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Bola splashed water on her face, yawning as she wiped her eyes. The same basin of water, now murky, was placed on the counter. She dipped her hands in it to clean off some pepper stains from the night before and absentmindedly flicked the droplets onto the floor. The water wasn't thrown out; instead, she poured it into a large pot that would later boil yam for her special porridge.
Her attention turned to a giant spoon resting on the counter, blackened at the edges from years of use. Bola grabbed the spoon and scratched her armpit vigorously, sighing with relief before stirring a bubbling pot of egusi soup with the same utensil. "There's no time to waste," she muttered, adding more palm oil to the pot.
To Bola, these habits were a matter of efficiency. Washing her hands and utensils thoroughly felt like a waste of time when there were hungry customers waiting to be fed. "The fire will kill the germs," she always told herself, convinced that the heat from her cooking was enough to make everything clean.
The kitchen itself was a far cry from the clean, welcoming dining area outside. The counters were cluttered with containers of half-used spices, open bags of rice, and bowls of chopped vegetables. Flies buzzed lazily around a pile of leftover fish heads on the floor, which Bola had intended to throw out but never got around to.
The refrigerator, an ancient model that barely kept its contents cool, was packed with meats and sauces, some of which had been there for weeks. The overpowering smell of decaying food hit anyone who dared to open it.
Despite all this, Bola's food came out tasting divine, a fact that baffled anyone who saw her workspace. Her assistant, Sade, had once suggested hiring a cleaner, but Bola had dismissed the idea. "What do we need a cleaner for? People come here for my cooking, not for how shiny the floor is!"
By 7:00 a.m., customers began trickling into the restaurant, oblivious to the chaos in the kitchen. Bola greeted them warmly, her smile bright and infectious. She moved between tables, laughing and chatting as she served steaming plates of jollof rice, amala with ewedu, and her famous nkwobi.
One regular customer, Mr. Ade, sang her praises to anyone who would listen. "Ah, Bola's food is medicine for the soul. You'll eat here and forget all your worries!"