Meron’s First Bunna Ceremony

Once upon a time, a few months ago, my best Ethiopian friend (age 5) performed for me her very first coffee ceremony.

She and I had been playing in the yard—some confusing game involving a badminton racket and tons of bougainvillea flower petals. I somehow had to catch the petals with the racket as she quickly brushed them off a wooden bench, onto the ground, cackling at her victory.

Then she said, “Wait,” or, “Sinahee, Danayit.”

So I waited. She’d disappear and come back, and disappear and come back. And one piece of coffee ceremony material at a time, she kept returning to me: two bunna cups, one tray for cups, one stove holding red coals—to my dismay and attempted intervention, then: “Danayit, jebinaki hazi.” She told me to go get my jebina (coffee pot) from my house.

We reconvened in the abandoned garage, each of us holding a jebina. “Aydalin,” she said—I don’t want it. Now, apparently, she wanted to use her mother’s. I returned mine to the house.

When I came back to our child’s-tea-party-becomes-coffee-party and walked past her fanning the flames, I smelled coffee. I looked back at her in wonder. I thought this was pretend. I thought she thought it was pretend.

My limited powers of deduction soon had me realize that her mother Misilal had given Meron the day’s leftover brew, so that she and I could enjoy it together.

Soon Girimkil joined us, beaming. Clapping. Praising his daughter. He drank beside me, as Meron carefully brought us our full, steaming cups. “My family, drama. Like Cosby,” he said.

“Oh yes,” I said. “You are right.”

Then Misilal came, and Sammy came, and we all watched as our five year old performed her first Ethiopian rite of passage. The bunna was delicious, and we were proud.