Jebena is the name of a little silver pot with a spout that goes up at 45 degree angle.
I am sure there are proper ones made out of silver but the ones they use here are made out of some semi-metal substance that appears spray painted silver. But high or low quality it is what must be used to pour coffee into the little black and white china cups that are placed on a round silver tray and shared among the guests. And its name is taken and used for the whole process.
Come to Jebena
And the women come. Clapping their hands at the entrance to the compound they wait to be invited in. Their long colourful gauzy tuups flutter in the wind and the babies wiggle in their arms. Hands reach to pat shoulders and then grasp hands in welcome. Voices overlap one another in enthusiastic greetings.
Even if they just live on the other side of the tarp fence and shared charcoal in the morning or wandered through on multiple occasions to find their children or as it is the shortest route to the water hole. This is different.
This is the time for Jebena.
The rough wooden frames strung with ropes that serve as beds are brought out, draped in a sheet and offered to the women to sit on. The babies get passed around and cooed at to see who can get the best smile.
The stove has been fanned until the charcoals are glowing. The coffee beans clatter as they are poured onto a small frypan and stirred around until they turn from white-grey to a dark brown.
A glowing charcoal is removed from the stove and placed in a small brazier with some cinnamon or other bark, blowing fragrance over the women and helping keep the flies away.
And then one of the women will take the mortar and pestle. And first some dried ginger and then some cardamom seeds, and then the roasted coffee beans are crushed to powder. But, this is not just utilitarian pounding. The pestle bangs against the side and the base, becoming a beat that calls the hands of the others to join in the rhythm and then someone will start a song. And they will continue weaving their melodies until they have a smooth powder – or someone has an interesting story to tell.
Welcome to Jebena.
Water is boiled with cloves and the ground coffee and spices added in forming a thick dark liquid. The dark liquid is transferred into the jebena. Sugar is spooned into the tiny cups, taking up nearly half the volume and then the coffee poured through a strainer with more spices until the liquid grazes the brim of the cup.
Cups are passed around and emptied amidst chatter and laughter and the crunching on roasted ground nuts. As the cups are emptied they are refilled. Once there are only the dregs left in the pot more water is added and then cups filled up again. This is the time to relax, to tell stories, to laugh, to be.
This is Jebena.
These women are refugees. Bombs falling from airplanes and fleeing homes and living in a land not their own: that is part of their stories. But this holding of a fragile cup, the shushing of the babies, this roasting and pounding of beans, the laughter over a story being told, this pouring of steaming liquid over crushed spices and herbs, the blending of voices in song, and the sweetness of (a lot of) sugar: they have also made this their lives.
This little cup of Jebena.
“Come for Jebena” they call to me. Ah, let me drape my tuup and I will come.
Not for the coffee, though I will drink it, but because I too need this Jebena. I need to learn to savour the process and not just the outcome. To receive and not just to give. To value ritual, instead of just efficiency. To delight in being with others and not just in being useful. To learn to love and to live life even in the midst of hard. And to be filled again with wonder that the One who has invited me to the feast at the end of it all has also invited me to join in the preparation.
Ginger. Cardamom. Sugar. Laughter. Singing. Neighbours. Coffee. Being. Love.
Jebena.
Life Down the Rutted Red Road 