Instant Coffee

5 min read - A step-by-step guide to remembering

Auto Gem was a swanky spot my family ran in the heart of one of Nairobi’s busiest neighbourhoods, oozing petrolhead-chic (if that’s even a thing). You could drop your car for service, cross the road to the mall and get some shopping done, or sit down and have a chat and a coffee with papa or his brother. If you were tempted enough, I imagined, you could drive away in a brand new car too.

I walked around a grey fibreglass table, its circular top and black metal legs blending in perfectly with the rest of the showroom. My eyes were on the instant coffee set up, the fanciest thing an auto-garage could offer in 2002. I had seen grown-ups make this drink countless times but doing it myself felt daunting. Papa and his brother were busy with a customer, so this was my moment. Another way to feel a bit grown up. Staring at the Windows maze screensaver in the back office and doodling on papers with the company letterhead was missing something, and I was determined to fix it. I took it step-by-step, holding my breath so no one caught me.

Step 1: Choose your mug

• I instinctively went for the brightest – a red squarish one that came free with the jar of instant coffee. Not the most practical to drink out of with its shape and chipped rim, but 8-year-old me didn’t really care. She had no idea twenty years into the future I would warp into a version of my grandmother, deliberating over which carefully selected cups, mugs, and glasses were most suited to which drinks.

Step 2: Add your coffee

• I opened the jar of coffee, the gold foil at the top had been pierced into hastily. I tried to heap a teaspoon, but my hands weren’t big enough to tilt the jar to the perfect angle. The shards of foil at the top rudely rejected most of the granules on the spoon.

Step 3: Time for sugar & creamer

• I looked at the sachets of sweetener, reserved for the occasional customer who requested it. I knew I was supposed to opt for the boring white sachet of normal sugar, but I couldn’t resist the beckoning call of the unknown. The sachet’s slender red frame with hints of white reminded me of candy canes and Twizzlers at the overpriced sweet shop that I was never allowed to buy. I would ogle at them every time, imagining a strawberry sweetness from the Twizzlers and a ride to the North Pole with the candy canes. Fantasies so far removed from this sunny spot in Nairobi. The sachet of creamer was more challenging to rip apart, and its ragged edges and plastic wrapper noisily announced my actions.

Step 4: Give papa your best smile

• I saw his reflection from the huge glass windows approaching me. The hems of his grey trousers brushed against his black leather shoes, camouflaging into the showroom like the table he designed in the workshop. The tube light above me started flickering in anticipation of what was going to happen. His eyes betrayed him, a smile crept up into their sun-kissed corners. I want coffee, I told him confidently, bolstered by the gentle look he gave me. He took the mug from my hand, filled it up with hot water from the dispenser, and stirred it. I craned my neck and stared into the mug, mesmerised as foam and bubbles rose to the top. He made me sit down; afraid I would spill the coffee on myself.

Step 5: Wait for it to cool down

• This was not a step I was familiar with, but one that papa informed me of as he set the mug down in front of me. What if the bubbles disappear? My focus remained on the whiteish-caramel milky way that was forming in the mug as he assured me that they would not. The first sip I took stunned me – a hint of bitterness, a film formed on my tongue courtesy of the creamer, bubbles lined my upper lip and burst onto the tip of my nose. Papa looked at me with a smile, asking what I thought of it. I nodded enthusiastically, masking my shock at the bitterness, working my way gradually down the watery drink. It was so different to the rich milky chai studded with cardamom and fennel that I would be drinking at home.

Step 6: Congrats, you’re a grown up!

• I asked him for a spoon to grab the layer of bubbles that clung to the bottom of the mug. Finishing the coffee assured me that I was grown-up enough to accompany him to work every morning. I thought about telling my friends, boasting to them that I spent the holiday going to my dad’s workshop, sipping coffee, filing papers, and using the computer (which even had internet).

It became a secret ritual for both of us. Sometimes he’d surprise me with flaky chicken pies, chocolate croissants, or nutty brownies. He let me stack shelves with bottles of wax cleaners, sponges, chrome sprays. Occasionally I’d answer the phone, or help him send a fax. I inhaled the dust and rawness of tyre size codes being shouted from the workshop, fiddled secretly with neon nuggets of spark plugs. Good Year, Hella, Pirelli clogged my dreams, a strange place for a girl to be.

A year later papa was gone and that world started drifting away from me. After that, growing up wasn’t pretend anymore.

Today, I looked into the office cupboard and saw a tin of instant coffee, a far cry from the medium ground blends from Kenya’s hilly farms that I had begun to covet as an adult. I popped it open, the granules looked identical to those from 23 years ago. A red mug caught my eye, and nostalgia got the better of me. There was no creamer, and I didn’t need sugar. A light above my head flickered slightly, and I remembered papa’s gait and gaze. If he could see me, would he only see the 8-year-old pretending to be a grown up? I sipped the coffee, still bitter, still watery. No bubbles to catch my fancy. Memories wafted in the air, smelling like burgers on Friday for lunch, leather seats in new cars, and exhaust fumes from petrol guzzlers.

I was 8-years-old again. The sun was brighter, the colours more vivid. Through a mug of instant coffee, papa found his way back to me.