Nigerian content creation is having a moment. From Nollywood’s global expansion to the explosion of digital creators commanding international audiences, the country’s creative economy is thriving. Food content, in particular, has found a devoted following, cooking channels showcasing traditional recipes, culinary entrepreneurs building empires online. It’s within this landscape that Delicious or Disaster, created by Tolani Tayo-Osikoya of Diary of a Kitchen Lover, promised to carve out its niche as “Africa’s most brutal cooking show.” On paper, it’s an enticing premise: a high-stakes cooking competition that tests Nigerian chefs under pressure, offering a million naira prize and a platform for culinary talent. In execution, however, it’s a masterclass in squandered potential.
The second season of Delicious or Disaster, episode 5, opens with founder Tayo-Osikoya introducing the show. The camera then pans to the studio judges—a curious mix of personalities, most with no culinary background: Stan Nze (actor), Folagade Banks (skit maker), Nons Miraj (show host), and Chef Tucker (the sole chef among them). After a poorly executed voiceover mars the intro, we cut back to the kitchen, where the founder, judges, and contestants have assembled. Nons Miraj asks each contestant to say “hey baby” to “get her going,” a moment that feels more aligned with her usual content than a cooking competition. Then the show begins.
Billed as “Africa’s most brutal cooking show,” Delicious or Disaster suffers from a glaring lack of structure and workspace. Contestants are forced to bend awkwardly to blend ingredients or complete basic tasks while the host, Tayo-Osikoya, hovers over them, constantly interrupting their work with commentary. There’s no trash can within reach, yet the rules demand they maintain a spotless workspace. Meanwhile, in the fifth episode of the second season, Nons Miraj repeatedly interjects, changing rules on the fly. The question becomes: who’s actually in charge here?
The host barks orders at contestants—do this, do that—while imposing absurd time constraints: two minutes to conceptualize a dish, four minutes to select from unlabeled ingredients, all while a rule forbids ingredient waste. Every episode includes a baffling gambling element. In the eighth episode of the second season, a contestant draws a card that immediately disqualifies her from the competition. Even reality shows like Big Brother Naija—Nigeria’s most successful reality franchise—don’t eliminate contestants through random chance. There’s a process, a narrative arc that respects both participants and audience investment. Here, there’s only chaos masquerading as entertainment.
Perhaps the most glaring issue is the judging panel itself. In an era where Nigerian food culture is gaining international recognition—with chefs like Hilda Baci breaking Guinness World Records and restaurants in Lagos earning spots on continental best-of lists—why are random influencers positioned as authorities on culinary excellence? These personalities have no culinary credentials, no professional tasting experience, no expertise in flavor profiles or technique. Yet they sit in judgment, loud, unforgiving, and often downright cruel.
Their feedback lacks any constructive value, devolving instead into a cacophony of overlapping voices and petty criticisms. Compare this to the judging on MasterChef, Top Chef, or even The Voice Nigeria, where judges offered expertise, mentorship, and actionable feedback. On Delicious or Disaster, the host frequently chastises the judges like misbehaving children, adding another layer of dysfunction to an already chaotic set. It’s unclear whether this is intentional comedy or simply poor production management.
This isn’t merely an observer’s complaint. One contestant publicly shared her experience, tagging Delicious or Disaster and calling her participation her “first ever life regret.” She alleged mistreatment and accused the show of intentionally creating comedy skits at the expense of actual chefs, using insults and humiliation as the punchline rather than showcasing culinary skill or passion. When participants leave your show with regret rather than pride, even those who don’t win, something has gone fundamentally wrong.
This critique isn’t about holding a Nigerian production to foreign standards or demanding it replicate Western formats. Every country’s entertainment industry has its own flair, and that should be celebrated. Nigeria has proven time and again that it can create world-class content that honors local culture while maintaining professional standards. The Nigerian creative industry doesn’t need to copy anyone; it needs to honor its own capacity for excellence.
However, there are universal principles of structure, fairness, and respect that transcend borders. When a show markets itself as a serious cooking competition, one where chefs and food enthusiasts compete for a million naira prize and the validation of their craft, it carries certain obligations to its participants. These are people investing time, energy, and emotional labor into the process. Many are small business owners, home cooks, or aspiring culinary professionals who see the show as a potential launching pad.
What Delicious or Disaster offers instead is a second-rate spectacle that resembles The Hunger Games: contestants arrive with dreams of showcasing their talent, only to be mocked, undermined, and subjected to arbitrary eliminations. The show exploits the vulnerability of people passionate about food, turning their genuine efforts into fodder for cheap laughs. In a country where entrepreneurship and hustle are deeply respected, where people pour everything into their crafts, this treatment feels particularly callous.
The tragedy of Delicious or Disaster is that it didn’t have to be this way. Nigeria’s food scene is vibrant and diverse, spanning from traditional dishes with centuries of history to innovative fusion cuisine pushing boundaries. There are talented chefs across the country—in street-side bukkas, upscale restaurants, home kitchens, and catering businesses—who would thrive, given a proper platform. The audience appetite is there too; Nigerians love food content, from recipe videos to restaurant reviews to cooking challenges.
Delicious or Disaster had the potential to be another platform celebrating Nigerian culinary talent, pushing boundaries, and entertaining audiences with genuine competition. While Nigeria has produced seasonal cooking shows, this could have been the one with staying power, proving that a local production can match international standards in drama, skill, and inspiration while consistently centering African cuisine and cooking traditions. Instead, it squandered that opportunity by prioritizing chaos over craft.
A cooking competition should elevate its contestants, not humiliate them. It should challenge them fairly, not sabotage them with impossible conditions and random eliminations. It should showcase the artistry of cooking, not reduce it to a punchline. Until the show addresses its fundamental structural failures and treats participants with basic dignity, it will remain less a celebration of African cuisine and more a cautionary tale of what happens when entertainment loses sight of humanity. The million-naira prize becomes meaningless when the real cost is measured in regret and damaged reputations.
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