16/10/2025
The church was beautiful, all flickering candles and white lilies, but the real magic began when we got home. Our "reception" was the tiny, lamplit backyard of our rented flat, the air humming with cicadas and the distant sounds of the city.
We’d forgone the towering cake and the five-tiered buffet. Instead, in the center of a rickety wooden table, was our feast: a large, blackened roasting pan piled high with plump plantains, their skins charred and split to reveal the steaming, golden flesh within. Next to it sat a vast bowl of fish, swimming in a ruddy, aromatic sauce flecked with scotch bonnet, thyme, and onion.
My new husband, Kofi, rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. I kicked off my heels, the cool grass a relief against my soles. With a cheer from our small gathering of family and closest friends, we began.
Kofi manned the plantains, using a knife to slit the skins and open them up like blooming flowers onto a platter. The scent was pure, sweet smoke. I took up the ladle, scooping generous pieces of firm, spiced snapper onto each plate.
There were no formalities. Our guests served themselves, finding spots on the porch steps, on blankets, or leaning against the fence. The only sounds for a long while were the clink of plates, satisfied murmurs, and the soft pull of plantain skin.
There is a particular, joyful messiness to eating roasted plantain. Fingers are mandatory. You pinch a piece of the soft, caramel-sweet fruit, then dive it into the sauce. The fish, flaky and perfectly cooked, fell apart at the touch. The heat from the peppers built slowly, a warm buzz that made you reach for more sweet plantain to cool your tongue. It was a perfect, cyclical dance of flavor—sweet, then spicy, then savory, all at once.
My aunt, a stickler for tradition, had a spot of sauce on her chin and was laughing louder than I’d heard in years. Kofi’s best friend, with a plantain skin in one hand, was toasting us with a bottle of beer. Under the string of fairy lights, our faces were lit with smiles and the shared, primal pleasure of good food.
Later, with sticky fingers and full bellies, we leaned into each other. The stars were out. The air was thick with the ghosts of our feast—the smell of fire, of spice, of home.
It wasn't in a grand hall with a string quartet, but there, in that messy, fragrant backyard, with the humble, glorious union of roasted plantain and spiced fish, we truly celebrated. It wasn't just a meal; it was a promise—of warmth, of sustenance, and of a life flavored with sweetness and fire.
