"I Hate Yoruba Cooking"

I know I might lose all my fans and love from the good Yoruba folks, but since I moved to Lagos, the only part of their culture I will never embrace is their cooking. Not because their favourite spice is pepper, or their most choice meal is Amala, but because I still haven't evolved to their level.

The theory of evolution is one which has been forced from the West into a stubborn religious Africa via education, but I think it's a scam in progress. Every year, they teach that topic to our teeming impressionable students, who swallow it with lots of other junk and are forced to write organised exams, but in the real world it has not worked for me.

I have not evolved to love Yoruba cooking. And it's not my fault. Darwin lied.

My problem with Yoruba cooking began in the month of September 2013. Prior to that time, the only other aspects of their culture that I didn't admire were Fuji music, and meat-laden parties. Fuji Music because the drums remind me of the Benin Invasion history classes, and the Owambes because they are a symbol of wanton gluttony.

I was ill in September, and having shown symptoms of Malaria at work, my colleagues and bosses at Pulse.NG (Ringier Nigeria) had declared me medically unfit, and shown me the door. I walked through it with gratitude. I grabbed medicine from a drugs store in Palm Mall, V.I, swallowed a bit, and began the journey home to Surulere. At Ojuelegba, I almost did faint from exhaustion, and a throbbing headache. I decided to get instant nourishment, and the only place I found was a restaurant with a fat woman who had a classic ass from Ibadan. A full Yoruba ass from Ibadan that was ruined by enthusiastic tribal marks on her face.

“Madam”, I began, my head on the table. I could sense my death. “Madam, just give me food. Your best”.

“Okay”. Her voice was soft and dismissive. It lacked emotion, revealing that the food will be without spice.

A moment later, my table vibrated, and raising my head, I found 2 plates sitting comfortably. One contained 2 tiny brown mounds, that reminded me of well processed poop, and the other looked like a cross between spiced blood and egusi soup. I cringed in fear. But the hunger in me made me bold.

“That's Amala and Soup”. The Ibadan woman had the voice of an executioner. I had met my end, I knew it.

I prayed for my soul, and the gift of survival, and with shaky hands, I tore off a bit of the poop or Amala, and dipped it into the soup. With mechanical efforts I took the mixture to my mouth, and I died.

My taste buds exploded. A fresh wave of nausea hit me, and right then, power entered me. With reflex motions, I got up, paid for my meal and disappeared. The food tasted like rotten wood and swamp water. It killed me before Malaria did.

A part of me died that day. And until today, it has not found second life.

I avoided Yoruba cooking until a girlfriend had the bright idea to impress me with her cooking. She ambushed me during a visit with hot Ewedu and Amala, and being a diplomatic loverboy, I was too knowledgeable to reject a gesture of passion.

After that, my rectum and toilet became soulmates. Inseparable until the end of two days.

My system was not built for Yoruba food, and after 2 near-death experiences, I am convinced I cannot undergo Darwin's intelligent transformation. I am a proud Akwa Ibom man, and Afang soup is still my birthright. I will never change.

Fuji Music, Owambe parties, assorted meat, and Ewedu. Those are my reasons to reject romance from Yoruba women.

Hate me, love me, see you next Tuesday. Peace and good hustle.