Coffee : Stories & Poems

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Coffee The Dark Matter
Day after daylight,

Every waking morning,

As the sun breaks out,

To greet and meet,

The everyday, the waking moment,

The question that is,

Oh coffee!!!! dearest coffee!!!!

To drink or not,

The question that is,

But more than just a beverage,

It's a story of fair trade,

Of farmers who work hard,

To grow the beans that we crave.

From Ethiopia to Colombia,

To Indonesia and beyond,

The origins of coffee,

Are rooted in the land.

But the history of coffee,

Is not always bright and fair,

Colonialism and exploitation,

Are stories that we must bear.

Fair trade coffee,

Is a way to make things right,

To support small farmers,

And to give them a fair fight.

With every sip we take,

We can make a change,

To support a better future,

And a fairer coffee exchange.

So let's raise our cups high,

To the farmers who make it all,

To the fair trade movement,

And to a better world for all.

 The Waitress

Smiling is her second nature. Her perfect white teeth radiate their
shimmers every time her balmy lips separate. With her smiles, her eyes
sparkle; reflecting light off the translucent layer of mist that is
between them and the eyelids. Even more, with the increased intensity
of her smiles, her almond-shaped eyes stretch further to the sides
forming creases at the edges and transmitting the wonderful mood that
she carries into whoever is around. Added to her flawless face and
impeccable eyes, the confidence that she carries around, commands a
power
to disarm and render powerless anyone with the good fortune of having
a very short conversation with her.

She is a waitress. And, in fact, smiling is on her job description. But she
does it so casually that none of her patrons think it’s her duty. Many, indeed,
have tried to see past her mesmerizing smile and shimmering eyes;
trying to explore what is hidden inside.To their collective dismay,
however, none seem to have succeeded.

As she moves so gracefully, whiffs of the sweet smelling perfumes she
regularly wears diffuse into her surroundings. Just as smoking
incense, they fly past her and into the tables in her vicinity;
swiftly overcoming the smells of berbere, shinkoort and the various
condiments that are almost ubiquitous in all of the abesha cuisines
served there. The diners, with their nasal senses and imaginations
firmly held captive, bask in the flowery scents hurriedly before they
further diffuse away and the smell of berbere returns.

But she maintains a faint distance from her patrons; a distance of
part shyness and part respect. This distance she keeps render those
whose eyes aimlessly wander in her presence, befuddled with what lies inside
the golden pearl that she appears to be. Most are aware of this
invisible shield she so subtly carries around. Therefore, refrain from
plunging into banal banters that they are very much used to with other
waitresses in the surrounding restaurants. Yet some are keen to remark
that the abundant smiles that she so generously delivers are not
sincere.

The place she works at serves as a restaurant in the hours before 11pm
and a lounge/club in the hours that follow. Narrow and long, it can
hold up to a maximum of one hundred people. As one gets past the
entrance and trudges into the rear, one can’t help but notice the
brightness that creeps into the place through the large
window pane that is beside the entrance recede and a semi-dark
atmosphere take over. This growth in dimness provides the place with a
cozy ambiance that allows self-conscious
patrons become themselves; providing them with the sense that, in the
dark, no one cares to watch.

The bar is long with a few high stool chairs strewn about the counter.
Behind the counter, several brands of liquor and wine bottles are
perched. The bottles are held on contemporary looking rectangular
glass racks that are fixed to the red brick wall. The wall, with the
imperfect surfaces of the bricks and protruding dry cement, provides
the place with a certain type of character that renders it unique in
appearance when compared to other Abesha restaurants in the city.

On the four corners of the brick wall, soft blue light bulbs are fixed
with their pointy ends deliberately focused on the racks carrying the
bottles. When switched on, the soft blue rays of light emanating from
the bulbs hit the exotically molded colorful bottles and bounce off in
different directions and into the eyes of those perched on the high
stool chairs by the counter.

What seem out of place in the bar are the Christmas lights. They are
placed high on the ceiling and extend from one end of the bar to the
other. No doubt, those lights were installed there as decors for a
Christmas somewhere in the past. The humorous part regarding the
lights is however, hearing the reactions of the non-abesha customers upon them
seeing the lights for the first time in a random month of the year that
is neither December nor January. The lights somewhat suggest to the
non-abeshas, the idea that Abeshas celebrate Christmas all year round.

The lounge fills up every Saturday night at 12am. Abeshas, male and
female, of ages between twenty and fifty descend there from all parts
of town. With the receding hours of the night, the music emerging out
of the powerful speakers blares even more loudly. The patrons as well
get heated with every passing minute drinking in hurry as if to match
the pace of the music. More and more of them start getting that
feeling that is in the gray area between sobriety and fully drunk.
They then get off their chairs and start moving their shoulders;
dancing in traditional Ethiopian styles. Others stay standing at fixed
spots, occasionally gulping the liquids contained in the bottles and
glasses that they hold so tightly and watching the coordinated and at
times unruly movements of the dancing patrons on the floor. And a few,
appearing oblivious to the surrounding scene, chatter to amongst each
other, often, appearing frustrated at the knowledge that their voices
get drowned out by the booming speakers.

The Saturday night crowd is roughly a collection of three sets of
people. The majority of the crowd consists of those between the ages
of twenty five and forty. These men and women come to the lounge with
the half-hearted intentions of having good times with friends and the
grandiose hope that it could be the night where they would get lucky
and score their imagined future husbands or wives.
This age group, especially the sub group that is over the age of
thirty is mostly pressured by family and friends, subtly or otherwise,
to find someone soon and settle down. But some of them doubt the
possibility of finding good lifelong mates at such a place. Seriously
thinking about it though, they come to the uncomfortable conclusion
that this is the only place in this town where their chances of
meeting other abeshas of similar characteristics are high.

The other two groups are those under twenty five and the middle-aged
ones, above the age of forty. The youngsters are mostly identified in
the ways they dress and act. The male ones especially, with their long
dreads, overgrown Mohawks or braided hairs, are usually the first ones
to get tipsy and invade the dancing floor. Most of them wear long dark
T-Shirts with large prints of either Bob Marley’s or Haileselassie’s
pictures. Hats of different brands are usual fixtures on their heads,
with the popular brand NY outnumbering the others. When not dancing,
these youths start
skipping from table to table asking females of their age group for
numbers and dates. Loosely holding on to their beer bottles with one
hand and their sagging pants with the other, they seem carefree and
joyous, not minding the sometimes annoyed looks that can visibly be
read on some of the older faces. The females, dressed impeccably and with
different styles of hair-dos that they usually get done early Saturday mornings,
form huddles and dance together hoping the prowling hippy males would
not break in.

The third group consists of the older ones. Most of the people in this
group have gone through different life experiences and seem to be very
much nostalgic of anything back home. They come to the lounge to
listen and dance to abesha music as well as mingle with people of
their age group. If not all, most of them are also quite experienced
with alcoholic beverages of higher concentrations. They are often seen
gulping hard liquors with alcoholic contents of forty percent and
beyond. Some of these are married. The married ones are not regulars;
but on the nights they come, they come with other married friends so
they can keep an eye on each other. For anyone with a keen sense of
observation, it is possible to  read from their faces the  excitements
and reliefs they feel for being able to get out of the house and
experience something not as mundane us staying at home and watching
the kids sleep. Yet, most in this group consist of the never married
and divorced ones. These too wish they could find their mates and
start families soon; subconsciously harboring the belief that “it is
never too late”.

Almost on every Saturday night, the area around the bar becomes full
of commotion. For anyone who knows the love affair between diaspora
Abeshas and alcohol, the chaos and disorder are testaments to the fact
that drinks play a central role when abeshas are gathered together
either for celebrations or parties and concerts. Usually, about an
hour before last call, layers upon layers of people stand by the
counter waiting their turns to order drinks. Some of them, belonging
to the second or third layers, go as far as sticking out their hands
over the first layer of people that are closest to the counter. The
people of the first layer protest in anger when those behind them
stretch their arms over them and unintentionally push them forward
against the counter. In fact, many of the fist fights start that way and
the fun atmosphere turns into a wild chaos. Regardless, with their
hands stuck out, they holler her name, hoping to catch her attention
so that she could grace them with the drinks they desperately want.
Impervious to the pressure, she busies herself at the bar; trying to
meet the demands of these grownups, acting like babies, crying and
trying to reach out to their milk bottles. She hands the stuck out
hands beer bottles and the already half-drunk customers sitting by the
counter, glasses
of half-filled with liquors, while, all at the same time, keeping tabs
and charging
bills.

One thing, however, seems to dissipate from the place as the clock
hits midnight. Her wide smile and gentle demeanor snick out of the
crowded lounge and in turn she puts on a façade that is highly
focused, business meaning and stern. Her face would resemble that of
Asnaqech Worqu’s, who, in her youth had a fierce looking beautiful
face that widely complimented her various lyrically and melodically
impeccable melancholic songs which she played with the aid of  her
Kirar. This instant morphing on the girl’s face can be baffling to
anyone who would happen to be watching her with intent at that turn of
the hour. Her entire movements become paced. She darts from table to
table with her eyes prowling around to see new orders. In the midst of
the loud music and jumping crowd, she takes multiple orders of
different drinks from individuals to groups of up to eight or nine
patrons. Many of them then wonder how her memory fails to fail her
when she puts on their tables exactly what they ordered and charges
them without error for exactly what they drunk and ate.

Most of the men admire her; not only for her beauty but also for the
way she carries herself and her self-assured ways. In fact, quite a
few of them have asked her for dates. But all their attempts were met
with polite declines from her side. But the narrative becomes
different concerning the female customers. Most, if not all, of the
female patrons tend to display their blatant and at times slight
disdains in the ways they interact with her. She has become accustomed
to the ways they stare her down when she walks by, look at her with
pitiful facial expressions that suggest they have better lives than
her as they give her orders for meals and drinks, and the snide
remarks they utter in supposedly hushed voices that her ears
occasionally catch. But none of it does seem to surprise or affect her
internally. The thick skin that she has grown overtime because of
life’s several ups and downs continue to serve her as a shield from
these invisible arrows with venom laced tips.

Life has taught her well enough not to leave her self-esteem at the
mercy of others’ praises and let downs. It has molded her inside to be
insensitive to praise and scorn alike. Reacting to praise emotionally,
she learned, would make her equally vulnerable when faced with the
opposite. Thus, she began taking peoples ‘praises with enough grains
of salt so that no human being could be able to define how she feels.
Indeed, she has come to the understanding that there are consequential
and inconsequential people. And now, she only cares about the people
that matter to her in her life; with the popular adage “those who
matter don’t mind and those who mind don’t matter” deeply imbedded in
her enigmatic mind. 

‎Life, 

the voyage,

The trip, the ride

The many stops, the hills and the mounds

The passengers that come and go

The passerby 

that looked on,

and upon

The trip, the destiny of hope

With the five senses, 

the 5 gates of all,

of to all,

To knowing, to feeling to fearing and to many and most

All the questions, 

what and why 

and the living and the dead 

as to how and when

The many and the most

The questions of being? Beings?

Define the mystery !

Describe the monster‎!

The endless, 

the ride to nowhere

And everywhere

The illusion of destiny

The beauty that's

the definition of‎ madness 

Doing it all

Again and all over

The undefined 

The uncharted 

Every ride, every trip

is and was

Unique, different, a mound, a hill 

A trip, 

a never ending

A‎ wild miracle

A life of its own

Raindrops

Unique, alone, 

Across the living sky

Under the dark clouds

Coming down

Thundering with might

One after the other touching my skin

My hair, my face, the shoulders, the arms and the rest of me,

Telling me stories in my ears

The messages of the angels

The might of the ‎Maker

Wake up, don't shudder

The lonely drop, the droplet of the ‎river

The one that touched my face

Whispered the secrets of the sky

Let me feel the angry, the cold, the lonely flight

The little round, the little fat, the little droplet,

Among the many that make the family

How it hurts to be alone, to be the little one

As it rolls down my face,

My tears, my river of sorrow stretched their arm

To rescue the droplet from the abyss

The dust, the rock, the desperate 

As it was alone and little, my tears, my river of guilt, my river of droplets tagged along to the abyss

Tagged along to the rain that's to be

Four tall and mighty

Two soft

Two angry

They met and had a meeting 

They talked 

One was loud and funny

The other dour always angry

And then there was the artist

The painter

Who gets high from the color 

The colour ‎of confusion

The fusion

The endless illusion 

Open to interpretation

Calming all for the angry

For what's to come in dourness

Duress, cold hearted sadness

And then there was Mr gentleness 

Epitome of calmness 

Mr cool, always the broker 

From the dour the beast

To ‎the crazy, happy

Who teases, with sweat and equity

Always shining, 

In your face, face-to-face 

Burn you, scald you joker

Who perhaps needs to see a doctor 

For its pleasure as a baker

A baker a frier

Not to confused wit ‎a friar

All had a meeting to see their mother 

Who  ‎had a stroke 

Who lost her voice,

Bedridden 

Barely alive

A slight smile, a slight sadness 

Dismay

Her children before her

No more rumblings 

No more teasing 

The loud is now quite 

Out of wit

The dour,

Sour

Looks down in shame

Embarrassed for all

His other brothers 

There is no painting

No more illusions 

Only illustrations 

Illustrations of sadness

The broker lost in silence

No more to calm

To collect be collected

A peace broker

No more

Looking at his mother

Who smiled back

Coughed and looked 

Looking around 

One more time 

One last time 

At her children 

The four children

Who took turn

To play and be with her

Always who came back home

Home to visit

No matter‎ the weather

Funny the weather

They were the weather

Who are no more

The family no more

Because

Just because

They wither 

And withered 

The mother they loved

They took her

Took her for granted 

Just because 

She was 

A mother 

A kind mother

Earth the mother!

Prayer

The lonely man

The silent noise

The darkness, the lost silence

Some mumbling some conference

Seeking and searching

Lost in space,

So much spam

The traffic jam, going in circles

Crop circles, undefined circles

All round, All square

Rumbling, rambling

In unison and in confusion

My pain, my pain, oOoOhhh my PAIN

The painted PAIN!

All Spam, all in pain

Some look, some knock, some dig, some scream

In agony, in ecstasy, in Pain and glory

All for ONE, all to ONE‎, all from ONE

Too much, too soon, too little, too late

Not enough, short, long, all confusion

Preying to pray 

To praise, to plea, plead and please

Again and again and every AGAIN to gain 

A little and some MORE a lot MORE

The court of the senders, 

The claims adjusters

The jurors and the clerks, the filers‎, 

The bookkeepers, 

The many observers, 

All inside the man of prayers

Keeping tab,

Taking notes, endless rambling notes

Bent over, forward, backwards, sideways 

Curled like the first time

Fetus style 

Lost in space

Praying and seeking and asking and wanting

And favors, from one end to infinity 

ALL in the lonely moment

In that true moment 

The moment of silence 

In space 

With a traffic jam

With so much spam 

Bent over, looking up

Looking for an answer

From the banal to the special

Some lost in space 

Some lost in translation 

Broken telephone 

Wrong address 

Left message, hang up n' redial, ‎call again

Leave a message

Closed for business

On holidays

Change of address

Will get back to you

Maybe, perhaps, one day, some other day

All waiting

In the traffic jam

Looking up

In the highway to nowhere 

Everywhere 

All looking up

In the highway to everywhere 

Prey, and pray and plead 

For love, glory, life

And Yen, and then some more

To be and be and be

Always for more, with some here, there and everywhere 

For everything 

The little thing

And then some with meaning

Wi‎th pain, real and painted pain

Non-stop all around

To be heard and herd

To cross the bridge

The bridge of sorrow.