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.