How I hosted the perfect Somali breakfast at my own home

Let me start by telling you that hosting a Somali breakfast in your own home is not just about cooking, it is about entering an entirely different rhythm of life, one that revolves around community, comfort, and deep tradition.

Let me also say: breakfast habits in Somalia differ quite a bit between city life and more rural or nomadic communities. But what remains constant is the warmth, the hospitality, and the central place that food plays in daily life.

I came to learn this thanks to my wonderful Somali-Swahili neighbour, Ifrah Neema.

What started as a casual conversation on our apartment building’s rooftop, one of those friendly exchanges that you expect to stay surface-level, turned into an experience that changed the way I think about food, mornings, and togetherness.

The invitation

One day, I mentioned to Ifrah that I had been trying to explore different cuisines at home.

She smiled in that knowing way and said, “You haven’t had a real breakfast until you’ve had Somali breakfast.”

A few days later, she knocked on my door and said, “Let’s make one together. At your place. My curiosity led me to agree immediately. I mean, I have tried Somali dishes before, but I have never had a full breakfast experience.”

I hesitated for a moment, I barely knew how to pronounce the names of the dishes, let alone cook them. But her warmth made it feel safe to say yes.

Night before: the canjeero ritual

We started with canjeero, a fermented pancake-like bread that is something between Ethiopian injera and a crepe, what Kenyans would call a Pancake.

“The secret to this is that it has to ferment overnight,” Amina explained, as she mixed flour, water, a pinch of yeast, and just the faintest bit of sugar into a large bowl.

As she covered it and set it above the fridge, she told me how in Somalia, this batter is passed down from previous batches, like a family sourdough.

“It remembers,” she said, with a smile. “Each home’s canjeero tastes a little different.”

That night, I went to bed with the faint scent of fermentation in the air and the strange but exciting anticipation of what the next morning would bring.

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Early morning: spice, heat, and tea

Amina arrived at 7:00 a.m. sharp with a bag of ingredients and a thermos of already-brewed shah, Somali spiced tea.

This tea, I soon learned, is not your average breakfast drink. I have tasted it before in Eastleigh, as it is quite famous there.

The shah is a blend of black tea, cinnamon, cloves, crushed cardamom pods, ginger, and milk, and it is often sweetened generously.

“We don’t sip tea,” Amina said, pouring it into small glasses, she had carried from her house.

“We relax with it, take our time, and enjoy every sip, because, if your taste buds listen, it tells a story.”

And that is exactly what we did, sitting on cushions in my living room, letting the scent of cardamom and cinnamon fill the room while the canjeero batter bubbled gently in the background.

Cooking together: malawax, suqaar, and eggs

Breakfast preparation was a team effort.

Malawax: Ifrah showed me how to make these delicate Somali crepes, slightly sweet and layered with melted butter. They are cooked thin and golden, folded into triangles, and sometimes topped with a sprinkle of sugar.

Suqaar: This was a revelation. I had never tasted it before. It included small pieces of beef or goat meat sautéed with onions, green peppers, and tomatoes, flavoured with xawaash, a Somali spice blend that smelled like warmth itself, containing cumin, coriander, cinnamon, turmeric, and cardamom.

Eggs with a twist: She made them scrambled with diced tomatoes, onions, and green chillies for the spice. They were soft, fragrant, and just spicy enough to wake you up.

Liver (beerka): Fried with garlic and a bit of chilli, it was rich and bold, traditionally eaten in Somalia for breakfast to give strength for the day, as Ifrah told me.

Each dish had a purpose. Each one felt connected to a history I was only just beginning to understand.

Bananas with beef? Believe it.

One of the biggest surprises was the side of fresh bananas.

I thought it was a mistake at first, or maybe for decoration. But no, bananas are often served alongside savoury dishes in Somali meals, including breakfasts.

I wrapped a bite of suqaar in a warm fold of canjeero, the soft, spongy texture already familiar in my hand.

On instinct, I reached for a piece of banana, unsure of the logic but moved by curiosity, the kind that comes when you are halfway between hesitation and wonder.

I gently pressed the banana slice into the meat, folded the bread over, and paused.

This was not just about trying new food; it was about stepping into someone else’s world.

And I trusted Ifrah. Implicitly.

Her food, her presence, her quiet assurance had become something I leaned into without resistance. So I took a bite as she watched me keenly.

And then I just… sat still! Ohh….it was sweet, savoury. Soft and spicy.

A little sour from the fermented bread…a little heat from the green chilli in the suqaar.

The banana, oddly cooling, rounded everything out like calming a storm haha.

It made no sense at all.

And yet it was perfect, like a memory you did not know you had suddenly returning in the form of flavour.

I must have had some kind of awestruck look on my face because Ifrah burst out laughing, not unkindly, just deeply amused by my expression, the kind of laugh that comes from seeing someone cross a threshold they did not even know existed.

“This is how we do it,” she said, gently nudging the platter toward me again, still smiling. “Try it again.” And I did, this time without hesitation.

Because in that one strange, beautiful mouthful, I realised something: this breakfast was not asking me to understand it.

It was asking me to feel it. To taste it fully. To let go of what I thought food combinations should be and instead embrace what they could become.

The table is a circle

We did not sit around a table with forks and plates. Instead, Ifrah spread a colourful cloth on the floor and laid out a communal platter of canjeero, malawax, meats, eggs, and bananas.

We sat cross-legged, using our hands and bread to scoop. It felt humble, it felt honest. And strangely, it felt more intimate than any brunch I have ever hosted or gone to.

There was no rush. No scrolling phones. Just food, tea, and conversation.

Hosting a Somali breakfast taught me that a meal can be much more than a combination of dishes.

It can be a memory, a connection, a cultural bridge, and it taught me that slowing down in the morning, really slowing down, can transform your day.

And most importantly, it taught me that being open-minded saves you from the limits of your own assumptions, from the blandness of routine, and from missing out on the richness that lies just across the table, in someone else’s tradition.