My grandmother always led the way in the kitchen. I grew up in London surrounded by Sierra Leonean food: stews, rice, soup, cassava, rich leafy-green sauces, plantain, dressed whole salmon, fried rice, jollof rice, of course – and so many other dishes that I couldn’t possibly name in one go.

For my grandmother – and her friends – cooking was an integral part of the day. She would cook for me, my parents, cousins, and, if we were full, she would ladle leftovers into ice-cream containers to load into the freezer, just in case someone came round and needed food. There have been many moments when I have opened a tub of Wall’s vanilla ice cream to find last Tuesday’s okra soup.