By Mmathabo Maebela
This morning, the room holds its silence gently. Not the kind of silence that signals that the room is not as full as it would usually be on a cold day. But one that allows you to be one with your thoughts.
This silence is broken by the sound of the coffee machine, a clink of glasses, or a sigh of steam as the barista rinses the transparent glasses that carry the warm beverage that keeps you company.
It is broken by the soft shuffle of shoes as coffee patriots cross the floor. It is engulfed in the quiet choreography of their bodies as they move delicately through the room, not disturbing the silence .
… a lawnmower groans in quiet rotations just outside the window.
This morning, my friend and I find a spot at a long table across the room, carefully situating ourselves in the two opposite chairs by the fire. The scent of the baked goods behind us follows us to our seats, wrapping around us like a blanket. We quietly place our food on the table, for me a slice of quiche and rooibos, for her a squidgy with hot chocolate in a takeaway cup.
The quiet between us is broken by the remarks that creep into our minds without warning. “You know what I like about this place? It doesn’t look like anywhere else. Even the handwritten prices and tags make it stand out,” we agree. Then we go back to sipping slowly on our beverages, careful not to disturb the silence that the room holds.
A sound from a JBL speaker placed somewhere above the window cuts through the silence. “I know the colour of love” by Boyz II Men makes its way to our ears, and I see my friend do a quiet dance. Yet, the calm of this morning remains insistent, making the music fade into the walls.
… the waitstaff waltz into the other room. Their arms are full of breakfast plates.
This morning, two girls sit on the green couches in the corner of the room, each in their own world. One of them reads lines from what appears to be a script, a red fine liner in her hands. The other marks papers with quiet determination. After a little while, she stands up and leaves the room momentarily.
My friend and I make a different, unexpected comment. This time, it shifts to a lunchtime politics seminar taking place on Friday. “Gendered experience on campus? I like talks like these. In fact, any talk that proves that men can be such bad people.” We laugh under our breath, careful not to disturb the silence that the room holds.
A deep baritone voice escapes from the other room and breaks the silence. “Xa ushiya umntu uyalila,” one of the people says. I try to listen in on the conversation, yet the vibrations of the voices from the group in the other room make it hard to catch the rest of the conversation. Chairs scrape on the wooden floor, and forks and knives clatter at the arrival of the much-awaited food.
… the waitstaff return with empty cups. The lawnmower goes quiet.
In this silent chaos, a man in a blue jacket sits at the small table by the door, with his back towards us, his eyes glued onto something we cannot see.
