Set in a corner without much fanfare, Iya amala restaurant attracts the high and mighty in Abuja.
By Ebeire Okoye
Today, I woke up craving hot amala. Visions of rich brown morsels dipped in Ewedu soup and escorted by assorted meat, filled my mind. All-day long, the saliva travelling down my throat made it extremely difficult to concentrate on PowerPoint presentations. “O’ boy,” I said when I could no longer hold it in. “I dey enter Wuye.” The colleague sitting next to me smiled knowingly.
It is no secret that this is one of the best places to get amala in Abuja. The place is famous for its food quality, efficient service and public orderliness. I had been coming here every other week, post-lockdown, and now, like a moth drawn to the flame, I was entering my car and peeling down the street in search of the Yoruba delicacy. If you know, you know.
Wuye Amala (or Iya Àmàlà, as it is also called) is a traditional stall (buka) bordered by tall trees. A huge sign reads: “Matosh Kitchen” but hardly does anyone call it that. However, it is one of the best places you can find good food in the Federal Capital and certainly a place to visit anytime you are in Abuja.
At the entrance, you are asked to wear your face mask. The place has a crowd of customers, usually. There is a huge parking lot, which is a plus because it helps to check rowdiness. Cars of all brands drive in and drive out. A pair of tall policemen keep watch as the customers form a queue.
The queue gets so long, that it sometimes spills out of the premises. But the attendants are efficient and so the queue moves fast. There is hardly any impatient shouting. What stands out is the fact that all customers are equal before the proprietress, Iya Oyo. You walk up to the glass counter, you state your preference, you are served and you go to your table. “Next!” the attendant calls out.
No airs, but well ventilated, I said to myself. (Clever word plays give me great joy, sorry.) There are multiple standing fans in the eating area. The floor is spick and span, totally cemented. Each table has an arrangement of four chairs. Custom-designed ring poles guide the queue and prevent rowdiness or loitering. A cashier, just by the side, receives payment and distributes change.
Just ahead, I see a naval officer walking in. He carries in one hand a medium-sized flask. He is obviously highly ranked, probably a two-star general. Some patrons who recognise him nod slightly to show respect, but he just stands at the end of the line, awaiting his turn. The lines move very fast.
A scoop is ₦100, the same price for one piece of meat. I have heard Iya Oyo uses only live chicken in her recipes as opposed to frozen ones.
There is a variety of proteins to choose from. Her tagline, Avalanche of native flavour in the city, is apt because you can practically see the open pots of amala, cauldrons of soup, meat and orishirishi, meaning: assorted (entrails); you can see the workers peeling yams, some others preparing fresh Ewedu, firewood being replaced after they are burnt out and the woman herself concentrating on each patron and ensuring they are satisfied.
She is a stickler for the rules. No POS. No transfers. No home deliveries. Everything you do has to be on the spot and manually.
As early as 7a.m, patrons are already forming queues right out through the door. Service is quick but not rushed. Customers have the option of altering their orders so far as they are still at the glass panel. Standing in line, I observe people from all walks of life coming in with flasks and coolers.
Five heavy-duty dustbins stand outside. Plastic bottles are tossed into a separate bin for recycling, and there are taps strategically located with soap so that hands can be washed.
“Yes?” the server, a light-skinned young lady in cornrows, asks.
“Amala ati abula,” I said in Yoruba. Abula is a combination of Ewedu soup and Gbegiri, a beans-based delicacy popular in Ibadan. “Amala mẹ́ta,” I continued. Translation: Three scoop-sizes of amala. “Two pieces of beef. One fish. And two pọnmọ (cow skin)”. I order a drink to go with it and everything amounts to ₦1,000. The amala is just the right texture and the Abula, is a tasty delight. Hardly surprising, I tell to myself. It is the obvious reason the footfalls do not abate.
In my head, I plot a conversation with Iya Oyo about how she has managed to hold all of Abuja captive with her native dishes and why she does not have an internet presence that matches the sprawling establishment and multitude of people. I mean, why does she not have even a social media handle?
From my seat, I observe her practised hands and the keen expression on her face as she attends to customers. Mon dieu, she looks quite formidable. I wonder how she manages to keep this up, day in, day out. I also wonder if actually walking up to her and asking questions, would not be perceived as being impudent. But the more I dig into my food and lick my fingers clean of soup, the more decided I become. By the time I am done eating, I have summoned enough courage to approach the counter.
“My dear,” she laughs when I pull her aside. “God has blessed me with this place already and even without advertising, we have so many customers. Imagine if we advertised, we would be overwhelmed.”
“But how did you even manage to set up this kind of place? What was your motivation?” I ask.
“It’s God o,” she laughs again. “God, and my passion for cooking.”
I try to ask her some more questions, but she very obviously needs to return to her station.
I return to the car, reflecting on the culinary adventure. Replicating a staple delicacy from Southwestern Nigeria in the North is quite a brilliant strategy. Yoruba folks constitute a substantial demographic in the Federal Capital Territory and many of them are either too busy to cook or do not even know how to prepare amala in the first place. But the nostalgia; is what sells the place. The longing for something familiar and delicious. I find myself subconsciously trying to estimate how much the kitchen must make in a day, and let us just say I might be considering a career switch.
As I drive back to the office, the most serendipitous thing happens. I am fiddling with the radio dial when I stumble on a station playing Iya Basira by Styl Plus! I am pretty sure other motorists may think I have lost my marbles with the way I am nodding my head and singing along. With my craving satisfied, I guide my car into the parking lot expertly. I realise how much happier I am. Even the way I drive impress me. It is the magic of a good meal.
Now, it is time to get back to that PowerPoint presentation.
- Ebeire Okoye is CEO of Siro Entertainment, a linguist, historian and chef. She is based in Abuja. The article was originally published by Four Points Communications in NCDMB’s Local Content Digest
Ayodelé is a Lagos-based journalist and the Content and Editorial Coordinator at Meiza. All around the megacity, I am steering diverse lifestyle magazine audiences with ingenious hacks and insights that spur fast, informed decisions in their busy lives.
