The Bite That Almost Broke Me”

People admired me for my taste. I dressed well, smelled good, and always knew the latest food spots in town. If there was a new buka, a roadside joint, or a shiny new restaurant, I was there before the hype settled. I used to joke that my stomach was adventurous. What I didn’t know was that adventure sometimes comes with a price.

It started on a Friday evening in Ibadan. I had just closed from work, tired and hungry, and the thought of cooking made my head ache. On my way home, I noticed a small food stand I had never seen before. The aroma was tempting—peppery stew, fried meat, and freshly cooked rice. People were eating, laughing, licking their fingers. That was enough proof for me. If many people were eating, it had to be good, right?

I didn’t look closely. I didn’t notice the flies dancing on the meat or the oily tablecloth that had probably never met soap. I didn’t care that the woman serving food wiped her hands on her apron after collecting money. Hunger spoke louder than sense.

I ate with satisfaction. The food was spicy, hot, and cheap. I even took extra meat and told myself I had discovered a hidden gem.

That night, my stomach started whispering warnings. By midnight, it was screaming.

The pain came in waves, sharp and unforgiving. Sweat covered my body like rain. I ran to the toilet so many times I lost count. By morning, I was weak, dizzy, and dehydrated. My proud, stylish self was reduced to someone lying helplessly on the floor, begging for relief.

At the hospital, the doctor didn’t need long to diagnose me. Food poisoning.

“Where did you eat?” he asked casually.

I mentioned the roadside stand. He sighed, the kind of sigh that says, I’ve heard this story too many times.

“You people don’t learn,” he said gently. “Be careful where you eat.”

Those words stayed with me longer than the pain.

While I lay on the hospital bed, I met others who were victims of the same mistake. A young man who ate shawarma from an unclean vendor. A schoolgirl who drank contaminated zobo. A trader who ignored the smell of spoiled soup because she didn’t want to waste money. Different stories, same regret.

As I recovered, my mind replayed how careless I had been. I realized something important: cleanliness is not always loud. A place can look busy and still be dangerous. Food can smell good and still be deadly. Hunger can make you blind, but consequences will always open your eyes.

After I was discharged, I passed by that same food stand again. This time, I looked closely. The dirty plates stacked behind the stall. The uncovered pot of stew. The flies. I wondered how many others would suffer like I did, all because they trusted their hunger more than their health.

I changed after that day. I became picky, not proud. I started asking questions. I observed before eating. Sometimes, I chose to go home hungry rather than eat food that could send me back to the hospital. People laughed at me.

“You worry too much,” they said.

I smiled and remembered the pain, the drip in my hand, and the doctor’s tired eyes.

Now, whenever someone complains about hunger and points to a questionable food spot, I tell them my story. Not to scare them, but to warn them. Because one careless meal can steal your strength, your money, and even your life.

Food is meant to nourish you, not punish you.

So eat well. Eat smart.

And above all be careful where you eat.