When I was young and growing up in Lagos, Eba was the king of swallows. It had the honour of being the epithet with which Mama Put joints, the local food kiosks that dotted lower-class neighbourhoods—the type I grew up in—were named.
In Lagos, such joints were called iya eleba, meaning ‘the eba place,’ or ‘the woman that sells Eba.’
Eba was also a staple in every home, at least in the bottom-of-the-barrel, poor Lagos households.
At that time, Amala was not more than a side piece, the meal you ordered grudgingly when your dear Eba was finished. But Amala was a dedicated side-chic, with eyes for the top. One gulp after another, and now it has replaced the previous madam of swallow, taking its place as the new queen of the house.
We now have a new queen of the swallows. Everyone, please rise for Amala! It is everywhere, repackaged as a most delicious meal for everyone, not just for the poor but for all and sundry. It is now the epithet for Mama-Puts as well as fanciful restaurants in Lagos, Abuja, and even London: The Amala Place, Amala 24/7, Amala Digital, Amala Wuye, and so on.
Forgotten is our dear old Eba, relegated as the older wives of the wealthy senator marrying the young, succulent and virgin actress!
The rise of Amala is amazing. It is the same old Amala, slimy and sticky, but you wouldn’t know this when it is praised by men and women who say it seamlessly blends with rich flavoured soups, creating a delightful and satisfying culinary experience. Same, old Amala o!
Amala’s transfiguration holds a lesson for everyone. Don’t give up yet. Your redemption could be around the corner. The fall of Eba also teaches a lesson. If you are at the top, don’t mock those below you. You don’t know what tomorrow holds.
