“Plantain Theft in Nigeria: Why Farmers Harvest Early and Prices Keep Rising

If I had to choose a single flavor that truly is home, it's plantain. We have two plantain trees, yes in our very own backyard. I still remember the thrill when a cluster finally ripened, sort of like my own little party. The kitchen would be filled with the warm fragrance of my mother frying some to a golden brown, cooking others on coals, and always leaving a few to simmer into a rich thick porridge. It was good, deep happiness.
But holding onto that joy has been harder to do. These days, that sense of excitement I recognize is often replaced by a different feeling: worry. My family isn’t the only one; it is a silent unease every family in Nigeria shares. The reason? Plantain thieves
The memory of one certain morning still haunts me. We’d been following one particular bunch for weeks, hoping we could get the perfect moment to harvest. I was awakened by the sound of my mother’s voice, not beaming us down to breakfast but harsh with shock. She had appeared next to the tree, simply standing there. Someone, at night, had gone through and hacked it down.” It was gone. The anger, and naked rage on her face is something that still bothers me.
That was the day that she made a decision I've since heard echoed by so many others: "From now on, we cut it early. Even if it's green. Half a plantain is better than no plantain at all."

That's the sad arithmetic now. Farmers can wait no more. Thieves are too watchful, too violent. So the clusters are cut down ahead of time, sold and eaten before they've had a chance to actually ripen. And you can taste the difference. It's not just the farmer's loss; it's a loss to all of us on the receiving end.

And walking to the market to buy plantain today is not the same as going to shop for groceries but more like indulging. I've had to stand there, staring at one, medium-sized bunch costing ₦4,500, just shaking my head. They even sell them at ₦6,000 in the big cities of Lagos or Abuja. It's incredible. For the ordinary family, a complete bunch is not affordable, so the traders have found ways. They divide them up. You can buy a hand for ₦1,000 or two or three fingers for ₦300. I have taken the market with a thousand naira, praying I would have enough for the family, only to come back with six tiny fingers that leave the plate just short.

And the real kicker? Because so much is harvested early, the plantain itself often isn’t as sweet or as filling as it used to be. Yet we’re paying more for it. The demand is still there--it’s a staple--so the prices just keep climbing.

You have to give the market traders credit, though; they’re survivors. They’ve turned this problem into a strategy. Unbundling bales into fingers, taking it straight to the rural farms to buy in bulk at a slightly cheaper rate and then selling it at a profit in the city. The prices play hide-and-seek with the seasons--dropping a bit when there is a glut, then shooting up with the first rumble of shortage or increase in theft. It's the new normal.

But even with all that, we cannot abandon plantain. It is the strand in the tapestry of our daily lives. For me, there is nothing to beat dodo--the sweet, fried slice with a plate of jollof rice or beans. Or on a cold night, picking some boli (roasted plantain) from a street seller, the smoke curling in the air, and snacking it with a dash of peanuts or a hot pepper sauce.

It’s in the crunchy plantain chips sold in traffic, the hearty unripe plantain porridge that fills your stomach for hours, and the plantain flour (Elubo Ogede) used to make a swallow for soup. It’s more than food; it’s comfort. It’s a memory.

It’s sad to think that fear has forced us to change a tradition as simple as letting fruit ripen on the tree. The quality is sacrificed and the cost is a strain. But also because it reflects how much we care. No matter the struggle or the cost, Nigerians will always find a way to place plantain on the plate. I just hope that one day, with better security and some additional trust in the community, farmers can let their bunches grow heavy and gold again. Maybe then we can go back and relish that original unhurried sweetness we all remember.