By Balogun Adeola
Some journeys don’t just take you to a new destination; they change the way you see the world.
For years, aAgbalumo (udara, African star apple) has been treated as just another seasonal fruit in Nigeria—a childhood delight, a roadside snack, a fleeting pleasure. The ritual is familiar: suck out the tangy-sweet seeds, let the juice stain your fingers, and spit out the seeds and chew the pulp until it turns into chewing gum. And then, as quickly as it arrives between December and March, it vanishes. By April, it is forgotten—until the next season.
Yet, there’s something about this fruit that goes beyond nostalgia. For centuries, the locals have believed that if a woman climbs an Agbalumo tree, it will die. It’s a myth, but like many myths, it hints at something deeper.
But what if I told you that Agbalumo is more than just a seasonal treat?
What if I told you that this fruit is a goldmine we have failed to tap into—not just nutritionally, but economically? That beyond its juicy tang and sticky fingers, Agbalumo is a high-value crop with the potential to reshape Nigeria’s agribusiness landscape?
Nigeria produces enough food to feed itself and export, yet we remain heavily dependent on imports.
I didn’t fully grasp its importance either—until we embarked on a journey that would change everything.
It all started with a simple question: Why are Agbalumos from Benin Republic sweeter than those grown in Nigeria?
This curiosity led us on an expedition to a farm near the Nigeria-Benin border, an area known for producing some of the sweetest varieties of this fruit. What we thought would be a routine research trip quickly turned into an eye-opening experience—one that exposed us to the stunning beauty, raw challenges, and untapped potential of Nigeria’s agricultural sector.
Our first stop was a local farmers’ market, a vibrant, chaotic ecosystem of trade where baskets of fresh Agbalumo sat alongside waakye leaves, fufu in both cooked and wet form, cassava, plantains, vegetables, and gallons of freshly pressed palm oil. The sheer abundance of produce was breathtaking—yet, so much of it would never leave these local markets.
This is a problem we don’t talk about enough.
Our local markets are overflowing with agricultural wealth, yet we rarely see “Made in Nigeria” food products on international shelves.
Big Why?
Because we still consume our crops the way our ancestors did—raw, unprocessed, with little effort to transform them into products that last, travel, and compete in global markets.
And that realisation hit even harder as we continued our journey.
The path to the Agbalumo farm was not for the faint of heart.
A mix of very dusty, muddy, untarred roads that stretched endlessly ahead.
Locals walked for miles, carrying goods on their heads, while some had their young children walking with them, and this could stretch for hours.
No power cables. No telecom signals. Just isolation, and this was very scary.
As our guide reassured us about security improvements in the area, I couldn’t shake one thought: This is the reality of the farmers who grow our food.
No easy access to markets. No logistics support. No infrastructure. At some point we almost abandoned the journey as we approached a small derelict-looking bridge that was to connect us to the farm road; our vehicle tires could barely fit on the base of this bridge; our driver had to get down to reassess it before giving it a try; one wrong move, and we’d be in the flowing stream below.
The only accessible mode of transportation was the motorcycles, and how much produce can they carry at a time? How many trips would they have to make to get all their harvest to the market? How much income is lost simply because the right infrastructure doesn’t exist? These are part of the 40% of Nigeria’s food production that is lost annually, according to the World Bank—not because people aren’t hungry, but because we lack the systems to preserve and distribute what we grow.
This is the reason a significant portion of our fresh produce deteriorates prior to reaching consumers. And explains why other nations procure our raw materials, process them, brand them, and subsequently sell them back to us at a substantially higher price. This is the reason why those who provide our food continue to be among the most impoverished individuals. But it truly doesn’t have to be this way.
After a long and bumpy ride, we arrived at the farm. And what we saw there left us speechless.
We had never seen so many Agbalumo trees nor seen them farmed. These trees were so tall and commanding that they looked like silent guardians of the land; they had so many stories around them, almost reminding one of Enid Blyton’s series The Enchanted Wood and The Magic Faraway Tree. Growing up, one would imagine oneself in these trees. Sadly, we don’t have these stories to tell our children; the closest is Ògbójú Ọdẹ nínú Igbó Irúnmọlẹ̀ by Daniel O. Fagunwa.
These Agbalumo trees, some over 50–60 years old, stood in proud defiance of time, with a tree producing enough fruit to fill 10 baskets in a single harvest. Yet hundreds lay wasted on the ground, untouched, forgotten.
To harvest them, young boys and men climbed these trees effortlessly, plucking the ripest fruits or simply shaking their branches for the ripe ones to fall down.
The air was thick with the scent of fallen fruits, a bittersweet reminder of the abundance we do not harness.
And yet, despite this abundance, these trees are underutilised and unprotected. They hold stories, history, and immense economic potential—but to most locals, they are just trees.
The biggest surprise of the trip, however, was still ahead.
Looking forward to your comments on this, and stay tuned for the concluding part where we will be sharing a full documentary on my YouTube channel.
