Against all odds: How akara sellers defy superstitions to stay in business
In various Nigerian communities, a pervasive belief holds that akara (bean cake) sellers are often coerced into joining clandestine witchcraft covens. Those who resist are said to suffer misfortunes such as illness, spiritual attacks, or even death. With this narrative fuelled by anecdotal accounts and local folklore, GODFREY GEORGE delves into the veracity of these claims by engaging directly with sellers, community members, spiritual leaders, and cultural anthropologists
When 57-year-old Chidimma passed away in November 2024, whispers rippled through her Port Harcourt neighbourhood like smoke on a harmattan morning.
Many believed her death was anything but natural. For close to three years, she had battled a mysterious illness that many claimed doctors struggled to name and were baffled.
“Today, she go dey alright; tomorrow, things go worse,” said Pamela, a neighbour, her voice laced with concern as she spoke to this reporter during a visit to the area where Chidimma once lived.
A woman named Comfort, who claimed to be her sister, had shared the story on a faith-based Facebook group in December 2024.
This reporter reached out to her, intrigued by the allegation that Chidimma had been spiritually poisoned by what she described as the “women of the underworld”, a veiled reference to a supposed witchcraft syndicate.
Chidimma was no stranger to the community. She was a popular akara (bean cake) seller, her presence a familiar one along the bustling streets. She had turned to street vending in 2012 after losing her job at a private school.
“Then, the Rivers State government became strict about teachers having Education degrees. She only had an ND in Public Administration from Abia State Polytechnic, so she was asked to resign, even though she was deeply committed to her job,” Comfort explained, sitting in her modest Elekahia home during a March 2025 interview with Sunday PUNCH.
With her partner’s blessing, Chidimma pivoted to the streets. She began modestly: akara and bread. Over time, her stall expanded to include pap, milk, fried yam, potatoes, and fish.
By dusk each day, the aroma of her snacks wafted through the neighbourhood, drawing customers from far and near. Her evening stall became a beloved fixture, a gathering spot where familiar faces met over warm, hearty bites.
“My sister was punctual. Her akara was always hot. People would queue before she even finished frying. They would buy it straight from the fire,” Comfort recalled, eyes misty.
But things began to change. One evening, Chidimma confided in Comfort that a woman had approached her with a strange warning: she should stop selling akara at night.
“I dismissed it at first,” Comfort admitted. “I assumed it was just jealousy. Yes, others had sold akara there before, but her spot was perfect — right at a junction. She was always cheerful. We grew up under the same roof, even though we had different mothers. I knew her heart.”
Business was in Chidimma’s blood. Her mother, too, had sold moin-moin (bean pudding), agidi (coagulated pap), and epiti (plantain pudding) in the city. But even legacy cannot always shield against adversity.
Not long after the strange warning, Chidimma fell ill. She visited the hospital. The doctors said she was fine medically; her blood pressure was simply elevated due to stress. She was advised to rest more and limit late-night work.
Whether she heeded that advice is unclear. But her condition did not improve. Then, the same woman returned. This time, she bought akara, sat down, and issued a sterner warning. The business, especially at night, “attracts witches,” she reportedly said.
“Chidimma called me again, shaken,” Comfort recounted. “She said the woman told her she’d had a similar experience in Ilesha, Osun State — that she had to quit selling akara and switch to okrika (second-hand clothing).”
Soon after that encounter, tragedy struck. Chidimma’s son, then nine, accidentally spilled scalding hot oil on his leg while helping her at the stall. He was bedridden for months. Later, her daughter narrowly avoided falling into a pot of oil. She got blisters that healed after a few days.
“These things weren’t just coincidences,” Comfort said firmly. “There was something deeper. I begged her to stop and just go to church. She agreed, briefly, but returned to the stall. She loved that business.”
Comfort believes her sister died because she refused to join a spiritual cult allegedly controlling the akara trade in the area.
“We went from place to place seeking healing. Every spiritualist, every pastor, every prophet said the same thing — that she was under attack because she refused to join the group that ‘controls’ that junction.”
The reporter was taken to the now-vacant junction. A woman there remembered Chidimma well.
“We called her Mama Chi. She was very popular. We all know this akara business isn’t ordinary. But I didn’t think they’d kill her,” she said quietly.
Nearby, a woman selling roasted plantain and fish refused to give her name but claimed she, too, had warned Chidimma.
“She even used to fry the akara with palm oil. Very dangerous! My husband na Yoruba, so we know the significance. That’s how they fry it for the dead. I told her. She thought I was jealous. But I knew the signs,” she said, her voice low.
Then, she added a cryptic note: “Business anywhere in the world is spiritual. If you don’t hold something, they will cut you down.”
In telling Chidimma’s story, what emerges is not just the tale of a woman who loved her trade but a reflection of the fears and beliefs that still govern many informal sectors in Nigeria.
It speaks to the deep spiritual anxieties tethered to survival, the pressure to conform to invisible systems, and how communal legends shape everyday realities.
Was Chidimma a victim of spiritual warfare or the tragic consequences of untreated hypertension and workplace burnout?
Chidimma battled HBP, stress, diabetes – Doctor
When this reporter expressed a desire to confirm the medical circumstances surrounding Chidimma’s death, her sister, Comfort, agreed to lead the way to a nearby private hospital where she had received intermittent treatment before her passing.
The clinic, nestled off a dusty road in Elekahia, Port Harcourt, was modest — an unassuming building with a tiled corridor and a faint antiseptic scent lingering in the air. At the reception, the nurse hesitated before calling out to a man in a short-sleeved coat, his stethoscope tucked into his collar.
He introduced himself simply as Dr Dan.
A few pleasantries were exchanged before the conversation turned to Chidimma. Dr Dan appeared visibly uncomfortable, his fingers tapping against a brown file folder. The doctor was hesitant, wary of breaching patient confidentiality, even in death.
“I don’t like controversy, Mr Journalist. I am only speaking to you because I know if I don’t talk, it would hamper your work,” he noted.
“We have to be very careful what we say in situations like this,” he added, adjusting his glasses. “There are ethical boundaries. I cannot show her records or discuss her medical history in depth. That would be a breach of the Hippocratic oath.”
Still, with persistent probing and Comfort’s consent, he agreed to speak in broad strokes, clearly stating that no autopsy had been conducted after Chidimma’s passing.
However, based on his clinical observations during her treatment — which, he said, lasted over two years, on and off — Dr Dan revealed that the late akara seller was battling several serious health conditions.
“She had stress-induced hypertension that went largely unmanaged. There were days her blood pressure read as high as 190 over 80. That is extremely dangerous. Most times, I would forcefully put her on bed rest,” he said.
The physician paused as though weighing his next words. “I cannot speak to any claims of spiritual attack. That is not my place. But medically, she suffered from chronic high blood pressure, diabetes, and, in the later stages, mild pulmonary complications.”
According to him, the last condition was likely linked to her prolonged exposure to firewood smoke — a common hazard among women who fry local delicacies in open spaces.
“She cooked over an open fire every day for years. That smoke, over time, can damage the lungs. It’s not always immediate, but prolonged exposure is dangerous,” he said.
On whether her illness could have been managed with more deliberate care, Dr Dan offered a sigh.
“She came in and out of treatment. We advised rest, dietary changes, and regular medication. But these things are not always easy when someone has to work daily to survive. She was a single mother. The pressure, both financial and emotional, can be crushing.”
While dismissing the popular narrative of spiritual poisoning, he did not entirely deny the social pressures that could affect a patient’s mental and physical health.
“Stress in itself is a killer,” he said simply.
Though he offered no further comment, the doctor’s statement provided a sobering counterpoint to the swirling speculations about Chidimma’s death.
No official death certificate was made available to this reporter, and the cause of death remains unofficial. But what is clear is this: Chidimma’s passing was the tragic convergence of failing health, economic hardship, and cultural silence. Whether it was the smoke, the stress, the sugar, or something unseen, the outcome was the same. A woman’s life, worn down over time, simply slipped away.
Sister insists death spiritual
As our correspondent and Comfort left the clinic, a murmuring Comfort insisted that the doctor was simply speaking from a scientific standpoint.
“Let me tell you something, Journalist. There is a world we cannot see with our eyes, and I know what I am saying. But if no one believes me, I know what killed my sister, and it is not HBP. Me that is talking to you, I am managing it. My husband has it. Even our youngest brother, who is just 28 and lives in Lagos, is also battling HBP. Why has he not died?
“Chidimma’s death is spiritual. Those people killed her so they can reclaim that space. I learnt someone else has already taken over the spot and will be frying yam and potatoes, cooking noodles and eggs, and selling cold drinks at night there. They have succeeded,” she added.
Precolonial origins: Spiritual, communal, culinary
Deep-fried bean cakes, crunchy on the outside and soft within, akara is not just food; it is a cultural symbol, a woman’s legacy, a community’s memory. Its history, particularly in Nigeria, is deeply entangled with the narratives of survival, identity, and enterprise.
Akara, known by other names across West Africa, such as kosai in the North and acara in Brazil, is believed to have originated from the Yoruba people. Oral history and anthropological studies suggest that the dish was originally prepared during funeral rites to honour the dead, particularly warriors.
According to Dr Olayemi Akinwumi, a historian of West African cultures, “Akara was more than nourishment; it was an offering, a bridge between the living and the spiritual world.”
Women, especially widows or female relatives, were often responsible for preparing akara as part of the funerary rituals.
The process of grinding beans, adding onions and pepper, and frying over wood fires became a sacred act, one that symbolised respect, loss, and continuation.
Yet, even in precolonial markets, akara was not limited to ritual use. It was also a street delicacy, sold by women who plied their trade in bustling marketplaces like Ibadan (Oyo), Abeokuta (Ogun), and Ife (Osun).
These women were not merely vendors; they were economic agents, often funding their children’s education or contributing to community projects through akara profits.
Akara as resistance tool
The arrival of the British in the late 19th century brought a reorganisation of social, economic, and culinary life.
The imposition of a colonial economy meant increased taxation, displacement, and urban migration. For many Yoruba women, selling akara became a means of financial independence.
In 1929, during the Aba Women’s Riots in present-day Abia State, a protest against colonial taxation, food vendors, including akara sellers, played an important role in spreading information and rallying support.
The compact, portable, and inexpensive nature of akara made it an ideal food for women who needed to move swiftly and speak to crowds, several historical archives suggest.
The archives of the Nigerian National Museum include photos and documentation of women frying akara on makeshift grills beside colonial buildings, often in defiance of British ordinances that sought to regulate informal trading. Akara thus became a silent, edible protest.
Rise of street vending
By the 1960s and ’70s, after Nigeria gained independence, akara had transformed from a spiritual and resistance food into a fully commercialised staple of urban life.
In cities like Lagos, Ibadan, and Port Harcourt, akara sellers became a mainstay of morning routines, especially for students, workers, and traders.
Local radio jingles and early TV commercials celebrated akara, and even foreign media took note.
In 1984, the BBC aired a segment on West African street food, featuring a Nigerian akara seller in Oshodi who claimed she sold over 500 pieces each day.
Akara’s affordability, protein content, and ease of preparation made it an ideal food for low-income families.
Many women set up small akara businesses on street corners or in front of their homes, using the proceeds to support their households.
According to a 1993 ethnographic study by Dr Remi Adebayo, up to 60 per cent of women in some Yoruba communities had, at one point, engaged in akara selling — either as a full-time job or a side hustle.
The story of akara is not complete without its journey across the Atlantic.
During the transatlantic slave trade, Yoruba captives carried their culinary practices with them. In Brazil, acarajé — the Portuguese derivative of akara- is still sold by Baianas in white robes, often associated with the Candomblé religion.
Brazilian authorities have even granted acarajé protected cultural status, recognising it as a national heritage dish. UNESCO has also documented the Yoruba roots of acarajé, cementing akara’s global legacy.
Modern akara sales
In today’s Nigeria, akara continues to thrive despite competition from fast food and packaged snacks.
Yet, akara sellers often face harassment from local authorities. Street trading bans in cities like Abuja and Lagos have disproportionately affected women, especially single mothers and widows, who rely on akara as a livelihood.
On TikTok, videos under hashtags like #AkaraBusiness and #StreetFoodNigeria show a new generation of sellers documenting their daily grind, sharing entrepreneurial tips, and even crowdfunding for better equipment. Some boast millions of views.
Facebook groups such as “Naija Akara Sellers Connect” have become digital co-ops where women share pricing strategies, bulk-buying tips, and even customer dispute management techniques.
Akara is also being elevated in fine dining. Nigerian chefs like Michael Elegbede and Ozoz Sokoh have integrated it into tasting menus, pairing it with avocado purée or hibiscus chutney — bringing the street to the table with elegance.
Akara and witchcraft
Despite all these new innovations and contributions of these vendors, akara sellers have occasionally found themselves at the centre of witchcraft allegations.
In some communities, the act of preparing and selling food, especially in the late hours, has been viewed with suspicion.
“The transformation of raw beans into akara through frying, a process seen as almost alchemical, may contribute to perceptions of mystical involvement,” says researcher, Ihechilurum Ogodo.
Historical context
Belief in witchcraft has deep roots in Nigerian society, often intertwined with traditional religions and cultural practices.
Historically, individuals, predominantly women, have been accused of witchcraft during periods of social unrest or misfortune.
Dr Friday Eboiyehi, in his study, “Convicted without Evidence: Elderly Women and Witchcraft Accusations in Contemporary Nigeria,” highlights that elderly women are particularly vulnerable to such accusations, leading to social ostracism and violence (vc.bridgew.edu).
A few years ago, in Kubwa, a suburb of Abuja, an akara seller was nearly lynched by a mob after being accused of practising witchcraft.
Residents expressed fear, especially those who had previously patronised her, worrying about potential negative effects from consuming her food.
Ogodo said there were several factors contributing to witchcraft accusations against akara sellers.
He said, “Women who achieve financial autonomy through their businesses may be viewed as threats to traditional gender roles, leading to suspicion and resentment.
“The early morning or late-night hours during which akara sellers operate can be perceived as unusual, fostering notions of secretive or mystical activities.
“Successful vendors may become targets of envy from competitors or community members, resulting in malicious accusations.”
Social media allegations, testimonies
A viral video posted in early March 2025 by an X user, Somto Okonkwo, ignited a digital wildfire. In it, a woman calmly but gravely warned: “There is this business that you look at and think is only for the poor. But this business is one of the most dangerous you can ever venture into in Nigeria. Only people who sell akara or have sold akara will understand what I am saying. Selling akara is very dangerous. It is not even a business you enter with clear eyes, especially if you sell at night. It is not a business for the weak. What is inside it is deeper than the akara itself.”
The video quickly circulated across platforms, amassing thousands of views and reposts. In its wake, came a wave of comments, some in agreement, others in disbelief.
One of the earliest and most controversial responses came from Chinyere Okeke, who wrote: “She is saying nothing but the truth. Watch people that sell akara successfully. Once they come in the morning and pour the oil, watch them. They only fry one first and let it burn a bit. They take it out and throw it on the floor. It’s a form of offering and acknowledgement of dark powers. Then they start frying the main one for us humans.”
Our correspondent, who was in Port Harcourt between March 26 and April 2, visited seven different akara spots between 4am and 8am, and again between 5pm and 9pm. At none of the observed locations did anyone appear to follow the alleged ritual of throwing away the first fries.
Speaking to Cordelia, an akara seller in Oyigbo, Port Harcourt, she dismissed the claims outright.
“I don’t understand this issue of witchcraft,” she said. “I won’t lie that I haven’t been spiritually attacked, but I don’t fry akara and throw it away. Do you know how much we buy beans? I am a strong child of God. I go to church, I pray well, and I just fry my akara. I don’t have time for that ritual.”
When asked if she had ever been propositioned to join a cult or spiritual group, Cordelia hesitated. “Yes,” she said eventually. “They will come to force you to join what they call ‘association’. But I am a spiritual woman. I know what they want, and I am always ready and grounded to give it to them spiritually in the other world.”
Pressed to explain what she meant, Cordelia declined, becoming visibly uncomfortable. “Just be prayerful,” she said. “Give your life to God.”
The original video continued to draw testimony. Esther Marshall wrote, “If you doubt this information, I dare you to start selling akara at your bus stop with clear eyes. After two months, if something doesn’t happen to you, prepare for the third month because something must happen—and they’ll carry you straight to the village.”
In Lagos, our reporter spoke to an akara seller in Kosofe Local Government who also sold puff puff, fish, and fried yam. She affirmed the spiritual undertones of her work.
“This business is a spiritual business,” she said, speaking in a mix of Yoruba, English, and Pidgin.
“But me, I am a spiritual woman. They cannot do me anything. I sell at a T-junction, and there is spiritual significance of T-junctions in Yoruba land. I am not afraid. I have come to my shop and found sacrifices in front. I just called my Alfa to remove it for me. I believe in Almighty Allah for protection. Nothing can happen to me.”
The Ikosi, Ketu, and Mile 12 axis in Lagos is known for its vibrant evening economy, where street food, especially akara, is big business.
Interviews with several vendors in these areas revealed a common theme: some spiritual encounters, but resilience through faith and personal conviction. Three out of five sellers this reporter spoke with confirmed they had been approached to join an ‘association’, though none admitted to doing so.
However, the spiritual narrative is not universally accepted.
“My mom sold akara,” wrote commenter Eniola Delight. “She never experienced any spiritual challenges or attacks. We opened by 5 p.m. and closed by 10 or 11 p.m. Nothing like that. My mom sold the best akara in Ebute, Ikorodu, by the way.”
Attempts to get Delight to speak directly with our correspondent were unsuccessful, but a visit to the area she mentioned confirmed that a woman had indeed sold akara at the location for years. Whether it was her mother, we could not verify.
Other users echoed similar sentiments. Casangelshair wrote, “I sold akara for years and I can’t relate to what you’re saying, except whatever you’re saying didn’t exist at that time.”
Ella Odims responded to her: “It is the same thing I said on her page. I am hearing what she said for the first time in my entire life.”
Another commenter, Boi Kado, chimed in: “Na akara business my mama take train all my siblings. I no hear this kind thing once. I grew up in Upper, Benin City, yet I no hear of any akara woman who was called a witch since I was born.”
However, the stories of spiritual interference refuse to disappear completely. Even men of faith who also sell akara echo these concerns.
Tekena Chepaka, a pastor and entrepreneur who owns a food business, believes that some food items are spiritually sensitive.
“I am a minister of the gospel, and I will not say I am ignorant of the devices of the wicked,” he said. “I know that if you sell food, there are associations or cults you must belong to, and their meetings are not held here. Some of those food items include palm oil, okpa, cassava, moin-moin, and akara.
“You have to belong somewhere. But I do my business and even travel, and I have not encountered any rubbish because of my unwavering trust in Jesus Christ and His power to save.”
The testimonies gathered from across Nigeria paint a complex picture, some steeped in myth, others rooted in personal experience. While many insist that akara sellers are vulnerable to spiritual attacks or are coerced into joining underground cults, others see these stories as mere superstition.
T-Junctions and palm oil in African spirituality
Crossroads, particularly T-junctions, are often perceived as potent spiritual sites in various African cultures, several online sources note.
They are considered liminal spaces where the physical and spiritual worlds intersect, making them ideal for rituals, offerings, and communication with deities or spirits.
The belief is that these locations serve as gateways or portals to the underworld or other spiritual dimensions.
While specific scholarly references on T-junctions are limited, the broader concept of crossroads as significant spiritual hubs is well-documented.
For instance, in many West African traditions, crossroads are places where offerings are left to appease spirits or seek guidance from deities. These practices have been noted in various anthropological studies focusing on African ritual practices.
Palm oil, particularly red palm oil derived from Elaeis guineensis, plays a central role in numerous African spiritual and medicinal rituals.
Palm oil is frequently used as a base to blend various medicinal and spiritual ingredients, ensuring cohesion and efficacy in the mixture, according to online medical repository, BioMed Central.
In cultures such as those in Benin, Yoruba and Ijaw, palm oil is offered to various Vodou spirits (also spelled Voodoo).
During the annual yam celebration, for example, the guardian spirit Legba, receives offerings that include yams and palm oil.
Ogodo, the researcher, noted that palm oil is believed to have purifying properties.
“It is used by many in cleansing rituals to remove negative energies and is thought to create a protective barrier against malevolent forces.
“The use of palm oil in rituals is also associated with honoring and communicating with ancestors, serving as a conduit between the living and the spiritual realm,” he noted.
Legal and social responses
Nigerian law criminalises witchcraft accusations, whether from unfounded allegations or inciteful and hateful comments.
Section 210 of the Criminal Code Act states that anyone who accuses another person of being a witch is guilty of a misdemeanour and liable to imprisonment for two years.
Despite this, enforcement is inconsistent, and many accused individuals continue to suffer without legal recourse.
Human rights campaigners, especially Mr Leo Igwe, have called for increased protection for women accused of witchcraft.
Public awareness campaigns aim to educate communities about the dangers of unfounded accusations and the importance of upholding individuals’ rights.
Experts suggest that witchcraft accusations often serve as outlets for societal tensions.
A researcher, Dr. Habeeb Abdulrauf Salihu, in his study on witchcraft-related violence, notes that such beliefs are deeply ingrained and can be exacerbated by economic hardships and social change.
Igwe, on several occasions, has dispelled myths surrounding food and witchcraft. He advocates for workshops and seminars aimed at dispelling myths about witchcraft and promoting critical thinking, organisations that provide legal aid and counselling to those accused, and activists who continue to push for stricter enforcement of laws against false accusations and mob justice.
