Since Tosin was in Lagos for her introduction, I travelled to Peckham for my next hair appointment. The hairdresser was recommended by my sister, who insisted that I needed to try out a new salon and a new hairstyle. I was reluctant to go but became excited when she shared that there was a Nigerian restaurant, AKOLA, only a three-minute walk away, that sold akara and La Casera. 

Although it was dark, one could not miss the restaurant’s bold red sign, the loud chatter and the hard-hitting percussive synths, which could be felt metres away. When I walked in, I made eye-contact with the cashier whose eyes ushered me in to place my order. My family’s order required a lot of repeating and nodding though I was not surprised since the order consisted of four bottles of La Casera, three packs of akara; four packs of jollof rice—one pack with cow-leg and three packs with beef; one pack of yam porridge with chicken and a pack of amala and ewedu and stew. After ordering my meal, I stood near-but-not-too-close to the owner of the restaurant who spun elegantly on a torn coffee brown swivel chair. Her head was covered in a rich mint green lace scarf, and she wore a light pink boubou that reminded me of candyfloss. The owner felt omnipresent, and it appeared as though her staff feared her. At first, I thought it was only Tunde that feared her since he ran and screamed, ‘Yes, Mama Akola,’ when she called his name from the kitchen. After Tunde moved Mama Akola from the sturdy stool to the torn coffee brown swivel chair, she instructed him to count her wads of cash. Tunde counted hundreds of notes with concentration, much like church ushers after a thanksgiving church service. In that moment, I realized Mama’s business was probably very profitable.  

Not too long after Tunde resumed his cooking duties, Mama Akola called her other staff, Lara, instructing her to reduce the television volume. Lara must have feared Mama Akola too because she ran from the toilets with her jeans button loose, revealing her lilac underwear. Lara must have forgotten her belt was unreliable (and I suffered for what felt like the longest minute of my life from second-hand embarrassment) because her stringy elastic waistband’s threads briefly entangled the arm of Mama Akola’s dysfunctional chair. Thankfully, Mama Akola did not notice the entanglement, but she screamed when she noticed Lara’s underwear as Lara walked to the toilet to wash off the palm-oil that soiled her hands. Lara was only embarrassed at the sight of her hands, which she told Tunde resembled a child’s dirty hands after eating cheese balls. Despite several visits to the toilet, Lara’s orange stain refused to leave. I felt sorry for her because other customers who might not have seen her hands might have thought she was suffering from diarrhoea. 

Mama Akola’s eyes were everywhere, and nobody looked at Mama Akola when she screamed at the television, as though she was shouting at a child. Mama Akola shook her head passionately when she saw a headline about fuel price increases or snakes stealing money or politicians dancing to afrobeat songs. She even asked us to shut up during the adverts. Truthfully, the background noise made no difference since Mama Akola’s annoying ringtone disrupted conversations. Mama Akola’s eyes darted quickly from her phone to her tired cooks whose sweat might have dropped in our meals. 

If one’s ears were strong enough to fade the arguments of a young couple dressed in matching Nike tracksuits and the wailing cries of their hungry baby, they might hear the cook’s complaints, mostly expressed in Yoruba. On a weekday, perhaps after a productive writing session—where beautiful words filled my dull page energetically, this restaurant would have been overwhelming. Today, the chaos appeared glorious. 

When my order was ready, Mama Akola’s grandson, the only man without uniform, looked at me to take away the heavy bags from his hands. I felt Mama Akola’s eyes watch me as I walked past her, kneeling to express my gratitude. I even felt her eyes watch me as I walked sluggishly through Rye Lane, listening to Kwes’ soundtrack from the tender film of the same name. I am certain Mama Akola followed me when I ate my fluffy spicy akara on the train to London Bridge, because for the first time, I did not feel too conscious about eating on a train because of its smell. Mama Akola had given me her fearlessness. I feared nothing. The journey was long, and my bags started to feel heavy, so I dreamt about my food. At 9:17 p.m., after I hung my coat and bag, I opened the fridge in my kitchen to heat up some more akara. I was so hungry that I left the fridge door open, ignoring its annoying beep. At 9:19 p.m., my sister walked into the kitchen, shut the fridge door, and passed me a bottle of La Casera. Unintentionally, we drank our drinks all in one go. There was a sigh and then a twist of the bottle cap and then relief on our faces. My sister and I glanced at each other, in the way sisters’ eyes meet when they know and feel something but don’t need words to express this something. I knew, she knew, that I knew she was right about something. And this something was the something she had shared the day before, which was that the restaurant would be heaven for a writer much like myself⎈