It’s a sunny afternoon on February, 1980. Daud's driving from Lagos to “Abeokuta” city in the western part of Nigeria. In his brown 404 Peugeot car, he was cruising while he’s listening to an afro music. In “Ishagamu” there’s a restaurant called “Stomach palace” where travelers love to stop by and grab something to eat. The restaurant has some special delicacies most people passing by don’t like to miss. For those with piquant nostril could percieve the lingering aroma of the restaurant from the road. It’s at one side of the express road. At this time there’re always various kinds of cars, trucks, Lorries and buses parked around it. “Stomach palace” is a place where people of different calibers tried to have their meals served.
Various kind of local “Yoruba” dishes are served hot. Some people from other regions of Nigeria, eastern, northern citizens that pass through wouldn’t want to miss it. Except you've never had a nibble of one of its varieties or you've never heard someone told you about it.
Daud doesn’t like to miss part of this trip whenever he’s plying through this routine. Moreover he’s been anticipating on how much he needed to eat because he’s famishing severely. (The rhythm and the sound of music produced by the tape worms in his belly almost over-shadowed the one coming from the car stereo before he pulled over).
He got to “Stomach Palace” and there were a lot of vehicles around the vicinity. He tried to maneuver his way for a nice spot to park.
He wound up his glass and switched off his car tape. He alighted from his car in a blue- check short sleeve shirt with a bell-like trouser on black loafers. He looked around as he locked his car.
Three-thirty p.m., it’s always a busy time here as usual. People moving in and out, he tried to find his way around the crowd. There're some mini marts and Kiosks around the place. He walked gently into the restaurant. He got in and looked around to grab a place to sit but everywhere seems to be occupied. Daud likes to be pragmatic sometimes; he took a glimpsed at his wrist-watch, and came up with an adage in his mind. “Where ever a needle passes through there is always a way for the thread”. He raised his head and spotted a little space near a lady eating pounded yam with vegetable soup crowned with a yummy bush meat. (Hmm, it really looks tantalizing and inviting, got the mouth salivating) He’s bewitched not only with her ravishing beauty, but the way she was natural about the eating.
