The Table Which Brings Us Together

When my father rang the doorbell, we knew it was time.
“Va midunu,” he’d call. Come, let’s eat.
And just like that, we gathered. No negotiations. No delays.
We came to the table because it was sacred.

We didn’t call it a ritual then. But looking back, I understand it now as the heart of everything.
The table was more than where we ate — it was where we remembered who we were.
Where hierarchy softened.
Where silence broke.
Where even a simple stew became a story passed from hand to hand.

I’ve chased that feeling across the continent.

In Addis Ababa, we caramelized onions for hours over charcoal before adding berbere and chicken to make doro wat. The women sat in the sun, catching up on life. That day ended with coffee and laughter — and a dance from the children, their shoulders moving like water, like memory.

In Dakar, I joined the Fall family every Saturday. Two platters: one for the men, one for the women and children. We sat on the floor, ate thieboudienne with our hands, and passed the best parts of the meal to the guest — to me. Then came ataya, poured high into glasses until the foam was just right. And then came music, games, and stories, long after the food was gone.

Even in Accra, at the Food and Drug Authority — of all places — I watched government workers delay a training to share kenkey from one plate. I was annoyed, partly because it meant my meeting was running late… but mostly because I wasn’t invited. 😊

These moments have taught me:
We eat together not just because we’re hungry — but because eating together teaches us who we are.

It teaches generosity. Awareness. Grace.
You watch how people break fish to share it.
You learn to leave a little more for someone else.
You notice who hasn’t eaten yet.
You feed without being asked.

Years ago in South Sudan, a colleague was blindsided during a bridal shower game with the question:
“Why do you always eat alone?”
It was anonymous. But the message was clear. In many parts of the continent, eating alone is not just unusual — it’s almost rude. Because food, here, is invitation.

At Midunu, we’ve kept that spirit alive. From our very first nomadic dinner in 2014 to our tasting menus today, we’ve always had one long table. Guests come as strangers and leave as something else — not quite family, not quite friends, but connected.

One night, a guest’s mother watched her daughter laughing with the people next to her and asked, “How do you know them?”
“I don’t,” she said. “We just met.”

Her mother was stunned. As if joy like that could only happen among the familiar.

But that’s the magic of the communal table.
It doesn’t ask, “Where are you from?”
It asks, “Are you hungry?”
And then it makes space for your story, no matter how different or far-flung.

When I first wrote va midunu on a menu card in Senegal — instead of bon appétit — I was claiming something deeper.
I was calling people home.
And when I started Midunu in Ghana, there was no other name I could give it.

This is the table I carried with me — and the one I’m building still.

So let me ask you:
How often do you sit down to eat with others — really eat, with your hands or your heart?
Who would you invite, if you believed the table could hold us all?

I hope you’ll make time this week — for a meal, a moment, or a memory.

And I hope you’ll come hungry.

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