and pestle at home. Technology has made food preparation easier and faster. Some machines can pound yam without the physical exertion that was once required. Yam flour also offers a much quicker alternative when there is little time for the traditional process. These changes are useful. Modern family life can be busy, and convenience has its place. We do not need to reject technology simply because our parents and grandparents did things differently.

But let’s be careful not to lose something.

The bond behind the process. The cultural heritage was never only the wooden mortar. It was never only the pestle. It was the people gathered around them. It was the mother who woke early because visitors were coming. It was the adult who handed the pestle to another adult when tired. It was the child holding the mortar and feeling important because she too had been given a role. It was the person preparing the soup while someone else pounded. It was the laughter between tasks. It was sitting down afterwards to enjoy what everyone had helped to create. Technology can replace the physical work of pounding, but it does not have to replace togetherness.

What We Can Still Pass On

Even if some of our children never grew up hearing the regular thud, thud, thud of a pestle against a mortar, we can still pass on the meaning behind that sound. We can invite them into the kitchen. We can let them help us prepare meals. We can tell them about the stories behind traditional foods. We can explain why we prepared certain meals when visitors came. We can teach them that hospitality is more than putting something on a plate.

And we can help them understand that we do not eat only to satisfy hunger. Around food, families can talk. Around food, children can learn. Around food, visitors can be honoured. Around food, stories can travel from one generation to another. Around food, memories can be made that remain long after the plates have been cleared away. Some of my most meaningful memories of Iyan are therefore not simply about how it tasted.

I remember the people. I remember the cooperation.

I remember wanting to help.

I remember the rhythm.

Perhaps that is what preserving cultural heritage really asks of us. We do not always have to preserve every practice exactly as it was. Sometimes what matters most is preserving the values that gave the practice its meaning. The mortar and pestle may no longer sit in every home, but hospitality can remain.

Teamwork can remain.

Family conversations can remain.

Honour for our guests can remain.

And togetherness can remain.

Years later, I may not hear the pestle as often as I once did, but its rhythm still carries a message for me. Thud. Thud. Thud. It was the rhythm of yam being transformed into Iyan. It was the rhythm of hands working together. It was the rhythm of a family preparing to welcome someone. It was the rhythm of memories being made. The rhythm of the pestle made more than a meal. And even when the pestle falls silent, the rhythm of togetherness can continue from one generation to the next.

Oladunni Olisa; Author, Creative Writer & Educator; Author of Super Child and Values & Healthy Relationships; Creator of Then with Dunni on Instagram