16/01/2026
"They said her stew had 'spirit,' that once you taste it, you must come back. I thought it was just good cooking until I saw what Mama Ngozi was putting inside that big black pot at exactly 3:15 AM, while the rest of Lagos was sleeping." 🍛🤫
If you live anywhere near that busy junction in Obalende, you know Mama Ngozi’s spot. By 12 noon, the queue for her rice and stew is already blocking the road. Bankers, mechanics, students—everybody lines up, sweating, just to get one plate. People fight over her food. I’ve seen grown men crying because the moin-moin finished before it reached their turn.
They always said the same thing: "Her hand is sweet too much. It's like jazz." We all laughed. We thought it was just very good seasoning.
I work night shifts as a security guard at the bank opposite her shop. One Tuesday morning, around 3:00 AM, I stepped out to stretch my legs. The street was dead silent, except for a faint light coming from Mama Ngozi’s closed shop.
Curiosity got the better of me. I tiptoed closer and peeked through a small gap in the zinc wall.
Mama Ngozi was there, but she wasn't cooking. The big black pot she uses for stew was in the middle of the floor, sitting on a cold burner. The shop was freezing, even though there was no AC.
She was completely naked, her body covered in white chalk powder. She was walking in circles around the cold pot, holding a small, weird-looking doll made of black rags.
She wasn't singing; she was whispering rapidly into the pot. It sounded like a list of names. Then, she bit the finger of the doll, and a single drop of something dark fell into the empty pot. The moment it hit the metal, the pot hissed loudly, as if it were boiling on high heat, and a thick, sweet-smelling steam rose up and filled the room.
That was the smell. That same smell that makes people queue under the sun for hours.
I gasped. It was too loud. Mama Ngozi stopped moving. Her head snapped toward the gap in the wall where I was hiding. Her eyes were completely white in the darkness.
I ran. I ran back to my post and locked the gate.
The next afternoon, the queue was longer than ever. Mama Ngozi was there, smiling her usual warm smile, serving the food. When it got to my turn, she looked me dead in the eyes as she handed me my plate.
"Oga Security," she said, her voice sickeningly sweet. "Eat well o. You need strength for those long nights."
I threw the food away when I got home. But the scariest part? As I smelled the stew in the trash can, my mouth started watering. I wanted to eat it.
Every popular business has rumors. Do you believe people still use "extra help" (Juju/Jazz) to succeed in business today, or is it just jealousy from competitors?
Be honest. Let’s talk in the comments. 👇🏾
