I watch as Adebayo Ogunlesi's weathered hands tremble slightly, cradling a small cloth pouch like it contains precious jewels. In a way, it does. "These are the last igbagba seeds from my grandfather's line," he tells me, carefully opening the pouch to reveal a handful of mottled, kidney-shaped seeds. "When I was boy, these fields were full of it. Now?" He gestures to the sprawling cassava plantation that surrounds his small farm in Oyo State. "No one remembers how to grow the old crops anymore."
The igbagba bean, once a staple in southwestern Nigeria, is just one of dozens of indigenous crops facing extinction across the country. Their disappearance represents not just a loss of biodiversity but the erosion of cultural heritage and food sovereignty in Africa's most populous nation. How did we get here? And more importantly, who's fighting to bring these forgotten foods back?
For centuries, Nigeria's diverse climates nurtured an incredible array of native crops. From the protein-rich bambara groundnut to the nutrient-dense black benniseed, these indigenous plants were perfectly adapted to local conditions. They didn't need expensive fertilizers or pesticides. They could withstand drought and poor soil. But today, many are on the brink of vanishing completely.
"We've lost about 60% of our indigenous crop varieties in the last three decades alone," explains Dr. Funmilayo Adebayo, an ethnobotanist at the University of Ibadan. "Most Nigerians under 40 have never even heard of crops like igbagba, odu, or karkashi that their grandparents relied on." She's spent fifteen years documenting disappearing food plants, racing against time to record traditional knowledge before it's lost forever.
What's driving this agricultural extinction? The answers are complex and interconnected.
Climate change hits Nigeria hard. Rising temperatures and unpredictable rainfall patterns disrupt traditional growing seasons. A farmer who lives in the North tells me they can no longer rely on the rains like they used to. "Sometimes it comes too early, sometimes too late, sometimes not at all," laments Ibrahim Suleiman, a farmer in Kano State. "Our grandparents knew exactly when to plant. That knowledge doesn't work anymore."
But human factors play an even bigger role. Deforestation has accelerated at an alarming rate, with Nigeria losing over 95% of its original forest cover. This destroys the habitats where wild relatives of cultivated crops grow—plants that could provide valuable genetic material for breeding climate-resilient varieties.
Industrial agriculture pushes many farmers toward monoculture. "The government gives subsidies for fertilizers and seeds, but only for certains crops—maize, rice, cassava," explains Suleiman. "Nobody's giving support for growing karkashi or bambara groundnut." Foreign seed companies have flooded the market with hybrid varieties that promise higher yields but require expensive inputs. As a result of this, there are many farmers who have abandoned their traditional crops and knowledge.
Then there's the cultural shift. "My children don't want to eat what I eat," says Adenike Oyelade, a market vendor in Lagos. "They want foreign food. Rice, wheat, pasta. They think our traditional foods are for poor people." This perception, fueled by decades of Western influence and urbanization, has eroded the market for native crops.
But perhaps the greatest threat is the loss of traditional knowledge. As elders die without passing on their agricultural wisdom, valuable information about growing, preparing, and using indigenous crops vanishes. "My grandmother could identify over a hundred different plant foods in the forest," says Blessing Ogbuanu, a food historian in Enugu. "I know maybe twenty. My children? Perhaps five."
I wanted to know—is anyone fighting to preserve these crops? The answer is yes, but they're facing an uphill battle.
In a small community garden in Ibadan, I meet Folashade Adebule, who runs the Seed Guardians Network. "We're creating a living seed bank," she explains, showing me neat rows of rare indigenous vegetables. "We collect seeds from elders, grow them, document everything, and share them with other farmers." Her organization has preserved over 30 varieties of disappearing crops, including three thought to be extinct.
The network organizes seed swaps where farmers can exchange rare varieties. They also host cooking demonstrations to show younger generations how to prepare traditional foods. "If people don't know how to cook these crops, they won't grow them," Adebule says. "We need to make traditional food exciting again."
Scientists are also joining the fight. At the National Center for Genetic Resources and Biotechnology (NACGRAB) in Ibadan, researchers maintain a collection of indigenous crop varieties. But underfunding limits their work. "We have thousands of accessions, but not enough resources to study them properly," admits Dr. Oluwafemi Akinyele, a geneticist at the center. "We're sitting on a gold mine of genetic diversity that could help us develop climate-resilient crops, but we can't unlock it."
Some universities are stepping up too. The University of Port Harcourt has started a program documenting traditional farming practices and seed varieties. "We're creating a digital library of indigenous agricultural knowledge," says Professor Chioma Nwachukwu, who leads the project. "We interview elders, record their techniques, and preserve their seeds. It's like an agricultural time capsule."
What about government policies? That's where things get complicated.
Nigeria's agricultural policies have traditionally favored large-scale commercial farming of a few major crops. "The focus has been on increasing yield and profit, not preserving biodiversity," explains Aisha Mohammed, an agricultural policy analyst. "There's little incentive for farmers to maintain traditional varieties when all the subsidies and support go to commercial crops."
The National Agricultural Seeds Council regulates the seed sector, but critics say it prioritizes certified commercial seeds over farmers' varieties. "There's no legal protection for indigenous seeds," Mohammed tells me. "Anyone can take our local varieties, modify them slightly, and patent them. Then our own farmers would have to pay to use seeds their ancestors developed."
Some activists are pushing for policy changes. The Alliance for Food Sovereignty in Africa (AFSA) has been advocating for farmers' rights to save, use, and exchange traditional seeds. "We need laws that recognize the value of indigenous crop varieties and the rights of communities who've preserved them," says Daniel Okafor, AFSA's Nigeria coordinator.
The ecological impact of losing these crops extends far beyond Nigeria's borders. Indigenous varieties often have unique traits that could prove valuable in breeding programs worldwide. "These crops are adapted to survive in harsh conditions with minimal inputs," explains Dr. Adebayo. "They're precisely what we need in a changing climate."
Many native crops also provide ecosystem services. Deep-rooted varieties prevent soil erosion. Others fix nitrogen in the soil, reducing the need for fertilizers. Some act as natural pest repellents. As these species disappear, farmers become more dependent on chemical inputs, creating a cycle of environmental degradation.
But there's hope in the grassroots efforts taking root across the country.
In a remote village in Plateau State, I meet a group of women who've formed a cooperative to revive fonio, an ancient grain once widespread in West Africa. "We started with just a handful of seeds from an old woman's storage," says Ruth Danladi, the group's leader. "Now we have two hectares." The women process the grain into flour and sell it to health food stores in Jos and Abuja, where it's gaining popularity as a nutritious, gluten-free alternative to wheat.
In Calabar, chef Effiong Edet is creating a new market for forgotten foods through his restaurant, "Roots." "I'm taking traditional ingredients and presenting them in modern ways," he explains as he prepares a dish of jute mallow leaves (ewedu) with smoked catfish. "When people taste these flavors, they remember. The body remembers even if the mind has forgotten."
Tech-savvy youth are joining the movement too. A group of young programmers in Lagos has developed an app called "Seed Tracker" that connects farmers with sources of indigenous seeds. "We've mapped over 200 seed keepers across the country," says Oluwaseun Adeyemi, one of the developers. "If you want to grow a rare variety, we'll help you find it."
As my journey through Nigeria's agricultural landscape comes to an end, I find myself back in Oyo State, this time at a community seed festival. Children run around wearing necklaces made from colorful indigenous beans. Elders demonstrate traditional planting techniques. Young farmers eagerly collect packets of rare seeds.
I spot Adebayo Ogunlesi again, the farmer with the precious igbagba seeds. He's surrounded by a group of teenagers, carefully showing them how to identify healthy seeds. "It's not just about preserving the seeds," he tells me later. "It's about passing on the knowledge. If the young ones don't learn, all this will die with us."
As the sun sets over the festival, I watch a young girl carefully wrap a handful of igbagba seeds in cloth, just as Ogunlesi had shown her. She tucks them into her pocket with a solemn promise to plant them at home. In this small gesture, I see both the fragility and the resilience of Nigeria's agricultural heritage—a legacy that hangs by a thread but refuses to break.
The fight to save Nigeria's vanishing crops is far from over. But in farms and kitchens, laboratories and policy forums across the country, a movement is growing. Seed by seed, meal by meal, story by story, Nigerians are reclaiming their agricultural heritage. And in doing so, they may just be securing their food future.