In 2021, researchers at the University of the Philippines Los Baños subjected lagikway (agitway in Samar) to scientific scrutiny—and the neglected vegetable held its ground. While imported “superfoods” enjoy polished packages and premium shelf space, a nutritious Filipino plant remains largely overlooked. I believe it is time we stopped treating foreignness as a measure of nutritional worth.
I have nothing against kale, quinoa, or chia seeds. What bothers me is our habit of admiring food more readily when its name sounds foreign, and its price makes the grocery bill wince. We sometimes behave as though good health must arrive in an imported pouch, bearing an English nutrition label and a small passport stamped at customs. Lagikway, meanwhile, may be growing quietly in a home garden, asking for neither applause nor an advertising campaign.
Science gives us good reason to look at it more seriously. A UPLB study examined three lagikway entries and found protein, fiber, phenolic compounds, flavonoids, and tannins in their edible portions. The researchers also measured antioxidant activity, although the levels differed among the entries and changed after blanching. One entry, Lag 152649, performed particularly well in phytochemical content and antioxidant activity, leading the researchers to recommend it for wider propagation and use. This does not make lagikway a miracle cure, and I would distrust anyone who advertised it as one. It simply means that the plant deserves a fair place on the Filipino table, supported by evidence rather than hype.
Its nutritional promise extends beyond one Philippine study. International research on Abelmoschus manihot, commonly called aibika, has examined its folate and mineral content, including calcium, iron, magnesium, and zinc. Researchers have described it as a crop with potentially high nutritional value, while noting that nutrient levels can vary by variety, year, and environmental conditions. I appreciate that qualification because honest science does not crown a vegetable king after one laboratory test. It tells us what the evidence supports and where caution is still needed.
What makes lagikway especially appealing to me is that it does not have to force itself into Filipino cooking. Its young leaves and tender shoots can be used in soups, salads, ginataan, and pinangat, while their natural mucilage can help thicken broth. There is no need to invent an expensive smoothie or bury the leaves beneath imported yogurt to make them fashionable. Lagikway can enter the kitchen through dishes Filipinos already know—the steaming pot, the familiar ladle, the bowl passed around the family table. It does not arrive as a celebrity ingredient. It comes home as food.
Its neglect also reveals something troubling about how we value local knowledge. Indigenous vegetables have long been part of home gardens and traditional meals, yet many remain underused because planting materials and reliable information are not widely available and consumer demand is weak. Once a plant disappears from ordinary cooking, the knowledge surrounding it begins to fade as well: how to grow it, which shoots to pick, how long to cook the leaves, and which dishes welcome its texture. To lose such knowledge while buying an imported substitute would be a bitter little joke played on ourselves.
There is an economic argument here that matters just as much as the nutrition argument. When lagikway is planted, sold, and eaten locally, more of its value can remain with Filipino growers and communities. Shorter supply chains may also reduce the distance food travels, although the actual environmental benefit still depends on farming, storage, packaging, and transport methods. I would rather make that careful claim than decorate lagikway with exaggerated promises. Its strongest case is already convincing: it is an edible, nutritious crop suited to local conditions and familiar dishes, yet it has received far less attention than it merits.
Lagikway does not need to defeat kale in some imaginary battle of the leaves. It needs seedlings in gardens, space in agricultural programs, honest information in schools and markets, continued research, and cooks willing to bring it back into everyday meals. I would begin there—quietly, practically, one backyard and one pot of soup at a time. Perhaps the next food worth celebrating is not waiting on a supermarket’s imported shelf after all, but growing beside a Filipino fence, green and patient, wondering why we have taken so long to notice.
