My daughter asked me why I always buy extra yam at the market. I couldn't answer her.

My daughter, Temi, she is 15 going on 30, asked me last Saturday why I always buy two extra tubers of yam at Peckham market. I just looked at her. How do you explain to a child born in King's College Hospital that buying extra yam is not about yam? It is insurance. It is hope. It is the belief that somebody might knock on your door at 7pm on a Tuesday and you will not be caught empty.

Back home in Ibadan, my mother never knew how many people would show up. Cousins, church members, that one neighbour who always found reason to pass by at dinner time. So the pot was always big. The yam was always extra. Here in London, nobody comes. My Ghanaian husband, Kofi, he says I am wasting money. But last month his brother called from Accra saying he was coming for two weeks. I had yam. I had stew. I had rice. Kofi said nothing.

Temi still doesn't understand. She orders Deliveroo when she's hungry. One day she will host her own people and she will remember her mother's yam. Or she won't. Anyway, who else is still buying food for visitors that never come?