Wednesday 13 June 2012

Poem by the Norwegian writer Bertrand Besigye


How A Black African Orders Black Coffee
(To Barack Hussein Obama)

         To find out exactly how tolerated I am in this society,
             I went to a coffee bar, walked up to the counter
And said to the bar-tender:
“I’d like a coffee, and I challenge you
To find a coffee that matches the colour of my skin.”
          Without hesitating, the bar-tender immediately served me a Caffè Mocha with cream...
“Wrong!” I said to the bar-tender,
“Surely you can see I’m darker than a Caffè Mocha with cream!”
“Yes, I can see that,” the bar-tender replied, “but I didn’t want to take the chance
Of serving you something too dark or too light in case you might feel offended...”
               “Aha,” I said, paid for the coffee and left without drinking it.

         At coffee bar no. 2, I walked up to the counter
And said to the bar-tender:
“I’d like a coffee, and I challenge you
To find a coffee that matches the colour of my skin.”
             “What? Do you think we’re racists or something?” the bar-tender exclaimed,
“Here were serve blacks and whites and yellows and reds and greens!
Don’t mess me about! I’m a bar-tender on a minimum wage. Don’t mess me about.”
The bar-tender served me a Caffè Latte,
As if by serving me a light type of coffee
He was making doubly sure of avoiding all controversy.
               I paid for the coffee, and left without drinking it..

         At coffee bar no. 3, I walked up to the counter
And said to the bar-tender:
“I’d like a coffee, and I challenge you
To find a coffee that matches the colour of my skin.”
             “That was a weird way of or-dering co-ffee...”
The Swedish bar-tender replied,
“But an A-meri-cano should just about do it.”
He served me a double Americano, looked down into the cup and said:
“Devil also, it’s too black. It’s the co-ffee machine’s fault, not mine!”
Shirking responsibility, I thought, it’s as if he was trying to say:
“It’s the coffee machine that’s a racist, not me!”
               I paid for the coffee, drank it and left.

         At coffee bar no. 4, I walked up to the counter
 And said to the female bar-tender:
“I’d like a coffee, and I challenge you
To find a coffee that matches the colour of my skin.”
             “That would be an Espresso or a filter coffee,” the bar-tender replied
And served me an Espresso.
“It’s too light! Are you colour-blind or something?”
“But I can’t make an Espresso any darker!” the bar-tender replied,
“It’s impossible to make it any darker!” she stated,
As if I was holding a knife to her neck.
As if I had a blackness
No coffee machine in the world could emulate.
               I paid for the coffee, drank it and left.

         At coffee bar no. 5, I walked up to the counter
And said to the bar-tender:
“I’d like a coffee, and I challenge you
To find a coffee that matches the colour of my skin.”
             “But all coffees are brown!” the bar-tender exclaimed,
“Yes, but some are browner than others and some lighter,” I added,
“OK, I’ll get you a double Espresso!” he said and served a double Espresso
Which both of us could see was too light.
“But does it matter what colour the coffee is?” the bar-tender asked me
And added with a strong American accent:
“Your skin-color don’t make no difference to me!”
“I just happen to think that coffee that matches the colour of my skin tastes better!”
I replied with the certainty that the customer is always right.
The bar-tender turned round quickly and went back to his work,
               I paid for the coffee, drank it and left.

         At coffee bar no. 6, I walked up to the counter
And said to the bar-tender:
“I’d like a coffee, and I challenge you
To find a coffee that matches the colour of my skin.”
             “Well really, that sort of humour is so incorrect
That I don’t know how to answer it!”
The possibly gay bar-tender said, with a flick of the wrist,
“But since you’re such a handsome brute, I’ll get you a single Americano.
No, wait, since you’re in such great shape, I’ll get you a double Americano.”
I took a single Americano, and goddammit it matched the colour of my skin perfectly.
I paid for the coffee, drank it and left.
As I was going out the door, the bar-tender said:
“You’re the first person to have ordered coffee like that,
               Next time I’ll have a better answer.”

         At coffee bar no. 7, I walked up to the counter
And said to the bar-tender:
“I’d like a coffee, and I challenge you
To find a coffee that matches the colour of my skin.”
             “Then I’ll get you a pot of coffee with a dash of milk.
I don’t dare take too much milk, just a little milk…”
The bar-tender replied with a smile.
The pot of coffee plus a dash of milk was too light.
“I must try that the next time I go out to a café
Just show them my hand when I order coffee!”
The bar-tender said, “If you tried that,” I replied, “you’d be served a glass of milk!”
“Yes, I’d probably get a glass of milk. Or a glass of water. I’m transparent.”
The bar-tender replied and his back sagged suddenly.
               I paid for the coffee, drank it and left.

         At coffee bar no. 8, I walked up to the counter
And said to the bar-tender:
“I’d like a coffee, and I challenge you
To find a coffee that matches the colour of my skin.”
             The bar-tender smiled and asked another bar-tender to deal with my order.
“Just give him an Espresso!” the west-country bar-tender shouted,
On his way out for a break and a fag.
But that didn’t work at all, for the other bar-tender was from north Norway
And wanted for some reason or other to give me extra service:
“How’s aboot a drap o’ something in your coffee? How’s aboot a wee dram in your coffee?”
The north Norwegian bar-tender replied,
“Sure!” I agreed, and was served a Coffee Jamaica with rum.
“A bit too light. Should ha’ takken a wee bit less milk,
But then it wudna ha’ tasted as good!” the bar-tender concluded.
As I was about to pay, the bar-tender said:
“Ye dinna ha’ to pay for the coffee, just pay me for the dram.”
               I paid for the gourmet coffee, drank it and left.

         At coffee bar no. 9, I walked up to the counter
And said to the female bar-tender:
“I’d like a coffee, and I challenge you
To find a coffee that matches the colour of my skin.”
             “Then I’ll get you a black coffee!” the blond bar-tender said
And served me straight black coffee, without milk or cream.
I kept silent.
Suddenly a twinge of bad conscience went through her.
She stretched out her milky-white arms and exclaimed:
“But look at me then! A Café Au Lait for me, please!”
It was as if she wanted to say:
“Just look at me! I’m just as lost as you even though I’m white!”
But I still kept silent. “You’re just having me on!” she blurted out,
“Hell, I should have served you my most expensive coffee!”
I still kept silent, used the strength of silence, paid and sat down at a table...
While I was sipping liquid night, the bar-tender asked:
“What does it say about me that you got coffee that dark?”
I didn’t answer her, but was struck by her self-reflection,
Struck that she was the first person to possibly understand
That the entire episode was in the process of changing into text.
I could have said to her:
“You served me coffee that black because inside your head
You experience the colour of my skin
As a lot darker than it actually is,
Because inside your head you experience me as a lot more alien
Than I actually am.”
But I still kept silent, took out my notebook and started to write
               How A Black African Orders Black Coffee.

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