A giant cup of tea in the lion’s den

THERE’S one thing that sticks in my mind after visiting New York – the tempting aroma of freshly brewed beans wafting from every street corner.

Yet, it didn’t take me long to learn that in the Big Apple, they don’t have coffee shops – they have “kawfee” shops.

More to the point, at the time I visited New York, I didn’t drink coffee. But the aroma was so tempting that I popped into a store once, just to check it out, and stared at the menu for a good few minutes. I saw lattes, espressos, macchiatos. There were cappuccinos, flat whites, Americanos, café au laits, and cortados... but no “coffee” on the menu. None. Zip. ZERO.

Back home in good old SA, the same thing appears to have happened. Walk into a coffee shop today and you're spoiled for choice. The varieties are staggering. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone invented a black flat white one day.

Why this is such a big deal to me is because when we were growing up, there were varieties too – but these varieties were, well, geographical.

Each household had its own way of making coffee or tea. Visit Aunty ‘A’ and the tea was milky and sweet. Aunty ‘B’ would only serve Rooibos without milk. At another home, you had to be careful drinking too far – because you’d always find a layer of tea leaves lurking at the bottom of your cup.

The point is, the only choice you had when offered a beverage was “yes please” or “no thank you.” There was comfort in the predictability. These days, we’re spoiled. Hosts have to go through an entire checklist before disappearing to the kitchen – and sometimes they’re even followed by guests who prefer to make their own tea a certain way.

But I’m thankful I grew up when I did, when good manners took precedence over entitlement. I even believe that being polite and respectful may have saved my life once.

It happened many years ago. A friend of mine was conned out of some of his tools – the equipment of his trade – by a smooth-talking trickster. The guy packed up my friend’s equipment and headed down to Cape Town, where he tried the same con. But the folks in the Cape sussed him out, and he had to run for his life.

To make up for his trickery and to recoup their losses, the Kaapenaars confiscated my friend’s tools, thinking they belonged to the dishonest charlatan.

Eventually, however, my friend made contact with the group down in the Cape. Though they were upset and angry, they were willing to listen to his side of the story and negotiate a way forward – to recover the tools and avoid further conflict.

My friend is a gifted communicator. Far from using his words to deceive, he uses them to soothe, connect, and de-escalate. It was thanks to his way with people that he managed to arrange a trip to Cape Town to collect his things – and I went along for the ride.

When we arrived at the home of his new contact – let’s call him Bob – we were warmly welcomed. Bob introduced us to his mother, a gracious woman with a generous heart. She offered us tea. For the record, neither I nor my friend’s girlfriend (who also came along) drank tea. Couldn’t stand the stuff.

But out of politeness, we graciously accepted.

I had never seen cups so big in my life. Easily 750ml each. We sat there, sipping tea and chatting. Bob’s mom told us about her childhood, asked about Kimberley, and shared stories of her family. The conversation flowed, laughter filled the room, but somehow the tea never seemed to get any less.

Eventually, my friend wrapped up his business. We said our goodbyes, packed up the tools, and drove back to Kimberley. On the way home, we spoke about what a pleasant weekend it had been.

A few weeks later, my friend showed up with a cryptic smile. He had just found out that Bob – the man we’d visited – was the leader of one of the biggest gangs on the Cape Flats.

He told me: “God must have been watching over us. If we’d been disrespectful to Bob or his mother, things could have turned out very differently.”

We had unknowingly walked into the lion’s den. But thanks to good manners, self-control, and a little grace, we walked out just fine.

For once, I don’t think my takeaway from this story is what matters. I’ll leave it to you, the reader, to decide what can be learned from the value of being nice.