Why Meal Planning Changed How I Think About Time

The Rush of Everyday Life in Lagos

Picture this: It's 7 a.m. in a bustling Lagos neighborhood, and I'm already juggling the morning traffic on my way to the office. By the time I get home, the sun's dipping low, and the thought of what to cook for dinner hits like a danfo bus in rush hour. In Nigeria, where life moves at breakneck speed—whether you're hawking goods at Balogun Market or grinding through emails in VI—the kitchen often becomes the last battlefield of the day. I used to wing it every evening, staring into the fridge with growing frustration, only to end up with the same old indomie or garri because time had slipped away. That all changed when I started meal planning, and it didn't just streamline my cooking; it rewired how I saw time itself.

As someone who's navigated the chaos of Nigerian family life—big gatherings, unexpected visitors, and the constant pull of work and home—I always thought time was the enemy, something that vanished before I could grasp it. But meal planning turned that around. It shifted me from reacting to the day's demands to anticipating them, giving me control in a way that felt liberating. No more last-minute dashes to the market or settling for takeout from the buka down the street. Instead, I began reclaiming hours that I could pour into things that truly mattered, like chatting with my sister over tea or finally starting that side hustle I've been dreaming about.

The Chaos Before: Time as a Thief

Before meal planning became my secret weapon, my days were a whirlwind of inefficiency. Mornings started with optimism, but by evening, exhaustion set in. I'd come home from a long day at the office, only to spend another hour debating what to eat. In a city like Abuja or Enugu, where power outages can throw your schedule into disarray, that extra time in the kitchen felt like punishment. Remember those evenings when NEPA takes the light just as you're trying to chop onions for egusi soup? I'd curse under my breath, light a kerosene lantern, and push through, but it drained me.

One particularly hectic week stands out. It was during the rainy season, and floods had turned the roads into rivers. I was late picking up my kids from after-school lessons, and by the time we got home, everyone was hangry. I rummaged through the pantry—half a bag of rice, some wilted greens from the market, and a lone yam—and ended up boiling everything together in a lackluster stew. My family ate it, but the resentment lingered. That night, as I lay awake, I realized how much time I was losing to indecision and poor preparation. In Nigeria, where fresh produce is abundant but perishable due to our tropical climate, wasting food and time went hand in hand. I was treating time as an elusive thief, always one step ahead, stealing moments from my evenings and weekends.

It wasn't just about cooking; it was the mental load. Constantly thinking about meals meant my brain was on overload, leaving no room for creativity or rest. For many Nigerian women—and men, too—in dual-income households or single-parent setups, this is the norm. You're not just feeding yourself; you're sustaining a family, often with cultural expectations of hearty, home-cooked meals like pounded yam or eba that bring everyone together. But without a plan, that tradition became a burden rather than a joy.

Discovering Meal Planning: A Game-Changer for My Schedule

The turning point came during a visit to my aunt in Port Harcourt. She's always been the queen of the kitchen, effortlessly hosting extended family with platters of sizzling fish pepper soup and fluffy puff-puff. Over a steaming bowl of her famous banga soup, she shared her secret: a simple weekly meal plan scribbled on a notepad. 'It's not about fancy recipes,' she said, 'it's about respecting your time.' Intrigued, I gave it a try the next week.

Meal planning, at its core, is mapping out your meals in advance—breakfast, lunch, dinner, and even snacks—for a set period, usually a week. You consider your schedule, what's in season at the market, and family preferences. For me, it started small: listing three meals a day, shopping once a week, and prepping ingredients on Sundays. Suddenly, time wasn't slipping away; it was being allocated purposefully.

What struck me most was how it altered my perception of time's value. Before, I saw time as linear and unforgiving—gone once it's spent. But planning made it modular, something I could shape. Mornings became efficient with overnight oats made from local tiger nuts or quick smoothies using mangoes from the backyard. Lunches were packed the night before, like simple wraps with leftover chicken from the previous dinner, saving me from buying overpriced meals at work. Evenings? They transformed into quality time, not kitchen marathons.

In a Nigerian context, this approach shines because our cuisine is so versatile. Take jollof rice, a staple at every celebration. Instead of cooking it fresh every time, I batch-cook a big pot on Sunday, portion it out, and freeze some. Come Wednesday, when I'm rushing from a meeting in Ikeja, I just reheat and serve with a side of fried plantains. No more starting from scratch, which could take an hour on a good day.

Real-Life Wins: Stories from the Nigerian Kitchen

Let me share a specific scenario that illustrates the shift. Last Harmattan season, my family and I were dealing with the dry air that makes everything crackle. I planned a week's worth of soups: egusi on Monday, vegetable stew on Tuesday, and okra for hump day. I shopped at the local market early Saturday, bargaining for fresh ugu leaves and stockfish that wouldn't break the bank. Prep day involved chopping veggies while listening to Afrobeat on my phone—nothing rushed, just rhythmic efficiency.

By Tuesday, when a colleague invited me for an impromptu after-work drink in Lekki, I wasn't stressed about dinner. The stew was already simmering from my morning slow-cook setup (using my trusty pressure cooker, a lifesaver during fuel scarcity). We arrived home to a warm meal, and instead of eating in silence, we talked about our day. That conversation? Priceless. Without planning, I'd have skipped the outing or come home frazzled.

Another example hit closer to cultural rhythms. During Sallah, when the house fills with relatives expecting feasts, meal planning prevented overload. I prepped marinades for the suya and kebabs ahead, scheduling lighter meals like moi moi for breakfasts. It freed up time to join the prayers and laughter, rather than being chained to the stove. For busy professionals in cities like Kano or Ibadan, this means aligning meals with prayer times or market runs without chaos.

Of course, it's not always perfect. Power cuts still happen, and prices fluctuate—remember when tomatoes skyrocketed last year? But planning builds resilience. I learned to stock non-perishables like garri or canned sardines as backups, turning potential disasters into minor hiccups. Over time, this mindset spilled beyond the kitchen: I started applying the same foresight to work tasks, budgeting time like ingredients.

The Deeper Shift: Time as an Ally, Not an Enemy

Meal planning didn't just save hours; it reshaped my philosophy. Time became a canvas, not a constraint. In Nigeria, where 'African time' is a joke we tell ourselves, I've embraced a more intentional rhythm. Weekends, once spent recovering from the week's culinary fumbles, now include fun experiments—like trying a fusion of traditional ofada rice with a twist of grilled veggies inspired by a trip to Calabar.

Psychologically, it reduced decision fatigue. Studies show that constant choices wear us down, and in a high-stimulation environment like ours—with generators humming, horns blaring, and social obligations piling up— that's amplified. By front-loading decisions, I gained mental bandwidth for bigger things: pursuing that online course on digital marketing or volunteering at the community center.

For families, it's a bonding tool. Involving kids in planning—letting my niece pick between beans and plantain or fried rice—teaches them responsibility. It's relatable too; think of the single mom in Oshodi stretching her salary, planning budget-friendly meals with affordable stars like beans, which pack protein without the cost of meat.

Practical Takeaways: Start Your Own Meal Planning Journey

Ready to flip your time script? Here's how to get started, tailored for our Nigerian hustle:

1. Assess Your Week: Jot down your schedule. Busy with owambe parties on Saturdays? Plan lighter meals then. Factor in market days—maybe Oyingbo on Wednesdays for fresh deals.

2. Build a Simple Template: Use a notebook or phone app. Columns for days, meals, and shopping list. Start with themes: Meatless Mondays with veggie stews, Fry-day with akara.

3. Shop Smart: Visit the market once weekly. Buy seasonal items—okra in abundance now? Stock up. Aim for staples like rice (5kg bag), yams, and spices to avoid daily runs.

4. Prep Like a Pro: Dedicate 1-2 hours on a low-energy day. Chop onions, blend peppers, portion proteins. Use local tools: Mortar for pounding, or blender if gen is on.

5. Adapt and Iterate: First week might flop—maybe the stew soured without power. Adjust: Include more dry goods or quick-cook options like instant noodles upgraded with eggs and veggies.

6. Involve Your Circle: Share plans with family for buy-in. Turn it into a game—who suggests the best swallow pairing?

Track your wins: More sleep? Extra playtime with kids? That's the real reward. Meal planning isn't about perfection; it's about partnering with time to live fuller. In the end, it's given me back the evenings I thought were lost forever, proving that in the rhythm of Nigerian life, a little planning goes a long way.