The first time I encountered Gwote, I was captivated before I even took a bite. Thick, hearty, and bubbling in a pot, it looked unlike anything I had eaten before somewhere between porridge and swallow but it immediately demanded attention.
The plate shimmered with color: bright red tomatoes, crisp cabbage, deep green amaranth (aleho), roselle leaves (yakwa), both sweet and bitter garden eggs, and even crunchy groundnuts, all mingling in surprising harmony. As a child, I approached it cautiously. The absence of oil and the abundance of vegetables made it feel unfamiliar, yet the fragrant aroma wafting from the pot and the glistening grains called out to me, urging me to taste.
It was at Vom I first fell in love with the dish. Served in its simplest form: pure fonio (acha) instead of broken maize, more cabbage, and without the bitter garden egg. The first bite revealed a comforting, subtle flavor—the gentle earthiness of the grain, the fresh sweetness of the vegetables, perfectly balanced. I was hooked. Over the years, I’ve delighted in many variations: Gwote made with rice and palm oil, maize Gwote with tender cow bones and meat, and even Gwote with a hint of locus beans (daddawa). Each experience confirmed one thing: it’s hard to imagine any Plateau dish matching Gwote’s audacious mix of taste, color, and character.
The Recipe That Brings Gwote to Life
Speaking to a local chef on the subject of gwote’s preparation, I learnt that the recipe and its significance vary from culture to culture. Notwithstanding, throughout every culture and over every timeline, gwote is more than just a dish—it’s a ritual, a sensory journey, a celebration of simplicity and depth. Her approach to making it begins by gently simmering cow bones or brisket with chopped onions for about half an hour. The rich, savory aroma rising from the pot promises comfort before the first bite. Diced garden eggs, carrots, crushed raw groundnuts, and hot peppers are gradually folded in, introducing bursts of color and a whisper of heat. The sliced roselle leaves, and cabbages follow, releasing their earthy, green fragrance into the steaming pot.
Meanwhile, the grains typically fonio or broken maize are washed thoroughly to remove dust and sand. Slowly stirred into the simmering mixture, they thicken and soak up the flavors of the broth. Constant, gentle stirring ensures the mixture doesn’t stick or burn, while occasional splashes of water keep the texture just right. In goes the amaranth at last, with just the right amount of seasoning to enhance the dish’s taste. After a final simmer, the pot is covered and allowed to rest for a few minutes, letting all the flavors harmonize into a vibrant, cohesive whole. The result is a dish that balances subtle bitterness, gentle sweetness, earthy richness, and the faint, comforting tang of the broth complex, nourishing, and utterly satisfying.
Gwote’s Universal Appeal
Yes, I dare say universal and this is why. Gwote has a way of inviting everyone, even outsiders, to the table. I remember a neighbor back in Abuja, unfamiliar with Plateau cuisine, pausing as my mother prepared the meal outside the house. He was drawn in by the kaleidoscope of vegetables and grains simmering together.
“What kind of meal is this?” he asked, eyes wide with curiosity. When my mother served him a plate, he was captivated. Each bite drew a smile; he even asked for seconds. That moment perfectly illustrated Gwote’s allure: its appearance beckons, its aroma intrigues, and its taste affirms its value and significance even to someone encountering it for the first time.
Another remarkable experience happened here in Plateau State. I visited a Yoruba friend who had embraced Gwote and created her own variation. She used ground maize as the base, included cabbage and amaranth, but left out the roselle leaves for their tart taste as well as the bitter garden egg. The twist? She added generous amounts of dried fish—a flavor combination I had never seen in Gwote before. She explained that growing up here with her family outside their state of origin had introduced her to the dish. She learned to prepare it, experimented with her own preferences, and eventually made it uniquely hers. This encounter highlighted something I’ve come to appreciate: Gwote is versatile. Whatever name it goes by—pate, tere, gote, or gwete depending on the region—it is a dish that welcomes change, adapts to individual taste, and yet retains its authenticity.
A Dish That Bridges Time and Culture
From my first tentative bite as a child to the many inventive variations I’ve tasted since, Gwote embodies the essence of Plateau cuisine: vibrant, adaptable, and deeply rooted in tradition. Its colors and aromas draw people in; its complex flavors keep them coming back. Whether served in ceremonies and cultural events somewhere in Plateau State, on a neighbor’s plate in Abuja, or prepared with creative twists by someone discovering it anew, Gwote tells a story of community, resourcefulness, and shared joy.
That, perhaps, is Gwote’s quiet magic. It carries the memory of Plateau’s soil, the ingenuity of its people, and the patience of slow cooking. Yet it also welcomes newcomers, inviting them to scoop from the pot and share in a story bigger than the meal. Gwote is not just food it is memory, culture, and connection, served steaming hot and impossible to resist.
How to Make Gwote at Home
Serves: 5 | Cooking time: ~1 hour
Ingredients:
● 1 kg meat or brisket
● 1 large onion, chopped
● 1 cup raw groundnuts, crushed
● 1 cup acha (alternatively crushed maize or short grain rice), thoroughly washed
● 1 medium cabbage, sliced
● A handful of amaranth, sliced
● A small bunch of roselle leaves leaves, sliced
● 2–3 scotch bonnet peppers (or to taste), crushed or sliced
● 2 cups diced carrots
● 2–3 garden eggs, diced
● Water as needed
● Seasoning cubes and/or salt to taste
Optional: fish, locust beans, or other cooked protein for variation
Instructions:
1. Prepare the base: In a large pot, place the meat/bones with chopped onion and groundnuts. Cover with water and simmer for 30 minutes, letting the rich aroma rise and fill the air.
2. Add the vegetables: Dice the peppers, garden eggs, and carrots, then fold them into the pot. Stir gently, allowing the colors to mingle while the flavors deepen.
3. Layer in the greens: Wash and roughly chop the roselle leaves and cabbage. Add them to the simmering pot, releasing their fragrant, earthy scent. If you like, add small amounts of fish or locust beans for a flavor twist.
4. Incorporate the grains: Slowly stir in the washed fonio (acha), ensuring it doesn’t clump. Keep the mixture uncovered and stir intermittently so it thickens evenly without sticking.
5. Introduce the final touch of green: Fold in the sliced amaranth and stir (this doesn’t need to cook for long so it can come in long)
6. Adjust flavors and textures: Taste and season as needed. Add water gradually if the mixture becomes too thick.
7. Final simmer: Lower the heat and let the pot simmer for another 5–10 minutes, allowing all the flavors to harmonize.
8. Rest before serving: Turn off the heat, cover the pot, and let the broth sit for a few minutes. The final product should be thick, aromatic, and brimming with color a dish that looks as good as it tastes.
9. Serving tip: Scoop into bowls or plates and enjoy hot. Share with family, friends, or neighbors for the full communal experience.