Some doors open because of hard work, others open by accident. But the ones that change your life? They usually open when food is involved.
The sharp scent of suya spice filled the tiny kitchen, dancing in the air like a challenge. Amara wiped the sweat from her brow with the towel from her apron pocket , then gave the bubbling pot of pepper soup one last stir, she sprinkled the scent leaves like it was a final touch and tapped the spoon on her hand to taste.
"Mmmm that's what we're talking about" she smiled faintly. "Mi na the pepper soup is ready, come and serve please".
Amara tucked the spoon inside the pot of peppersoup, the boiling sound dulling to a gentle hum in her ears, staring at the direction of the pot but obviously getting lost in thoughts.
"Don't just cook with your hands. Cook with your soul. When you cook, you have to think about the persons eating not you." Her mother's voice echoed in her mind. She could still picture her dishing out rice and stew to the plates arranged on the floor close to her feet where she sat with a stool on a Wednesday evening. Amara always sat with her while she cooked. Her mother had always bragged about how it is a privilege for her to learn from her.
You could say her mother let her talent of cooking very delicious African food wash away like footprints in the white sand, erased by the rising tide. She became a house wife as soon as she got married to her husband, quit her job where she worked at a bank after her first baby.
Everyone knew her mom, she knows how to cook.
People always stopped by at her house when Amara was growing up, just to taste the milky chin chin she made or the egusi soup she cooked with a big pot at the backyard, where the firewoods stay. Amara imagined how much it was gonna be a big deal if her mom owned a restaurant in Nigeria. People would pay tickets to eat her afang soup or her Ekpang Nkukwo_now this is an African food made with grinded coco yam and water yam.
"Amara"
The sound of her name called by an impatient Mi na tugged her back, she blinked "oh yes, take these to the table close to the door, the ahjussi on blue" she closed the pot of pepper soup and opened another pot to stir.
"This peppersoup is doing so well since you added it to the menu. I told you, we Koreans love spicy." Mi na said smiling, facing down trying to pick the tray of peppersoup served in three turquoise small bowls. You could say Korea had the best place to get beautiful designs of plates in every aspect. Amara enjoyed buying them.
She had a collection.
She literally couldn't pass by if she saw a new type of plate that she didn't have in her kitchen. Mi na said she had an obsession and at a point started gifting her new plates as birthday gifts.
"My baby o, I don't know why we didn't add it to the menu earlier, I'll listen to you faster next time" they shared a glance and smiled.
It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon in Seoul, South Korea. But Naija Soul was anything but calm. A food critic was rumored to be coming around the area. Rent was due. And her plantain shipment was late. Again. She groaned anytime she remembered she hadn't received a call for a package yet.
She didn't have time for mistakes.
That's when he walked in, tall, immaculately dressed in an expensive Jean jacket and an oversized black jeans that had huge brown designs of question marks scattered on it. It screamed luxury_and he looked clearly very lost.
He looked around the restaurant like he was expecting someone to come and bow or maybe place a red carpet, his hair curled in a side parting and laid perfectly. Instead, Amara stepped out from behind the counter, hands on her hips.
"You're either very hungry or very confused." She stopped right in front of him, her brown apron tied around her black jeans and navy blue sweater-like top.
The stranger blinked. "Is this...not the new French restaurant?"
"Nope. Welcome to Naija Soul. We serve Nigerian food with extra spice."
"Oh I'm sorry, could you point the way to the French place please? I have a thing"
"Ahjumma One plate of egusi soup please!.." a bold masculine voice from obviously a middle aged man yelled from behind Amara and she looked over her shoulders with a glare "ahjussi, I'm a young girl, call me chef instead of ahjumma, but coming right up". She turned back to the tall stranger, who didn't smile or frown either, he looked like he could really need a glass of chilled water.
"Why don't you sit down for a minute? I have something for you and then I'll point you to your direction, putatirikeyo (please)?" A poised smile curved her lips, bright, steady and full of quiet power like someone who just nailed her jollof recipe.
"Ah Neh (ah yes)" he looked around, looking for a table that's vacant. He clearly looked a little uncomfortable but didn't want to say no to a black polite girl.
Amara walked back to behind the counter, pointing over to her assistant to come_Mi na. She moved with quiet efficiency in the background, her dark red hair always tied in a no-nonesense bun, a few strands slipping down as she dashed from table to table taking orders and giving orders breathing "Deh and gayo isseo!" at intervals. She spoke full Korean with the customers but with Amara, the customers try to speak English even though her Korean was fluent. But at some point the regulars got used to it.
Amara always wondered how she met such a beautiful soul like Kim Mi na.
That day she had barely stepped out of Incheon Airport when the weight of everything hit her, the unfamiliar signs, the biting cold, the rush of a language she didn't understand fully, the foreign faces and the strange looks she got. Her phone was dying, her bags felt heavier by the minute, and her stomach growled in protest after the long flight.
She stood at the subway entrance, clutching a crumpled address and trying to match the Hangul characters to the map on her screen. That's when a girl about her age approached, dark red hair tucked in a beanie, a tote bag slung over one shoulder, and a soft look in her eyes and her hands in her pocket.
'Are you... lost?' the girl asked in hesitant English.
Amara turned, surprised and maybe a little suspicious. "Kind of. I'm trying to find this place,"she said, holding up the address.
The girl glanced at it, then smiled, bright and warm, like the sun breaking through a Seoul winter. "I live near there. Come, I'll show you." She walked away immediately not minding if Amara followed her or not.
That was how they met. No dramatic music, no slow-motion moment, no kdrama suspense, just kindness in the middle of chaos. She didn't know it then, but that simple act would lead to a friendship that would carry her through burnt stews, language mishaps, and the wild ride of building a life far from home.
And when Amara told her she wanted to open a restaurant, she was way happier than her, and before you know it, Mi na never missed a beat, always there before you need her, already reaching for the right spice or handing over a clean knife like she could read minds, they had become housemates, best friends and everything in between.
"Look over, that's Nam joon the food critic right?" Amara whispered to Mi na, eyes wide like she had finally met her saving star who could preach good word about her restaurant and maybe she could pay her rent. You wouldn't know then but she trembled while she spoke with him earlier, she's Nigerian, she just knew how to hide it.
"Omg yes, what's he doing here? He tweeted he was going to check out a French restaurant that just opened" Mi na said already reaching for her phone in her apron to steal pictures she was probably gonna print and paste in her room. It's a show in there.
Mi na goshed about how he'll tweet about wanting to come check out a restaurant and nobody knew when he'll show up.
Rumor had it that one time, a quiet noodle place in Busan nearly shut down, they were down on rent, and business was down. Nam joon showed unannounced and ordered the chef's special and posted;
"This is Warmth disguised as broth, you should totally check it out!"
The next day, the line wrapped around the block and they never stopped selling out.
"Doesn't matter right now Mi na, we have to make him taste our food, he said he'll give us a minute."
"For real?" Mi na exclaimed with wide eyes. "What did you say to him?"
"Shiiii, don't let him hear you. Let's serve him hot afang soup with goat meat not chicken...uhhh that's because the customers prefer goat meat in the afang soup most times" Amara said pointing to the food and walking over for some plates.
"We need the perfect plate" she muttered to her self.
She stood by the kitchen pass, her heart pounding like a talking drum. She took a deep breath, steadying herself as she carefully arranged the dish on the plate. The rich aroma of the hot afang and pounded yam filled the air and the sweetness of the party jollof rice and fried plantains on the other plate , creating a symphony of scents that spread across the room, giving the restaurant a heavenly scent immediately you walk through the old glass doors.
She's heard one or two times when her customers had mentioned on their tables in the middle of meals or sometimes complimented her that they loved how the restaurant smelled and it made her smile because she knew she gained a plus having the Nigerian spices imported too.
On her first week of starting the restaurant, she tried to cook it with the spices she got at the store.
She tried.
It didn't work, It was hard.
It didn't taste Nigerian. She needed it to taste Nigerian.
She now understood when her mom said "you can't fake Nigerian jollof rice, you have to use Nigerian rice"
With meticulous care, she wiped the edge of the plate, ensuring perfection. This wasn't just food; it was a piece of her homeland, a story told through spices and flavors. She wanted to preach the world about how great where she's coming from is, just by her food.
She wanted to be different.
As she approached the critic's table, her steps were light, but her resolve was firm. She placed the plate gently before him, her eyes shining with anticipation.
"I hope you enjoy this," she said, her voice warm and inviting. "It's a taste of Nigeria, from my heart to your plate."
The critic looked up, momentarily taken aback by the sincerity in her gaze and her voice. She sounded beautiful, and confident. Amara offered a bright, confident smile, one that spoke of dreams, hard work, and the courage to share a piece of herself with the world.
"Kamsamhamida" he slightly bowed and picked up a fork. She wasn't sure if she should stand there or walk back to her counter. She had her heart pounding, "I hope it isn't too spicy, I hope it's not salty, I hope..." she muttered to her self as she walked so slowly back
"Hey, you didn't tell me how to eat the other food" he said pointing to the swallow. She looked back abruptly "oh, I'm sorry" she walked back quickly to his table.
"So you fold the pounded yam like this.." Amara said showing with her empty palm how to perfectly make a ball "and then deep it into the soup and swallow, be sure to take a small ball you can swallow" she finished. She spoke so confidently you could hardly notice she was shaking.
She loved celebrities, anyone known by the public, she loved them. She wanted to be like them, she wanted to know what they did to become so famous, she always wondered. So she practically couldn't believe she was infront of one, a Korean celebrity.
The critic took a measurable bite and swallowed, his expression unreadable. For a heartbeat, the bustling sound of the restaurant seemed to fade into silence as she had a hand on her waist, it had become a habit. Then his eyes suddenly widened slightly and a subtle smile played at the corner of his lips.
"This is so good, wow, what did you put in this?" He said swallowing another ball of pounded yam covered in hot afang soup, his hands stained from the oil, but he didn't seem to care too much at this point. "What are these?"
Amara laughed slightly, he smiled. He held it up looking at it over again, maybe trying to wonder how it was cooked in its shells.
"It's periwinkle. You suck it, and throw the shell away"
"This has really bold flavours, and I love spicy." He said dipping another ball into the afang soup just before he lifted up a big chunk of goat meat.
Amara stood nearby, her hands clasped nervously but as the critic's praise reached her ears, a radiant smile spread across her face, her eyes shining with a mix of relief and pride.
She didn't know how she managed to convince the critic to eat her food when he didn't plan to. But he had eaten her food and he loved it. Nothing could make her happier now.
*
The small apartment Amara shared with Mi na was warm and filled with quiet charm. The living room has a blue and black striped colored sofa, Mi na had insisted they make it look 'homey'.
A small wooden coffee table sat in the center, usually covered by open books scattered here and there , half-finished mugs of coffee, or on some nights, bottles of Soju.
Framed posters of Lee min Ho and Lee jae Wook and few Polaroids of the two girls decorated the wall, each snapshot telling a story. Late night ramens runs, snowball falls and silly selfies with face masks on.
And yes, Mi na loves Lee Min Ho while Amara adores Lee jae Wook.
Their tiny kitchen was tucked in a corner, always having a sweet smell of cinnamon coming from the extract Amara used to make pancakes every morning. A few notes of Korean and English were pinned to the fridge, shopping lists, reminders and occasionally a silly doodle like "you're dead if you touch my muffin".
"Oh gosh why did Mi na make me have Soju last night? My head feels like it's gonna fall of." Amara sighed as she quickly picked up her jacket and scarf and ran out the door leaving a heap of clothes on her bed and a half-finished mug of coffee on the table just beside the door to her room .
"Oh shit forgot.." she scribbled something quickly on a note and tapped it on the fridge door for Mi na before she dashed through the door and ran down the stairs.
"Good luck on your exam my baby"
The streets of Seoul buzzed with life as Amara adjusted the "Open" sign on the door of Naija Soul, her cozy Nigerian restaurant nestled in a quiet alley. It was a typical day, or so she thought. Her eyes caught the ahjumma that passes by almost everyday walking by slowly, her steps unsteady and tired. She carried an old brown bag with no particular emotion on her face.
Amara quickly dropped the piece of cloth she used to wipe the glass door on the table close by, driven by compassion and the urge to always make people taste her food, she packed a plate of jollof rice on one side and fried rice on one side with some chicken, sprinkled parsley before she carefully closed the takeaway and tap a spoon to the double side tape on the plate.
Within minutes, she was outside carefully carrying the meal with both hands like a sacred item.
"Annyeonghaseyo ahjumma" she smiled brightly. "For your breakfast." She carefully placed the food in her hand and a bottle of water in the other hand, leaving the woman surprised. "Have a good day" she bowed before walking away.
"Yah (Hey)" the Ahjumma's voice sounded low, tight and strained.
Amara turned back abruptly with a smile, a smile that could change a dusk to noon.
"What is your name?" She smiled faintly.
"Amara, Amara Okonkwo"
"Deh, komasimida (okay thank you)" she said nodding with every word before she walked away slowly.
Jihoon Kang, found himself wandering the unfamiliar alleyways, his mind preoccupied with an upcoming merger meeting. "Cancel the meeting with Mr. Lee, im gonna be late a min" jihoon sighed as he dropped the call and a sudden downpour drove him off his usual path. He loosened his tie in frustration and blew raspberries.
"Ahhh shiii, there was no rain in the forecast earlier" he sighed again and looked around seeking shelter.
He ducked into the nearest open door, the rich aroma of spices greeting him instantly. The warmth of the place was a stark contrast to the cold rain outside.
"It smells so good in here" he muttered.
Amara looked up from behind the counter, surprised to see a well-dressed man dripping water onto her freshly mopped floor. He stepped into the restaurant like he owned the air around him, calm, deliberate. His grey suit clung to his tall lean frame with a kind of tailored arrogance. The crisp white shirt beneath was barely open at the collar, revealing a glimpse of smooth neck and just enough edge to suggest he wasn't all business.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and amusement.
Jihoon glanced around, realizing he was not in the upscale café he had intended to find. "I... I think I'm lost and I do not have a thing for...rain?" he admitted, a rare vulnerability in his voice.
She smiled, handing him a towel. "Well, since you're here, and you're my first customer, how about trying something new?"
He hesitated, then nodded. " uhm..Why not?"
"Well then come in and sit" she smiled as she walked back to the counter, reaching for her apron.
"Do you like jollof rice?"