Imagine a holiday season where every bite tells a story of heritage, resilience, and shared humanity—that's the magic of Christmas in the diaspora, where food isn't just sustenance, it's a bridge connecting our pasts to our presents. But here's where it gets truly fascinating: across continents, simple meals transform into cultural celebrations that are both intimately personal and universally celebrated. Join me as we dive into the vibrant world of Christmas food traditions in the diaspora, exploring how these dishes reflect our family roots and the broader histories of our communities. And this is the part most people miss—the way these foods weave together colonial legacies with pre-colonial joys, sparking debates that could make any gathering lively.
Let's start by painting a picture of a Nigerian Christmas feast, shall we? There's no one-size-fits-all approach to setting up a festive table in Nigeria; customs shift from household to household, yet certain classics always make an appearance at big, joyous reunions, no matter the season. Picture towering heaps of ripe plantains, sliced and fried to golden perfection; crisp coleslaw drenched in creamy salad cream or mayonnaise; and a delightful assortment of appetizers collectively dubbed 'small chops'—think crispy spring rolls, juicy chicken wings, fluffy puff puff (those donut-like balls that are irresistibly savory), and flaky samosas. Then there are the rices: one fried to a crunchy delight, and the other being the beloved regional star, jollof—a flavorful, tomato-based rice dish (for those new to it, it's essentially rice cooked with spices, onions, and peppers, creating a rich, one-pot wonder that's a staple in West African cuisine). In my own family, we've adopted the European colonial influence of a roasted turkey, but many opt for succulent chicken or hearty beef, either baked whole or simmered into a comforting stew.
You'll notice a lot of overlap when you peek at a Ghanaian spread. At our friend Morgan's home, for instance, the star of the show is often a perfectly roasted chicken. Some folks go for a tender leg of lamb instead. On the side, West African pals savor turkey or chicken gizzards simmered in a zesty, peppery tomato stew and served on skewers for easy snacking.
It's heartwarming to see how, throughout West Africa, countries draw a clear line between everyday jollof and its 'party jollof' cousin—cooked outdoors in a massive pot over a smoky fire, imparting that unmistakable charred depth. We won't settle the age-old debate on whose jollof reigns supreme (though Morgan and I concur it's incomplete without a generous portion of those over-the-top salads). These salads toss together a wild mix of ingredients—lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, onions—with added proteins like hard-boiled eggs, sardines, or corned beef, plus baked beans, all glued by a dressing that in Nigeria borders on a flood of salad cream, mayonnaise, or even ketchup.
For Black British communities, side dishes are non-negotiable, blending traditional UK Christmas elements with a kick of spice to honor ancestral roots. Alongside the familiar British trimmings—roasted parsnips, carrots, and perhaps those divisive Brussels sprouts encircling the main roast—you'll spot comforting mac and cheese, rice and peas (a Caribbean-inspired dish with kidney beans and coconut milk), fried plantains, savory stews, and hearty soups.
As Morgan puts it, these foods help us honor the communities we've built in our adopted homes. 'We carve out space in these gatherings to appreciate what we often take for granted,' he says. For him and countless others, a well-prepared fufu—smooth, pounded dough from cassava root, served with aponkye nkra kra, a fiery goat meat soup spiced with herbs—makes that celebration real. Across the ocean in Brazil, cassava takes on new life. Farofa, a toasted cassava flour mix, gets stirred with smoky bacon, salty Calabrese sausage, sweet carrots, briny olives, and fragrant onions and garlic. It's paired with feijao (beans), meats, and rice, and even stuffs their Christmas turkey as Farofa de Natal, offering a tangible example of how diaspora foods adapt while staying true to their essence.
Once everyone's bellies are full and hearts are content, the ritual of rinsing it all down often involves a hibiscus-infused elixir. This drink goes by many names: sorrel in the Caribbean, bissap rouge in Senegal, sobolo in Ghana, zobo in Nigeria, and agua de Jamaica, jugo de Jamaica, or rosa de Jamaica in much of Latin America. To clarify for beginners, hibiscus (also known as roselle) is a plant native to Africa, now flourishing in tropical Americas, and its flowers are steeped to create refreshing beverages—from jams and cordials to tea-like drinks.
These hibiscus-based concoctions carry profound historical weight in the diaspora. Dating back to the 1500s, the transatlantic slave trade transported not only people but also plants like hibiscus to the Americas. The similar climates in Latin America, the Caribbean, and the American South allowed these plants to thrive, embedding them into local cuisines. Among the variations, sorrel shines as a Caribbean holiday highlight. Sobolo (or roselle juice) uses hibiscus flowers to brew a deep red-purple drink, often spiked with pineapple and ginger for a zesty tang. These beverages can be sipped hot or cold, sometimes spiked with alcohol, sweetened with syrup, sugar, or honey, and flavored with spices like cloves, ginger, allspice, star anise, or mint. Some add citrus twists from lemons or oranges. For an authentic Ghanaian touch, hwentia (grains of selim or negro pepper), a West African spice, is key, while Trinidadian versions lean on angostura bitters.
In African American festivities, 'red drink' encompasses sweet, ruby-hued beverages enjoyed during Juneteenth and Christmas alike. Even if some versions skip the roselle, the idea likely traces back to West Africa's hibiscus heritage, illustrating how traditions evolve across generations.
But here's the controversial twist: many of these customs predated Christianity and Christmas entirely. In West Africa and the Caribbean, ancient festivals highlighted communal feasts and gatherings—think Caribbean Mas parades celebrating cultural expression, Nigeria's New Yam festival marking harvests, or Ghana's Aboakyer festival honoring ancestors. Our ways of coming together have always defined our identities. This fusion of old and new sparks heated discussions: Is it appropriation or appreciation when diaspora foods blend with Western holidays? Do claims of cultural superiority (like whose jollof is 'best') divide us, or do they celebrate diversity?
What do you think? Does food at Christmas truly unite the diaspora, or does it sometimes highlight painful histories? Share your own family traditions or counterpoints in the comments—let's keep the conversation going!
