More of us

The shop gets busy — new-world busy, queue-out-the-door busy — and four Matji, whatever their opinion on the matter, are not enough hands.

So one quiet morning Mutjo does the thing he has only done once before, and then by accident: a fresh bowl, a careful pinch of the green dust, a held breath. The foam shivers, clumps, and blinks up at him. Twice.

The original four receive the newcomers with tremendous ceremony: a formal row, a synchronised bow, a dignified pause lasting very nearly a full minute.

Then the dignity collapses and the tour begins at a sprint — the kettle, the good shelf, the drawer where one sleeps, the customer who sees everything. Family, I have observed, is a thing one explains at top speed.