I didn’t always take puff puff seriously.

To me, it was just something you buy on the road when you’re hungry and broke ₦100, ₦200, quick fix, move on. I never thought I would one day stand in front of hot oil, sweating, praying that small balls of dough would not disgrace me.

It started on a random Saturday in Lagos.

I was at home, bored, scrolling through my phone, when NEPA took light as usual. No fan, no TV, just heat and silence. Then I remembered we had flour in the house.

“Let me try puff puff,” I said to myself.

I don’t even know where the confidence came from.

I had watched it a hundred times growing up, women by the roadside, effortlessly dropping perfect circles into bubbling oil like it was nothing. In my head, it looked easy.

So I mixed everything.

Flour? Yes.

Sugar? Of course.

Yeast? I guessed the quantity.

Water? I poured until it “felt right.”

That should have been my first warning.

I left it to rise, feeling like a professional. After about 45 minutes, I checked it. It had expanded, looking alive and promising.

“This is going to be sweet,” I told myself.

I heated the oil, waited a bit, then did the part I had been waiting for scooping the batter.

That’s when my confidence started shaking.

Instead of round balls, what dropped into the oil looked like… confusion. Some were long, some flat, some just scattered.

“Okay… maybe first batch,” I said, trying to encourage myself.

Then they started burning.

Not golden brown. Not “almost there.” Just straight-up black.

The oil was too hot.

I reduced the heat, tried again. This time, they didn’t burn but they soaked oil like sponge. When I tasted one, I almost spat it out.

“How do people do this thing??”

At that point, my kitchen looked like a failed experiment. Oil stains, burnt pieces, and my pride—completely shattered.

I was about to give up when my neighbor knocked.

“I dey smell something… you dey fry puff puff?”

I laughed awkwardly. “I dey try.”

She stepped in, looked at what I had done, and just smiled.

“You no measure anything, abi?”

I shook my head.

She didn’t insult me. She didn’t laugh. She just said, “Shift small.”

In less than 10 minutes, she adjusted everything—added a bit of flour, balanced the heat, and showed me how to use my fingers properly.

“Like this… press am small, control am… no just drop am anyhow.”

I watched carefully this time.

The next set came out round.

Not perfect, but round.

Golden.

Proper puff puff.

I tasted it and for the first time that day, I smiled.

It wasn’t just about the food anymore. It was the feeling. That small victory after almost giving up.

Since that day, I’ve made puff puff many times. Sometimes it comes out perfect, sometimes it still humbles me.

But every time I fry it, I remember that moment in my hot, quiet kitchen the frustration, the almost quitting, and that small breakthrough.

Because honestly, puff puff taught me something I didn’t expect:

In Nigeria, even the simplest things will test your patience… but if you stay with it, you’ll eventually get it right.