I’ve never been much of a coffee drinker. It’s honestly not the taste that makes me order a chocolate drink 9 times out of 10. I do enjoy the occasional latte or cappuccino and some rare kopi ‘o’, but the shot of adrenaline keeps me jittery for the rest of the day and the night is always followed by a clear, “I shouldn’t have drank coffee today.”
Granted, I have a sweet tooth and the kinds of coffee I prefer can hardly be considered coffee, the bitter taste masked by creamer and caramel, but some days I crave my kopi ‘o’. I didn’t acquire the taste for it myself. I got it from my grandfather. Atuk.
Atuk was a quiet old man who frequented the mosque with his raggedy motorcycle. We could always hear him whenever he came home, the poor engine struggling to climb up the steep hill the house stood on, and the adults would scramble to get the children gathered for dinner with him between maghrib and isya’. I still can’t figure out the reason, but sometimes I found myself sitting next to him. We weren’t really close. But then again, he was a naturally quiet person and so am I.
My mother would sit on the other side of me, scooping up rice for everyone and pouring drinks. Usually, there were two options; coffee for the adults and something sugary for the kids. And despite my sweet tooth, I chose the former. It was, perhaps, another way I subconsciously separated myself from my younger cousins. Being the oldest granddaughter with an ego and all.
So kopi ‘o’ was our silent way of being a family. I handed him his coffee then I took mine. I handed him his plate of rice then I took mine. Whenever I finished eating, he would say, “Eat more!” like the Asian that we are. And like the Asian that we are, living in separate states 8 hours away, we only met during Eid every two years.
Like the Asian that my mother is, she didn’t pick me up from my boarding school when he passed away. She didn’t tell me she was already there until I asked about the kids’ voices in the background. I knew he was sick, my mother told me that part, and we made plans to visit during the break. But we didn’t get to that point. All I got was a one-day-too-late phone call.
It’s been almost six years since I handed him hot kopi ‘o’ poured into a styrofoam cup. But whenever I feel like the caffeine rush is worth it, I take out a sachet from the kitchen cupboard, make myself a cup and reminisce on the times I sat next to him.
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