Coffee cupping for the first time

Coffee cupping for the first time

Jul 22, 2021

Photo credit: David Ishaya Osu, Canterbury

Hi friends,

Here's my first post on this platform, and I want it to be a quickie with coffee. It is a poem. But before the poem, let me mention that I am not a coffee person. I could go for a sip or two, a date or two, but that's that about my relationship with coffee. However, I do have one memory of coffee that has lasted forever with me.

I was on a walk in Minna, Nigeria, and I ran into a guy selling used books. I bent down to make my selection. So many books, so cheap - I saw them as gifts. Something caught my eyes: The English Patient.

I wondered: who is this English patient? I picked the book, ran my fingers through, brought it close to my nose. Something about the book. Something about the smell of a book. Something about the smell of a book with wrinkles. Something about it felt like a body of love. Something about it felt like a book that's gone through intense fondness. A book that's been touched by many seeking hands; a book that's touched many seeking minds. I ran my mind on random lines and metaphors. I am buying this.

The English Patient smelt of coffee; of something ancient, desirous of new belonging, of ongoingness. I sank my face into the book. I sniffed. I nodded. I asked the guy for my bill. And this was how I became a fan of Michael Ondaatje. Hana has since remained one of my favourite characters ever. I enjoyed reading Hana so much that I kept introducing her to my friends. I went on to buy Ondaatje's other books. Funny thing is, right now, I have no idea where that copy is. I remember giving it to someone, but I don't remember who the person. I suppose the book has found a new owner, a new lover - a new belonging.

I like to think this is what smell does to us, be they sweet or foul - smell as a means of transport.

I shall be writing about smells, about coffee, about transports of being. As the days go by. For now, below is a poem titled 'Sight'. I wrote this poem in a chill evening in London Waterloo East train station.

Enjoy, share. I would love your support as well.

Sight

my body goes on                     without me—a train

a fatherless train, coffee         before the city

—it is still dark                       in the day, nothing

disappears: on your way         to a lover’s

remember                                the first thing that came

   to your eyes

it is not too late                       for the moon                                                                          

to shine, there’s a train           coming

at nine: i can go in                  and out

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