The Coffee Ceremony

Mama Tigist performs the coffee ceremony.

She's Ethiopian—one of the diaspora who settled in Dar es Salaam decades ago, bringing their traditions with them. The ceremony is sacred: roasting the beans, boiling the water, serving three cups that must be drunk in order.

I'm invited to her home for business.

I leave for different reasons entirely.

"You're the buyer," she says, opening her door. "For the coffee exports."

"Yes, Mama Tigist. My company is interested in Ethiopian coffee."

"Then you must experience it first." She ushers me in. "Not from a cup in some office. From a proper ceremony."

She's fifty-nine, heavy in her traditional dress—two-sixty of Ethiopian authority, with the bearing of a queen. Her house smells of incense and roasting beans.

"Sit," she commands. "This will take hours."

The first cup is called abol.

She roasts the beans over charcoal, the smell filling the room. Then grinds them, boils them, pours the first round into small cups without handles.

"This cup is for strangers," she explains. "The first meeting. The breaking of ice."

The coffee is strong, bitter, nothing like what I drink at home. She watches me taste it.

"You drink too fast. This isn't Dar coffee. This requires patience."

"Teach me."

"That's what I'm doing."

The second cup is tona.

Made from the same grounds, reboiled, slightly weaker. She sits closer now—the stranger becoming familiar.

"This cup is for friends," she says. "For those who stay after the first round."

"Why would anyone leave?"

"Many do. They're not serious about coffee. Not serious about..." She pauses. "Understanding."

"I want to understand."

"Do you?" Her eyes meet mine. "The third cup requires commitment. Not everyone is ready."

"What does the third cup require?"

"We'll see when we get there."

Hours pass.

We talk about coffee, about Ethiopia, about her life in Dar es Salaam. Her husband died ten years ago. Her children are grown, scattered across Africa. She's alone with her traditions.

"The ceremony was for guests," she says. "But I have no guests anymore. No one to share with."

"You're sharing with me."

"Because you're buying coffee. Business." She stands to prepare the third round. "The third cup is not for business."

"What is it for?"

She begins boiling the water.

"For intimacy."

The third cup is baraka.

Blessing. The grounds reboiled a final time, the weakest cup, but the most meaningful.

"This cup is for those who've truly connected," she says. "It's drunk in silence. In closeness."

She sits beside me—not across, beside. Her thigh presses against mine.

"Drink."

I drink. The coffee is gentle now, almost sweet from the multiple brewings. She drinks too, her eyes never leaving mine.

"In Ethiopia," she says softly, "the ceremony sometimes ends differently. Between certain people."

"How does it end?"

"With the blessing made real." She sets down her cup. "With bodies instead of words."

She unwraps her traditional dress.

The white cotton falls away, revealing the body beneath—heavy and dark, marked by decades of ceremony and solitude. She's magnificent.

"The third cup blesses the drinker," she murmurs. "But the truest blessing requires touch."

"Mama Tigist—"

"Tigist. Just Tigist." She takes my hand, places it on her breast. "This is how the ceremony ends. With sharing. Real sharing."

I share everything.

Her body on the cushions where we drank coffee. My mouth on her breasts, her belly, the wetness between her thick thighs. She tastes like coffee and incense and ancient tradition.

"There," she gasps. "The blessing. The baraka."

When I enter her, she calls out in Amharic—words I don't understand but feel in my bones.

"The ceremony is complete," she whispers afterward. "You've truly experienced Ethiopian coffee."

I buy her coffee.

Every month, I return to renegotiate. Every month, she performs the ceremony. Three cups, three stages, the third cup always ending the same way.

"You could buy from anyone," she says one night. "Why do you keep coming back?"

"The ceremony."

"There are other ceremony performers."

"Not like you." I pull her close. "Not with this kind of baraka."

She laughs. "You've learned the word."

"I've learned more than that."

Bunna.

Coffee.

Three cups.

Each one deeper.

Each one more intimate.

Until the ceremony is complete.

And begins again.