My right hand with the carefully kneaded little ball of amala is half way my to mouth when I look up. Three pairs of eyes are pointed at me. Apparently the personnel of this joint around the corner in Agege, Lagos, does not have a whole lot to do. The waitress with the shuffling pace brought me a bottle of water and then took a seat at the nearest table. She manoeuvred the plastic chair in such a way she now has an excellent view of the stainless steel bowl with okra soup in front of me on the table. With great interest she follows how I dip the yam dough in the slimy green sauce and try to hoist it up without creating to many threads. I stuff the amala in my mouth, wipe the one unavoidable string of slime off my chin with a napkin and go on eating. Ten years of travelling in Sub-Saharan Africa made me almost immune to stares. Most of the time, at least.
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