The Coffee That Saved Me

I thought I left my village to chase opportunity. But what I really left behind was myself. In a one-room apartment in Addis, far from family and firewood, it wasn’t success I was searching for—it was the smell of my grandmother’s coffee.

I grew up in a small village in the Amhara region, where everything smelled of soil, woodsmoke, and roasted coffee. My grandmother used to say, “The buna knows more than any elder.” At the time, I laughed—but now, I understand exactly what she meant.

Our house was built from mud and love. My mother was a quiet weaver. My grandmother, on the other hand, was fire. Her hands never rested, always grinding, roasting, pouring—always giving. She hosted the buna ceremony every afternoon. I’d sit next to her, wide-eyed, watching the coffee beans darken over the coals while she told stories from her youth, or whispered prayers into the steam.

She believed every round of coffee had a soul.

Abol, for strength.
Tona, for truth.
Baraka, for blessings.


Leaving Home

Like most girls in the village, I dreamed of more—school, city lights, independence. So when I turned 19, I left for Addis Ababa. I told myself I’d return one day, maybe after getting a good job.

My grandmother hugged me goodbye and pressed a jebena into my hands. It was old, stained with stories. She said, “When you lose your way, let this guide you.” I smiled, not realizing how much I’d need it.


The Silence of the City

City life was nothing like I imagined. I worked at a clothing factory near Piassa. Long hours, low pay, and no time to breathe. I lived in a one-room space, noisy and lonely at the same time. I missed the sound of chickens outside my window. I missed the smell of the berbere drying in the sun. I missed... her.

I drank cheap instant coffee from plastic cups at work, but it was never real. It didn’t speak. It didn’t warm anything but my throat.

Then the call came.

My grandmother had passed away.

I didn’t even get to say goodbye.


Coming Back

I returned to the village weeks later. Everything looked smaller. The air heavier. My mother was quieter than usual. She didn’t scold me. She didn’t ask why I stayed away so long. She just pointed to the corner of the kitchen.

The jebena sat there.

Waiting.

That night, I lit the fire like she used to. I roasted the beans slowly, just like she taught me. The aroma hit me like a memory. I ground them by hand, crying as I did. My hands shook when I poured the first cup.

It was bitter. And it healed something in me.

Choosing to Stay

I didn’t go back to the city. I started preparing buna every afternoon—first for myself, then for neighbors, then for visitors from nearby towns. They came not for the coffee, but for the peace. For the stories. For the silence that heals.

Each time I pour a cup, I hear her. In the sizzle of beans. In the crackle of the fire. In the stillness between the rounds.

I don’t say much during the ceremony. I don’t have to. The buna speaks.


What I Know Now

I left thinking tradition was holding me back. I returned realizing it was always holding me up.

My grandmother isn’t here in body—but every time I roast those beans, I feel her hand on my shoulder.

> Some people find healing in medicine.
I found mine in a clay pot, on warm coals, with three rounds of bitter, beautiful truth.



🖊️ Written by: Buno Ganale
Vocal Creator | From Oromia to Addis, and back again.

“This story is based on my personal experiences and cultural memory. Some names and scenes have been dramatized for emotional clarity.”