The Brew That Brought Us Together
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When Selam boarded the plane from Addis Ababa to New York, she carried more than just two suitcases and a student visa. Tucked inside her heart was the aroma of home — the rich, earthy scent of freshly roasted **Ethiopian coffee**. It was her anchor, her ritual, her inheritance.
In the chaos of New York — a place where people moved like time owed them something — Selam often felt like a slow soul in a fast machine. Graduate school was intense. The subways were loud. And no one, absolutely no one, made coffee like back home.
Until that one rainy Tuesday.
She ducked into a small café in Brooklyn, the kind of place that looked too minimalist to serve anything good. The chalkboard menu had one line that caught her eye:
**"Single-Origin Ethiopian Pour Over – Yirgacheffe, floral, citrus, heritage in every cup."**
Skeptical but curious, Selam ordered it.
The barista, tall and lean with thick-rimmed glasses and a messy apron, raised an eyebrow.
“You know your beans?” he asked.
“I was raised by them,” she replied with a soft grin.
That was **Liam** — part-time poet, full-time caffeine enthusiast.
He served her the pour-over with a reverence she hadn’t seen since her grandmother’s *jebena* ceremonies in Addis.
They started talking. At first about the notes in the cup — lemon zest, bergamot, a whisper of jasmine — and then about the **story inside the beans**.
“You know,” Liam said, stirring his espresso, “Kenya is famous for coffee now, but it wasn’t even native there. The British took the beans from Ethiopia and planted them in Kenya — made it an export economy. Locals couldn’t even drink their own product.”
Selam’s eyes lit up. “Exactly! My grandfather told me that. He used to say, *‘They took the bean but not the meaning.’*”
They sat for hours, talking coffee, colonialism, identity, and diaspora. It was the most unexpected, yet deeply familiar, conversation she’d had since leaving home. And from that conversation, a new ritual began.
They met every week at the same café. Liam brought new beans; Selam brought stories.
Over time, the café became their haven. A place where love steeped slowly, like a good brew. Where heritage wasn’t just remembered — it was shared.
Selam introduced Liam to the **Bunna ceremony** — the slow roasting, the wafting of the smoke, the three rounds of cups: *abol*, *tona*, *bereka*.
He introduced her to a network of indie roasters reclaiming African beans and narratives — not just for export, but for expression.
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Now, years later, they walk the streets of Nairobi hand-in-hand.
Selam is back home in East Africa, Liam by her side, researching African coffee markets.
Nairobi is booming with modern cafés — sleek, stylish, and proudly African.
It’s no longer just about serving coffee to tourists — it's about reclaiming legacy.
Places like **Kush Bunna** are popping up all over the city — curated spaces where heritage, flavor, and resistance coexist in a single cup.
Selam sometimes smiles at the irony.
The beans may have traveled the world, changed hands and names, but they always seem to find their way back — just like love.
And it all started with a rainy day, a random cup, and someone who listened between sips.
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*Because sometimes, a single coffee can change everything.*