|Imran Adebayo Ibrahim|

Today was the day. The day I was determined to conquer the art of brewing the perfect cup of coffee and become a barista against my own will.

I found myself facing the formidable espresso machine. With eager anticipation, I began grinding the beans just as I had been trained to, the sound filling the air with promise. But as I tried to figure out how to use the machine, it felt like learning to do the Texas Line Dance with all its buttons and dials, it seemed as though each shot of espresso I pulled was a disaster.

The bitter taste of failure lingered with each sip, and frustration threatened to overwhelm me. Yet, with each mistake, I learned nothing new. I kept making the same mistake, over and over again. Nothing was as worst as the grunting sound I kept getting from my superior — who also seemed to be the manager. He expected me to master the four art of blending a perfect cuppa' coffee like a freaking Avatar. Even Aang wasn't the perfect Avatar, his bending skill was as bad as my blending skill — we both sucked, but at least I didn't disappear when I was needed the most.

"Damn it, Cabron! What the hell do you think you're doing?" he exclaimed, yanking the recyclable cup from my hand and crushing it in frustration before hurling it into the trash. "That's where you and your crappy coffee belong, in the damn trash."

Being forced to work as a coffee runner was irritating enough, but having to endure complaints about my blending skills from someone my own age was infuriating. As if he hadn't done worse when he first started. "Seriously, you—" I began, but he cut me off with a raised finger.

"Your first customers are here," he announced, nodding toward the entrance, his smirk was palpable.

Frowning, I turned to the customers with an absolute fake smile, I was ready to be possessed by the heavenly spirit of an Extrovert. Unfortunately for me, they were three kids, and not just any kids, they were Midtown High's kids. Two of them were baseball jocks, while the third was a spiteful cheerleader, judging by her make-up. She definitely has won prom queen on many occasions.

"Yo man!" One of the jocks began.

I sighed, "welcome to Starbucks," I said, adjusting the Starbucks hat on my head. I've never felt so fake in my life.

"What's up, bro? Just give me three Blonde Roasts with oat milk, not milk-milk," the jock ordered with a dismissive wave of his hand.

In all my life, I'd heard Jocks are dumb and the one right in front of me affirmed it. His confidence after he said that made me break a smile, regaining my unusual robotic smile shortly.

"Sure thing," I replied, forcing a frown as I prepared to fulfil his request, silently rolling my eyes at his stupid confidence and ego, like he didn't just call cow diary; milk-milk.

Fortunately, Blonde Roast was the easiest one, it would be easy to brew. I proceeded to the coffee machine, as the three of them continued conversing about ball, insta and girls, right? As his order was for the easiest and cheapest coffee, I prepared a basic brewed coffee. I measured out the appropriate amount of coffee grounds, placed them in the filter, and carefully poured hot water over them.

With each step, I ensured that I followed the standard procedure taught to me by Mr. Starbucks; who kept staring at me from a corner, I was aiming for consistency in flavor and quality. Despite feeling out of place in my Starbucks uniform, I concentrated on executing each step with precision, hoping to deliver a satisfactory cup of coffee to the jocks and their cheerleader. But then I noticed something that made me nervous — the three customers had pulled out their phones and started watching a video on Instagram.

The sound of their laughter filled the air, and I couldn't shake the feeling that they were judging me, silently critiquing my every move as I made their drinks. My hands started to tremble slightly, but I forced myself to focus, determined to get through this without making any mistakes. But making a mistake was inevitable for me. I brewed the coffee for so long that it spilled everywhere, staining my precious white shirt, splashing on them like glue.

"Hey man, what the hell!" The jock exclaimed, wiping spilled coffee off his face with a handkerchief. Approaching me, he seemed ready to continue his tirade before suddenly recalling something, "Wait a second. . . you're The Stoned Boi!"

What, now?

"What?" I furrowed my brow, pouting as I attempted to snatch the phone from his grasp, but he effortlessly dodged my attempt.

"Ella, Mike, come over here. It's The Stoned Boi," he called out, signalling for his friends to join in mocking me. Ella and Mike eagerly approached, ready to ridicule me.

As expected, the spiteful cheerleader and the assistant jock blocked my view, taking photos and videos of me. Feeling too embarrassed to defend my dignity, I resigned myself to potentially becoming the subject of a school meme the next day — a meme that would probably say: "have a stoned day," perhaps. With Ella's weak grip on her phone, I managed to grab it from her, thankful that it was unlocked. The viral video of me played on her screen, garnering likes and comments, making me internet infamous.

"Give me back my phone," Ella demanded, but I moved out of her reach behind the counter.

Checking the latest comment, I was surprised to see Omar's comment: "LMAO" Gripping the phone tightly, I felt the urge to crush it with my teeth, I bit on my lower lips nearly busting it.

"Hey, let go of the phone," the jock noticed my agitation.

Ella took a step back, remarking, "He's high as a cloud," trembling as if I were a monster.

"Who gets high on a Thursday?" Mike questioned.

"I'm sorry, here," I reluctantly returned her phone. She hesitated before snatching it back, and I rolled my eyes, starting to make them new coffee.

"We don't need your spiked coffee anymore," the jock spat disgustingly, glaring at me like an outcast. "It's a good thing my buddy Matt posted the video in the school's chat group. You're an animal, bruh! You must have been doing drugs in yah mama's womb," he added, further fueling my anger.

Unable to contain myself, I crushed the recyclable coffee cup in my hand and tossed it at his face. "Get the hell out!" I yelled, but unfortunately, Mr. Starbucks overheard and began walking towards us, ready to ruin my already bad day.

"What's going on here?" My senior inquired, with a frown plastered on his face.

A relieved sigh escaped Ella's lips, "thank Jesus you're here, you can't have a druggie behind the counter, he might spike the coffees, who knows?" She shrugged, saying these.

"Is that so?" My senior said, caressing his under-grown beard, "well then-" he added, grabbing the cuppa' coffee I'd made, "we are sorry for the inconveniences." He said, emptying the cup on her head.

Talk about a legend.

"What. The! Absolute fuck!" She squealed, trying to catch her breath. I couldn't contain my laughter as it splattered out instantly. "How dare you, I'm never coming here, I'm boycotting y'all!" She ranted, wiping her stupid blonde hair.

"Y'know what Ella, you can fuck off, get the fuck out." The way he spoke to the cheerleader, I noticed the whole incident wasn't about me, it was personal — perhaps they dated in the past - a toxic ex was something I'd never pray for.

"Let's bounce, y'all are so going down." The jocks said to them and they walked out, Ella on the other hand faced my superior all the way out, pointing her middle finger in the air.

"Zayd is more of a man than you'll ever be." She said as she walked out.

It dawned on me that Zayd had taken the guy's girlfriend. My stepbrother's rivalry with him explained the animosity directed at me. "Thank you," I muttered to him.

He scoffed and grumbled in frustration. "Stop standing around, serve the customers," he said before heading back into the store.

As I glanced towards the entrance, I was surprised to see Sahar and Francis standing there, clearly taken aback to find me working behind the Starbucks counter.

The two, with a concerned look on their faces, walked to me. Working as a barista isn't the end of the world, and yet they look at me like I had cancer.

"What?" I inquired, rolling my eyes.

Sahar approached from behind the counter, meeting my gaze directly. Despite her simple overalls, she exuded confidence, pairing them with a yellow overalls and a white silk hijab wrapped elegantly around her head. It had been ages since we last spoke or even saw each other — I never imagined she could become even more beautiful. Any anger I harbored toward her vanished, replaced by the familiar fluttering sensation in my stomach. With each flutter of her eyelashes, my heart skipped a beat — she was undeniably stunning.

I stood there speechless, wearing a silly grin on my blushing face. Suddenly, she enveloped me in a bear hug, catching me off guard. My emotions were a whirlwind — I felt like a kaleidoscope of feelings. Biology teaches that the heart beats 60 to 100 times per minute, but in that moment, mine seemed to defy that principle.

"I was so worried," she said, breaking the hug and playfully kicking my shin, causing a sharp pang of pain.

I seeped the pain in, groaning as I held my shin. "I'm fine, now." I struggled to say.

Francis pretended to cough, "get a room," he interjected amidst his 'cough'.

"What?" Sahar's face flushed as she asked, "Imran is my closest friend."

I realized my mistake too soon. How could I expect someone as beautiful as Sahar to love an ordinary guy like me? I was living in a fantasy. "Yeah," I mumbled, my disappointment palpable as the break of dawn.

"We watched the video, how are you holding up?" Francis asked, leaning on the stained counter with a concerned expression.

"I'm okay, guys. Just because I'm Nigerian doesn't mean I can't handle this scandal. Do you know the shege I faced back at my Nigerian school?" I felt annoyed by their delicate treatment; I wasn't like them. Americans tend to handle scandals poorly. They're too fragile, unlike me — I could handle it, being African.

Sahar clicked her tongue and Francis face-palmed, "that's not what he meant. The video could be a problem for you and your mom."

"What do you mean?"

"If the school board sees it, they might expel you and involve the authorities, which could jeopardize your stay here," Sahar explained, making me realize I was just an immigrant who had to watch his steps.

"Mogbe!" I exclaimed, placing my hands on my head. "What now? The immigration officers might be on their way, or they've already found my mother. Why did I follow Omar?" I regretted my decisions in a matter of seconds.

"Calm down, we can fix this. We need to delete the video," Francis suggested, calming me down.

"Tell me how," I asked, tears welling up in my eyes.

"We're going to Omar's place," Sahar declared. "Are you free?"

I looked at my superior who had been overhearing our conversation, he nodded, allowing me to leave. "Yes, I am. Thank you," I said to Sahar, correcting myself, "both of you," I added, tapping Francis on the shoulder.

I didn't bother changing out of my Starbucks uniform, just mouthed a thank you to my superior before following Sahar and Francis out.

"And why are you suddenly the new coffee boi in town?" Francis asked on our way out.

Sahar nudged him, "not now." She said, turning to me, "but you're spilling all the tea after this, right?" she said with a smile.

"Yeah, it's a long story," I replied bleakly, walking down the street with them like a trio: the beautiful, the quiet, and the new coffee boi in town. The perfect dynamic trio.

Author's Note

Hey-o, so we're seeing Omar's crib in the next chapter? Stay tuned and please vote as you comment. Don't be greedy and share to your friends as well!
Thank you mi vidas, ¡mucho Gracias!

Glossary

1. Shege: means 'trouble' in Hausa language, a second most spoken language in Nigeria.

2. Cuppa': is an accent for 'Cup Of'.

3. Mo gbé: means 'I'm doomed' in Yoruba language.

4. Cabron: means jerk.