“Do you think I’ll like her jollof?” I remember my brother asking with the seriousness of someone trying to arrange peace negotiations. He was introducing his girlfriend of six months to our family, and in our house, there are rites of passage to this kind of thing. First, you greet Mum with two hands and dip low enough so she knows you respect her. You don’t have to kneel, but don’t be stingy with your bend. Second, you laugh at Dad’s jokes—they’re bad, but he means well. And, third, if you’re bold enough to prepare jollof rice for the whole squad, you better bring your A-game.

This wasn’t just a casual Sunday meal. This was initiation. The whole family was coming over: my aunties with their endless commentary, my uncles with their loud politics, the cousins calculating people’s vibes across the table like they’re running diagnostic tests. And woven through all this was the constant storytelling, the kind that makes your cheeks ache from laughter, squashes any tension, and—most importantly—teaches you how to survive both love and life.

The Tale of “Meeting the Family”

In my family, introductions aren’t just about your partner. They’re a test of character, stamina, and your ability to laugh at yourself. Growing up in a family of eight (yes, eight!) meant I watched at least three siblings sweat through this particular gauntlet before my turn came. By the time I was old enough to bring someone home, I knew the drill.

For my boyfriend, Femi, it was no different. He showed up fresh-faced, gripping a bottle of wine like it was armor. The evening started smoothly—he hit all the right notes with Mum and even complimented Dad’s collection of Yoruba proverbs (a strategic but risky move). That’s when Uncle Tayo came in with the ultimate curveball: “Do you two argue? Couples who don’t argue are hiding something.”

I sat there frozen. But Femi? He grinned, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “We argue. Harriet never closes the toothpaste properly, and I’m convinced she’s in cahoots with PHCN about the power outages because she leaves every light on in the house.”

Everyone hollered—a laugh that started low before rippling across the table. Uncle Tayo side-eyed me knowingly like Femi had just passed some secret exam. In that moment, I saw how much these stories serve as windows. Everyone at the table could see us, messy toothpaste habits and all, and somehow that was okay. Better than okay, really.

What Family Stories Teach Us About Love

If there’s one thing growing up with my family taught me, it’s that stories are never just for laughs (though we do like to think we have masterclass-worthy humor). They pass down relationship lessons disguised as juicy gossip or cautionary tales. Let me break it down:

  1. "Nobody Likes a One-Man Band"
    My Aunt Bola has told the story of how her first marriage ended too many times to count, but the moral always hits home. Her ex insisted on making every decision himself—what they spent money on, where they lived, even what she cooked. “At first, I convinced myself it was love,” she’d say. “He must think I’m so perfect, he doesn’t need my opinions. But nah, it was nonsense. Love listens.”

I carry this with me today, whether in friendships or relationships. Partnership isn’t a solo act. Listening—really listening—saves a world of frustration.

  1. "Village Gossip Is Better Than Silence"
    I’ll never forget the time my cousin Nancy caught her fiancé attending “prayer meetings” with another woman. She was heartbroken but stayed quiet for weeks, choosing dignity over drama. When Aunty Grace found out, she didn’t even hesitate. “Ah, silence ke? You think keeping quiet will fix it? Next time, fight for yourself or call me. I’ll find the woman and meet her at church!”

Listen, I’m not saying to fight strangers after Sunday service, but what I learned from Aunty Grace’s dramatic intervention was that communication is key. Letting hurt fester can close doors, while firm and honest conversations open pathways to clarity.

  1. "Jollof Isn’t Just Rice”
    Can making jollof rice win hearts? My sister Tola swears by it. She insists that her now-husband realized he was in love after she whipped up a pot of smoky, perfectly seasoned jollof at their third date. But what’s always unspoken in this story is the real magic: effort. Tola didn’t need to cook that day; she chose to. Whether it’s showing up to listen when someone needs it or learning how they like their tea brewed, love often rests in those small efforts that signal, “I care.”

Also, side note: If your jollof rice doesn’t have that slight party-favored bottom-pot burn, what are you even doing?

Humor as a Love Language

My dad has this expression he uses whenever someone’s angry in our house or sulking because they didn’t get their way: “Even lion dey chop grass sometimes.” It’s his way of saying, “Relax. It’s not that deep.” And while I rolled my eyes at that statement countless times as a teenager, I’ve seen how humor softened tension in our family. It defuses, invites connection, and builds resilience.

Case in point—when my relationship with Femi ended, my sisters huddled around me like a makeshift therapy group. It was one of those slow-burn breakups where you both know it’s coming but are too scared to pull the plug. After a dramatic recount of all my emotions, my sister Tola deadpanned: “Harriet, please don’t write his name in the local shrine next to your favorite pen.” We burst into laughter, and somehow, that laughter made the loss feel lighter, even for a moment.

That’s the thing about my family: we turn pain into punchlines not to dismiss it, but to survive it. And in a time where relationships seem to be about curating perfect versions of ourselves, humor keeps us real. It allows us to say: “Hey, I’m human. I hurt. But my joy? That’s a rebellion.”

Carrying the Stories Forward

These days, when I’m unsure about trusting someone new or when I start to shut myself off from vulnerability, I think back to those chaotic family table moments. Every awkward story, every searing laugh—it’s all a reminder of the values I carry into relationships.

  • Effort matters.
  • Partnership takes courage, compromise, and good humor.
  • And never, ever underestimate the power of a good meal shared with people who see every sticky part of you yet stay anyway.

So, whether you’re just flirting with someone new or trying to build a bond that feels unshakable, remember to tell your story honestly. Add flavor like you do with jollof—spicy, rich, and unapologetically your own. At the end of the day, that’s what connects us.