But not everyone was as enthusiastic. A few customers had begun to notice a pattern: frequent stomach upsets after eating at Bola's Kitchen. Yet, they brushed it off, blaming their ailments on other factors.
"It's probably the suya I ate last night," one man said to his wife after spending the night doubled over in pain.
"Yes, Bola's food can't be the cause," she replied. "Her cooking is too good to hurt anyone."
And so, the reputation of Bola's Kitchen remained intact—for now.
As the months passed, the reports of sickness grew more frequent. Sade, the assistant, started to feel uneasy. She had noticed some of Bola's habits but didn't dare confront her boss directly.
One day, she tentatively suggested, "Madam, maybe we should start cleaning more often. People are complaining of stomach pains."
Bola waved her off. "Nonsense! It's not our food. People are always looking for someone to blame. If there was a problem, why are they still coming here, eh?"
Sade had no answer. Bola's logic seemed sound—after all, the restaurant was still packed every day. But deep down, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.
As Bola continued to churn out her beloved dishes, she remained blissfully unaware of the storm brewing on the horizon. Her customers still sang her praises, but whispers of doubt had begun to spread.
It was only a matter of time before someone uncovered the truth, and when they did, Bola's carefully built empire would come crashing down.
It was a crisp Wednesday morning in Surulere, and the streets were just beginning to stir. The sun had barely begun to rise, casting soft golden hues over the quiet neighborhood. Fumi, a young journalist in her mid-20s, walked briskly towards Bola's Kitchen.
She had heard countless tales about Bola's legendary cooking. Friends and colleagues raved about the food, urging her to try it. "You haven't lived until you've tasted Bola's jollof rice," one colleague had told her emphatically.