culinary: Funkaso: More than a delicacy

In the heart of Kano, where centuries-old traditions still command reverence, a quiet culinary revolution is unfolding. Funkaso, a golden, soft delicacy once reserved for royalty and aristocrats is undergoing transformation, not in taste or significance but in those who produce and peddle it. Long cherished in traditional and royal homes for its rich texture […]

In the heart of Kano, where centuries-old traditions still command reverence, a quiet culinary revolution is unfolding. Funkaso, a golden, soft delicacy once reserved for royalty and aristocrats is undergoing transformation, not in taste or significance but in those who produce and peddle it.

Long cherished in traditional and royal homes for its rich texture and nostalgic flavour, funkaso is typically made from flour or wheat, deep-fried until it forms a soft, round, pancake-like snack. Often served with sugar or dipped in spicy vegetable soup, it graces occasions, ranging from royal gatherings to community feasts. Once the pride of royal kitchens and festive ceremonies, funkaso has become a morning staple for many, crossing class and cultural lines.

But while the delicacy itself has found its way into common households, the trade surrounding it is witnessing a new and surprising trend: a rising wave of male dominance. Once dominated by women who passed down recipes from generation to generation, the commercial ecosystem of funkaso is now sustained, almost overwhelmingly by male hawkers.

On a typical Kano morning, one doesn’t need to walk far before spotting a young boy or middle-aged man weaving through narrow streets with a tray of neatly stacked funkaso rounds. Their shouts of “sabon funkaso!” ring out as they call to passersby.

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Some carry the snack on their heads, others display them in small wheelbarrows or on pushcarts. From Sabon Gari to Kofar Mata, these male traders have become the new face of a food item once hidden in palace walls.

Sani Musa, a 32-year-old trader, has been in the business for over a decade. Despite the economic hurdles, he said leaving the funkaso trade is not an option.

“We are getting what we want from it. It is a business we are taking care of our families with. Despite the high price of flour, we are still in it,” he said.

His voice is tinged with both pride and resilience. According to Musa, the price of flour has risen dramatically in the last few years from around N5,000 per bag to over N60,000, yet, funkaso remains profitable.

“We used to sell one piece for N20, but now, it is N100. Even with the increase in price, people still buy because they love it,” he added.

While men have taken over the sale and distribution, many women continue to occupy critical roles in funkaso production.

Hajiya Talatu, an elderly woman in her late 60s, sits beside a large frying pan in her compound, expertly flipping dough with practised ease. She has been making funkaso for over 30 years, a trade she inherited from her mother.

“All my life, this is what I have done. I make it and the boys take it out to sell. Sometimes, up to 30 of them collect from me daily,” she said with a warm, proud smile.

According to her, some of the young hawkers don’t even have the capital to buy the snack outright, instead, they take it on credit, return with proceeds and keep the profit.

“We have married off many children through this business. It is not just food, it is a livelihood, a legacy,” she said.

However, despite her optimism, Talatu expressed deep concern about rising production cost. She pleaded for government’s intervention by subsidizing the price of flour and cooking oil.

“It is getting harder to maintain the same quality. Everything is expensive now – flour, oil, firewood. The authorities must do something,” she pleaded.

The growing number of male hawkers is less about the defiance of tradition and more about economic necessity. As unemployment continues to soar and white-collar jobs become more elusive, many young men in Kano are turning to food vending as a viable means of survival.

It is a notable shift in a society where gender roles have traditionally defined certain trades. Selling street food, especially items like funkaso, was often viewed as women’s work, but in today’s economy, survival trumps stereotypes.

With pressure to support his family, a 21-year-old Abdulmajid Suleiman, who is a university dropout, found hope in his aunt’s kitchen.

“At first I was shy, saying that people would laugh at me, but now, I don’t care as I make up to N5,000 daily. It is better than roaming the streets,” he said.

He now plans to set up his own business and hopes to train others in the trade.

Beyond its cultural significance, funkaso offers surprising nutritional benefits. According to a Kano-based dietician, Hauwa Sani, funkaso made from whole wheat is rich in carbohydrate and dietary fiber. Paired with vegetable soup, it provides a balanced meal.

“It is filling and affordable; and depending on how it is made, it can be quite healthy. It is one of those local foods that can be adapted to suit both nutritional and economic needs,” she explained. 

She noted that despite its deep-fried nature, when consumed in moderation and paired with vegetables or beans, funkaso can serve as a viable breakfast or light dinner.

As funkaso continues to evolve from a noble treat to a street delicacy, it also carries the weight of changing societal dynamics. The increasing male involvement in its trade tells a larger story about survival, shifting gender roles and the economic strains of modern Nigeria.

While some traditionalists lament the dilution of its aristocratic roots, others see the democratisation of funkaso as a celebration of cultural endurance. It is, after all, still bringing people together, whether in the confines of a palace, a roadside stall or under the scorching sun, carried in trays by men chasing daily bread.

 

More than a delicacy

For many, funkaso is more than just a local delicacy, it is an essential part of daily life.

Surajo Aliyu, a commercial tricycle operator in Kano, said funkaso was his go-to meal for energy and endurance. 

He said, “I only have energy to do whatever when I take funkaso, especially with vegetable soup. It sustains me up till 3pm. If I eat anything else, it won’t sustain me beyond 12pm.”

Others echo similar sentiments. Fatima Salisu, a teacher in Kwanar Yan Shana, shared how funkaso helps her get through long teaching hours without frequent hunger pangs. 

“It fills you up in a way rice or bread can’t. There’s something wholesome about it — maybe it is the millet or how it is made traditionally,” she said.

Mustapha Danlami, a bricklayer in Kaduna, called it the “food of strength.” 

He said, “When you eat funkaso early in the morning, even under the sun you won’t feel weak. It gives you that native strength we need on site.”

On the other hand, women who prepare and sell funkaso say the meal is reviving local business and preserving cultural heritage, especially as more young men take up hawking it as a source of livelihood.

Hajiya Rahmatu Abubakar, who has been making funkaso for over two decades in Kano said, “Our mothers and grandmothers passed this down to us. Now, the business is growing again. Young boys hawk it in the morning and evening. It is a family trade; and it is feeding families.”

Zainab Musa, a widow in Zaria, noted how funkaso is empowering women economically. “It is not just a meal, it is a business. I train girls on how to make it well and they are now earning money with dignity,” she revealed.

She added that the visibility of men selling funkaso had helped normalise and even popularise the trade. 

“Before now, people looked down on it, but now, men proudly hawk it. That respect is helping women too,” she said.

Even young entrepreneurs are joining the business. Bashir Lawal, a 27-year-old who inherited the business from his grandmother said: “I didn’t go to university, but I make more than some graduates from selling funkaso. I sell every morning. It is a heritage and it is feeding us.”