Egusi Soup vs. Egusi Stew: A Family Argument With No Right Answer
The fry-first method versus the water method. Yoruba versus Igbo versus Ghanaian. Fresh versus pre-ground. The egusi debate has no referee — and that is entirely the point.
Here is the argument. You are making egusi. Do you fry the ground seeds first in palm oil — letting them sizzle and clump and toast until the fat turns a deep orange — or do you add them directly to water or stock, letting them cook through without any frying at all? The first method is what most Yoruba cooks will call correct. The second is what you'll hear defended passionately by Igbo grandmothers who will look at the fry-first method with genuine suspicion, as though you have introduced a foreign element into something sacred.
Both methods produce egusi. They produce different egusi. And if you make the mistake of suggesting one is more legitimate than the other at the wrong table, you will be there for hours.
The Technical Difference
The fry-first method — sometimes called the roasting method — works like this: palm oil goes into the pot over medium-high heat. Ground egusi is added in small scoops and fried in the oil, stirring constantly, until the paste becomes dry, crumbly, and develops a nutty, toasted aroma. The fried egusi then goes into the stock with the meat and other ingredients. The result is egusi with a distinct texture — slightly grainy, with pieces that hold their shape, with a toasted depth that you can't replicate any other way.
The water method skips all of this. The ground egusi is added directly to the simmering stock, dissolving gradually as it cooks. The result is smoother, denser, more uniform — a thick, cohesive soup rather than one with distinct egusi granules. Some cooks mix the ground egusi with a little water to form a paste before dropping it in by spoonfuls, which gives you rounded dumplings of egusi that puff up slightly as they cook.
Neither is wrong. They are producing different textures, different mouthfeels, different arguments about what egusi is supposed to be.
The Regional Ownership Problem
Egusi — the seed of *Citrullus lanatus* and related melon varieties — is cooked across a vast stretch of West and Central Africa. The Yoruba in southwestern Nigeria make it. The Igbo in the southeast make it. The Efik make it. The Hausa-Fulani make it. The Edo make it. Ghanaians make it under different names and with different technique. Cameroonians make it. The Central African Republic makes it. Egusi does not belong to any single group. And yet the question of which preparation is correct is always asked as though it belongs to one group and that group has spoken.
*Yoruba egusi* tends toward the fry-first method, with bitter leaf (*ewuro*) as the green, a generous amount of dried crayfish, and palm oil pushed hard enough that the soup is orange-red at the surface. The seasoning relies on *iru* (locust beans) for that fermented bass note. It is not shy.
*Igbo egusi* — *ofe egusi* — often uses the water method or the paste-dumpling variation. The greens might be *ugu* (fluted pumpkin leaf) or *akwukwo nri*, or a combination. *Ogiri* (fermented oil bean paste) replaces or supplements the locust beans. There is often cocoyam paste (*ofo*) added to thicken the soup further, giving it a body that coats the spoon in a different way than the Yoruba version.
*Ghanaian egusi soup* — sometimes called *nkontomire* when made with cocoyam leaves — is its own branch entirely. Less palm oil, sometimes no palm oil at all, with tomatoes and pepper forming a more prominent base. The protein choices shift. The technique shifts. You wouldn't be wrong to serve it at the table, but you also wouldn't fool anyone who grew up eating the Nigerian versions.
The Diaspora Problem: Where Is The Egusi?
Outside West Africa, the first question is not how to cook egusi. It is whether you can find egusi. In London, you are probably fine — Peckham and Brixton and Hackney have African grocery shops that stock whole dried seeds, pre-ground packets, and sometimes the fresh seeds from seasonal imports. In Toronto, Scarborough has you covered. In Houston and Atlanta, the African grocery shop situation is better than it was ten years ago.
But in smaller cities — in places where the African community is newer or thinner on the ground — you are improvising. This is where diaspora kitchen creativity either reaches its peak or its limit.
*Whole dried seeds* are the purest option if you can find them. You roast them in a dry pan, then grind in a blender or spice grinder in batches. The grinding is imprecise — domestic blenders don't love oily seeds — and you will produce a mixture that ranges from fine powder to coarse paste depending on how long you run it. This is fine. The imprecision is actually useful, because it gives you both texture and binding in the final soup.
*Pre-ground egusi* from a bag is quicker and consistent. The quality varies enormously between brands. Some pre-ground egusi has been sitting in that bag for long enough that the fat has gone slightly rancid — you'll smell it. Don't use it. Fresh pre-ground egusi has a clean, slightly sweet, grassy smell. Trust your nose.
The *pumpkin seed substitution* — which you will see suggested in some diaspora cooking blogs — is not egusi. It will produce something that looks vaguely similar but tastes completely different. If you are trying to make egusi soup and you use pumpkin seeds, you are making a pumpkin seed soup and calling it egusi. This is fine as a different dish. It is not egusi.
The Meat Argument
Egusi soup will accept almost any protein. But what it *deserves* is the following combination, and any argument to the contrary is wrong:
Goat on the bone, cut into chunks and seasoned and boiled until tender in a stock with onion, seasoning cubes, and salt. The bones contribute to the base. The goat meat holds together in the soup and gets richer as it cooks down further.
Stockfish — dried Atlantic cod — which has been soaked overnight (minimum) to soften, then shredded into large pieces. Stockfish is not optional. It provides a saline, oceanic depth that palm oil and meat alone cannot replicate. People who skip the stockfish because they can't find it or because the smell during soaking puts them off are making a lighter soup that is technically egusi but is missing something important. The smell during soaking is part of the process. It goes away when it cooks.
Dried crayfish — ground or whole, depending on your preference — which brings its own funky, salty, umami layer. This is not a seasoning you can substitute. Ground dried crayfish from an African grocery shop is the one. Add it before you taste-test, because the seasoning balance changes completely once it goes in.
All three together is the target. Goat on the bone, stockfish, dried crayfish, palm oil, bitter leaf or pumpkin leaf, iru or ogiri, and egusi prepared by whichever method you were raised on. If your mother used the fry-first method, you will use the fry-first method. If she used the water method, you will defend the water method with a vigour that surprises even you.
A Diaspora Kitchen Recipe (That Takes a Side)
This recipe uses the fry-first method, because the toasted texture is worth it. If you are an Igbo cook reading this with rising irritation, make your version alongside and compare.
*Serves 4-6. Allow 3 hours.*
Soak 200g of stockfish in cold water overnight. Change the water twice. Drain and shred into large pieces. Season 600g of bone-in goat meat with salt, seasoning cubes, white pepper, and half an onion. Add to a pot with 1.2 litres of water and bring to a boil. Simmer for 45 minutes to 1 hour, skimming the foam, until the goat is tender and the stock is fragrant.
Heat 100ml of palm oil in a heavy pot over medium heat. Add 250g of ground egusi — the ground seeds, not a fine powder — in small additions, stirring constantly. Fry for 8-10 minutes until the egusi is dry, crumbly, and smells toasted. Do not burn it; reduce the heat if it's colouring too fast.
Add the cooked goat and stockfish to the pot with the fried egusi, along with enough stock to cover. Add 2 tablespoons of dried crayfish, 1 tablespoon of *iru* (locust beans), and half an onion, finely chopped. Stir, cover partially, and simmer for 20 minutes. The egusi will absorb the stock. Add more stock or water as needed to keep a loose consistency.
Add a large handful of bitter leaf (*ewuro*), washed and shredded, or *ugu* (pumpkin leaf), or both. Season aggressively with salt and additional crayfish powder. Taste. It should be rich, salty, deeply flavoured, with that egusi earthiness underneath everything. Simmer for a further 10 minutes uncovered until the greens are wilted and the soup is thick.
Serve with pounded yam, eba, or fufu. Not rice. Never rice.
What Egusi Means
When you are making egusi in a kitchen that is not the kitchen you grew up in — in a flat in Leeds or a house in Maryland or an apartment in Paris — you are not just making dinner. You are doing something that requires effort and sourcing and patience that the original context never required. The stockfish had to be found. The egusi had to be tracked down. The *iru* may have taken three different shops. The palm oil is the right one this time because you finally found the brand that tastes closest to right.
The argument between soup and stew, between fry-first and water method, between Yoruba and Igbo and Ghanaian technique — that argument is still available to you in the diaspora. You can still have it with your mother on the phone, still have it in the WhatsApp group, still defend your method to a partner or friend who didn't grow up with any version of it. The argument is yours. The technique is yours. The pot of egusi on the stove, in whatever city you're in, is the most direct line back to the place you came from.
Make it the way your mother made it. Then make it the other way once, just to understand what they were arguing about.