Lars expected anything except what followed at the truck's counter.

"Do you have a menu?" Lars lowered his eyes, searching for a board or poster with the list of drinks.

"We serve coffee. Do you want a dumpling with it?"

"Don't I get to choose the type?"

The woman gave him a side glance of annoyance, "do we look like Starbucks? What do you want a laai-t té, a moo-cha?" the woman said, feigning a posh English accent before adding, "she knows the grains you need."

"She?" Lars repeated and looked over the woman at the counter as she took up most of the space width-wise.

Another woman literally standing back to back with her made the coffee. Their buttocks bumped like bumper cars with one another every time they moved. The only notable difference between the two women was the waist size; the one behind was thin. Perhaps she was younger.

Not once did she turn to look at what went on at the front. She worked with her cap hiding her face. Lars understood why it took so long. The woman at the counter did the sandwiches while the other worked on the beans. She opened different bags and placed some grains in a coffee grinder while beating others in bamboo mortar. She then mixed them and proceeded to make the actual coffee.

The process was long, but it made the desire to taste the strange brew mount.

"Here, wait for it to cool," the woman at the counter advised when she posed his Salomie and coffee.

Lars paid and stepped aside. He began to walk until he found a free seat at a bus stop. The South African heat blew him away, the man roasted in his white tee. His hair lubricated with sweat looked dirty blonde. He sat and ate his Salomie; he was halfway through when he took a sip of the coffee.

He walked a least six minutes, and if he added the time it took him to eat, one could say the coffee was at least twelve minutes old, yet it burned.

Different aromas began to hit spots on his tongue as the drink flowed down. The blend was rich and thick. Each flavor mustered moments of the past year in the man's mind. Images of acts he regretted surfaced, and the one that almost had him shed a tear showed his older brother Ulrich holding him by his shirt's collar.

Lars took the lid of the coffee and discovered the black ink type brew. He examined the cup and noticed ghut-foll [gat vol] written on the side.

What did it mean?

He drank, gulp after gulp until he was at the bottom. The thirsty man even drank to the last drop, which included some unprocessed grains. He crunched them before swallowing.

Lars got up and ran back; what did she do to him?

When he arrived, the truck was closing.

"Hey, wait, what was in the coffee?"

"Excuse me?"

"The coffee," Lars yelled while trying to see behind the woman, but she was alone.

"Where's the girl who makes the coffee?"

"Oh, coffee will be here tomorrow. She'll work tomorrow," the woman shut the window trap to the truck, leaving Lars holding his empty cup. He was full, and the feeling was unexplainable. The anxiety that kept him on edge diminished. His thoughts were clear, and an appeasing sensation swept over his body like a wave.

"Hi there, eh, can you help me out with something?"

The hostel clerk frowned. Lars was one of those foreigners who didn't acknowledge people. He was polite and said hello, but one knew the man didn't care about his interlocutor unless he could provide him with something. Here, he needed the clerk; thus, Lars regulated his tone and displayed a friendly expression.

"Do you know what this means?" Lars asked the hostel's clerk while holding the side of the carton cup with gut foll written on it to the plexiglass.

The man chuckled, "it means filled to the brim, had enough. When you're mad, and you've had enough. When someone is angry and exhausted or someone who has had enough."

Lars was perplexed. Did the barista, if one could call her that, deduce his state of mind, or was it just an odd coincidence?

"Thank you," Lars replied and went up to the room.

Like Lars, Thulile opened the door to her matchbox home.

"Thulile."

"Yes, Femi."

"Did you get it?"

"Yes," Thulile handed the boy the bag.

"Thank you, Thulile," the boy hugged her waist.

Her brother needed a Ti Insipir CX II Texas graphic calculator. The one-hundred twenty euros calculator represented over two-thousand Zar for Thulile and almost a week's salary, yet the woman had to get it for her brother. If someone had to have a bright future, it was him. His teachers said he was a genius; he could be eligible for a scholarship. Thulile needed Femi to live well and without worry; only then would she be able to think of herself.

Head of the family since her mother's death, Thulile was her brother's tutor and her grandmother's safe keeper.

"Gran."

"Hmm," Thulile went and knelt in front of her gran. The old woman patted her on the shoulders, "you did well. Femi must be happy." The older woman gave up on telling Thulile better days would come. She did it for eight years until her grandaughter shook the walls with her screams.

"Better days, nothing will happen. I'm just another poor girl who will die in poverty like my mother and father. Stop going on about better days that will never come for me."

Frightened by Thulile's explosion, the older lady kept her encouragements within. Yet, If there was someone who knew how she suffered, it was her grandmother who saw Thulile give up school to hold their household while her older brother only appeared to steal money and any valuables he found when he visited.

"When is your next shift?"

"At seven."

"Rest."

Even if Thulile lied, her gran pretended all was in order.

Thulile opened the slit she made in her gran's wheelchair and inserted the change she had.

Kungawo was merciless, but he didn't touch his gran's belongings when he sought things to sell.

"Stop coming to the van. We don't need a mascot."

Not academically approved, but streetwise, Thulile managed to set up her first business. She gathered what she could put aside and repaired her father's food truck. Coffee wasn't enough to reel in customers even if hers was good. The whole family began to ask around for a cook. Unemployed, Palesa was more than happy to make the sandwiches and other snacks in a safe environment.

They split the benefits, but Thulile had the truck to maintain. Thus the gain was slim.

Thulile went to the bath; she began to take off her cap and wig. She rinsed her face, though wide awake; her hooded stare made her look sleepy. Her mono lids still ticked her off even though she possessed them since birth. She remembered how kids at school used to mock her by saying she looked dumb with her sleepy eyes.

"You have beautiful eyes."

Elije's words touched Thulile the teen and continued to flatter Thulile, the woman.

A way out, if only their love could do that. Elije's family was wealthy. They lived in the beautiful area in Sandhurst. A med student, Elije's future was secure, and he made a promise, "you're my woman, Thulile, I'll marry you."

The dream was a glamourous one, but her friends warned her.

"Thulile, have you met his friends?"

"Why doesn't he pick you up in front of your house?"

"He's afraid someone might steal his car, and I don't want Kungawo to know yet."

"Why doesn't he present you his parents?"

"They're always abroad."

"Have you ever been to his house?"

The question fused, and Thulile had an answer to everything, but she wasn't duped. She knew all was a mirage, but couldn't she allow herself to dream?

Thulile slid her hands on her flat twists, now crusty by the passing weeks. She had no strength to refresh them, then her mother came to mind, "poor or rich, a woman should always be groomed. Hair and nails make sure they always are proper."

The young woman sighed and redid the twists. Once done, she went to the living room, fell on the couch, and grabbed her phone, the only valuable object she had. It was also the first gift Elije gave her. The man hated not being able to call her when he desired. Of course, she paid her Afrihost bills.

Even though she hated doing it, she couldn't resist flicking through the Instagram photos of girls living the good life. Big houses, baddie pics, and BBLs, some had it all. She carried on scrolling pic after pic when her phone vibrated with a message from her friend Nandi:

Chidu someone filmed you.

Thulile clicked on the link and saw herself dancing at the club.

Fire emojis and hearts filled the comments section while the caption displayed #Foryou #FYP #GirlUnknown strikes again.

- The new Mphela Kamo 🔥🔥🔥

- Uncle Vinny, watch this.👍🏾👍🏾👍🏾👍🏾

The comments went on.

- Yebo, watch the feet!

On the screen, Thulile looked carefree and happy.

As usual, the alcohol fueled her footwork. If only they knew, she thought.

Of course, the person who made the video could not tag her. No one knew who she was, yet she already had a ready-made social pseudo, thanks to the people who filmed her.

Thulile Chidubem was one of the nobodies who populated the earth. And unlike other optimistic souls, she didn't see a bright future for herself if ever Elije let her down.

"We wish people happiness. We share our warmth through the beans, and this goodness will come back to us, Thulile. One day the joy you give will come back to you, tenfolds."

Chidubem, guided by God, the name alone struck. Her family had a gift; the coffee they made caused life changes. Strangely enough, the Chidubem had sad destinies. Nothing good ever happened to them. The baristas spent their life serving others without any gratification except thank-yous when and only if the person remembered their coffee contributed to their newly found bliss.

Thulile sighed; her father was an authentic fool.