Peter Forberg

Chocopain is the newest superfruit. It is the fluoride in your faucet. It is the opium of the masses, water drawn from the fountain of youth, blood siphoned from innocents, the fruit of temptation, the latest fad diet. Chocopain got the entire Senegalese Olympic team disqualified and gold medals. It sharpens your senses, it heightens your hormones, it makes the arid lands of the Sahel fertile and lush. To bathe in it is to have perfect skin, to smell it is to clear your senses, to know her is to love her.

Every day at noon, I walk the 20 feet from the research center to the closest boutique and ask the guy, my guy, for a piece of bread with chocopain. Graciously, he takes half of a baguette and slices it lengthwise, then from behind the counter pulls a gallon-sized tub of deep chocolate-peanut butter spread into view, spooning onto the bread one, two, three, four, five, maybe even six endless streams of nature’s nectar. He wraps the bread in old German newspaper, perhaps some extra printer paper from someone’s economics homework, and hands it over to me like a midwife. I pay my guy 250 CFA (42 cents), walk down to La Corniche, and throw myself into the ocean.

Conspiracy theorists love the mass-marketed brainwash serum, the Coca-Cola that is secretly getting you to vote blue, the newest medication that has the little known side effect of radicalizing youth. In Dakar, billboards are plastered with images of chocopain, the Nutella-like breakfast spread that is a staple in all Senegalese homes. Chocolat by Delia makes a strong showing, similar in flavor profile if a bit underwhelming, while some other cheap brand with a lion as a mascot leans too heavily into the peanut and ruins the texture. Nutella is fine, but it is hazelnut, an invasive take on the spread. Senegal’s trade was built on their peanut farming, so the homeland needs to capitalize on the ingredients held most precious. A taste of Senegal is a taste of chocopain, which has become less of a brand name and more like a way of living. The French can keep their pain au chocolat, this expat needs a reversal of roles: chocolate with bread.

In homes, empty chocopain tubs of various sizes take on a new life. With their little white handles and easy open lids, the smallest ones can become cute containers for keepsakes, while the slightly larger and deeper size has been known to hold juice for my maman. Outside of my window, the largest size is scattered across the rooftops of a recently refurbished apartment building. Previously, they held paint and tools for the construction workers, and orange liquid glooped about the rim, sending my senses spinning: what was this new liquid sloshing about the familiar tub?

Some liquids have a maximum volume for sensibility. Take a moment to close your eyes and picture the largest volume of milk you can allow. For me, it’s a kitty pool. Orange juice should never occupy anything larger than a bathtub. Most other juices, at least without pulp, could probably go Olympic, but they cap out at a lake. Hell, Olympic might be pushing it, especially for cranberry. Still, chocopain deserves the oceans.