The humid Lagos air clung to my skin as I

stepped into Mama T's Kitchen, a bustling

local restaurant tucked away in a vibrant

corner of Ikeja. The aroma of spices and

simmering stews hit me immediately, a

heady mix of unfamiliar scents that

promised adventure. As a Briton on my first

trip to Nigeria, I was eager to dive into the

culture, and what better way than through

food? I'd heard whispers about amala and

ewedu, a Yoruba delicacy, and decided

today was the day to try it.

The waiter, a cheerful man with a wide grin,

recommended amala with ewedu soup

and a well stewed goat meat. "It's the real

Yoruba experience," he said, his eyes

twinkling. I nodded enthusiastically, my

stomach rumbling in anticipation. The plate

arrived swiftly - a dark, smooth mound of

amala, a glossy green ewedu soup, and a

vibrant red stew dotted with chunks of

meat. It looked exotic, inviting, like a

culinary postcard from the heart of Yoruba

land. I scooped a small ball of amala with

my fingers, as instructed, dipped it into the

ewedu, and swirled it through the stew. The

first bite was a revelation - earthy, slightly

sour amala, silky ewedu with its subtle

bitterness, and the fiery kick of the stew. I

smiled, feeling like I'd unlocked a secret of

Nigerian cuisine.

But then, the heat began to build. A slow

burn at first, creeping up my throat. My

British palate, accustomed to milder flavors

like shepherd's pie and fish and chips, was

unprepared for the stew's peppery assault. I

took another bite, determined to push

through, but the spice intensified, a

relentless wave that left my tongue tingling

and my eyes watering. I reached for my

glass of water, but it was lukewarm, offering

no relief. The waiter noticed my distress and

slid a small bowl of palm oil across the table.

"Try this, it helps," he said kindly.

Desperate, I dipped my fingers into the oily

liquid and took another bite of amala,

hoping for salvation. Instead, the oil

amplified the heat, coating my mouth with

a slick, fiery residue that seemed to cling to

every taste bud. My stomach churned, a

warning sign I ignored as I tried to smile

through the discomfort, not wanting to

offend. Then came the goat meat. I bit into

a piece, expecting tender succulence, but

my teeth met something hard - a small

bone fragment that crunched unpleasantly.

I froze, my mouth now a chaotic battlefield

of spice, oil, and an unexpected texture.

Swallowing became a Herculean task. I

coughed, drawing curious glances from

nearby diners, their plates piled high with

amala like seasoned pros.

At this point, my confidence waned,

replaced by a growing sense of dread. The

final blow came minutes later. My stomach,

overwhelmed by the unfamiliar

combination of yam flour, pepper, and oil,

staged a full rebellion. A sharp cramp

twisted through my gut, and a wave of

nausea hit me like a Lagos traffic jam -

sudden and inescapable. I excused myself,

stumbling toward the restroom, praying I'd

make it in time. The facilities, to my horror,

were less than pristine, and the lack of tissue

paper turned a bad situation into a

nightmare. I emerged, pale and sweaty, my

enthusiasm for culinary exploration in tatters.

Back at the table, the waiter looked

concerned. "Not your taste, sir?" he asked

gently. I managed a weak smile, muttering

something about jet lag, too embarrassed

to admit my defeat. I paid the bill, left a

generous tip out of guilt, and shuffled back

to my hotel, vowing to stick to jollof rice for

the rest of my trip. As I lay on my bed,

nursing a bottle of chilled water and a

bruised ego, I realized Nigeria's vibrant food

culture was a force to be respected. amala

and ewedu had won this round, leaving me

with a story I'd laugh about later - but not

today.

Today, I was a Briton humbled by a plate of

Yoruba soul food, dreaming of bland toast

and a quieter stomach.