A Refill Please

Slightly chipped along its rim, a faint crack tracing its aged body, its handle too small for fingers to hold—a muggy brown cup, its years telling of its use. Barely able to hold itself together, let alone the substance within, he poured hot water into it, freshly boiled. A teabag from a brand unknown followed, with no sugar.

“I had run out,” he laughed apologetically, as though the lack of sweetness in the tea was something to be ashamed of. He placed the cup on the floor beside me—a warm drink for the cold night ahead.

“Please, drink,” he said, as I marvelled at this stranger’s kindness. For though he had little, he did not hesitate to share what remained with a wanderer like me.

As the night aged, we sat in his dimly lit room, the small handmade carpet beneath us softened by years of use. With every sip, we refilled our cups from the crooked electric kettle, reusing the same teabags again and again until they yielded nothing but warmth. Though the flavour faded, the stories remained rich and I was lost in conversation with a stranger I had met just a sunset ago—tales of youth, of struggle, of long roads travelled.

He spoke of a man who once shared his journey, a man who spoke the language of travellers who had been his closest friend in days of searching, days of growth and self-discovery. He told me of his travels across the country in search of work, looking for ways to support his family as a young man with little education and no formal certificates.

The night, though at its eldest, felt ever young, for we were lost in each other’s words. I—at the beginning of my journey—found in this stranger something more than company: a friend, a brother, perhaps even an uncle or a father. I thought of how I had been sitting on the street just hours before, plotting ways to sneak into the company’s bathrooms for a place to sleep. Now, I had warmth. Now, I had company.

When sleep finally pulled at my eyes, I yawned, ashamed to signal the end of our talk. He laughed at my exhaustion.

“Let us rest, my young old man,” he said with amusement.

With only a single bed in the cramped space, he handed me a blanket and promised to sleep in the opposite direction once his own weariness set in. And though I had met him only hours before, sleep found me easily, at peace in a stranger’s home.

Suffice to say, he had lied.

A cold breeze woke me in the early hours of morning. Clutching the blanket tighter, my gaze settled on the floor. The room was engulfed in darkness, but I could hear him breathing. On the same worn carpet where we had sat the night before, he now lay with nothing but a towel for warmth.

“If kindness were gold, surely this would be the richest man under the sun” I thought to myself, seeing him sleeping gracefully on the floor.

I closed my eyes once more, a little more humbled. A little more grateful.

At sunrise, the first words to wake me were:

“Vuka, Mzee, vuka, vuka, vuka!”

I had been deep in sleep, dreaming of warm porridge with a little bit of brown sweetness, when his voice pulled me back to reality. My stranger host—as he stood by a plastic tub, pouring steaming water into it.

“Vuka, vuka!” he repeated. I didn’t know what it meant at the time, but I stood erected from the sheets.

“I’ve poured you some hot water,” he said. “Take the bucket in the corner—there’s cold water in it. Mix them until it’s the right temperature for your bath. I’ll step outside to fetch more water while you clean up and get ready. When you’re done, just shout ‘Enkosi’ by the door, and I’ll come back in.”

Curious, I asked what Enkosi meant.

He chuckled as he stepped outside. “Just say it—and don’t bite your tongue.”

The plastic tub sat beside the bed, half-filled, the water just right. I knelt by it and washed my face, savouring the warmth. Stripping off the rest of my clothing, I carefully stepped into the tub, mindful not to spill any water—there was no mop in the room, only a broom.

“Enkosi!”

I shouted just outside the door once I was done.

He came walking back into the room, a bucket full of water in one hand, the other clenched into a fist and a smirk on his face.

“Ready for the day, my young-old man?” he asked, smiling.

I smiled back, nodded, and gave him a thumbs-up in response.

“You seem unsure of yourself,” he said, his expression shifting to concern.

Although he had once stood where I now stood, although he had understood well the pain and anguish of uncertainty—the fear of today, let alone the mystery of tomorrow. Although he knew, all too well, the agony of “not having” that of which you desired most, of being incapable to provide for those you love and though he understood the bottomless sorrow of feeling worthless simply because you had less.

My words drowned in my tears.

“I need this. I need this so, so much. I’m really trying, but it’s hard. Everything is so hard, and I’m trying my best—yet I feel so lost, so confused, so scared. Today terrifies me.”

“Today’s interview scares you, huh, Mzee?” he said gently.

His voice was calm, steady, as he sat beside me on the floor where my knees had given way. The weight of the moment pressed down on me, too heavy to carry alone.

“Here, eat.”

He placed a bowl of warm, soft porridge in my hands.

“And look—I’ve got the sweetness.”

He uncurled his fingers, revealing a small ball of clear plastic, twisted at the top, filled with brown sugar.

“My neighbor spared us a few spoons of her sweetness. Add some to your meal—there’s even enough for a cup of tea.”

His smirk widened, confident, proud of his morning’s achievement.

Laughter burst from me, unbidden, as more tears slipped down my face—though this time, they were not of sorrow. Scooping a bit of the sugar from his palm, I sprinkled it into my porridge.

“Is this why you’ve been smirking since you walked in? You’re proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

He chuckled.

“Our first cups had no sweetness,” he said, stirring his own bowl. “But today, my friend, we will enjoy our drinks and meals sweetened just right. Such is progress—no matter how small.”

I sat there, spoon in hand, staring at this man who had given me shelter, warmth, kindness. In his presence, I found calm. I found courage.

And at that moment, as I took my first bite, I knew—dreams did come true.

After all, there I was, enjoying a warm bowl of soft porridge with brown sugar, sweetened just right.

“Masambe, Mzee!” he exclaimed, and Once again, I found myself puzzled, failing to understand the meaning of that word. His constant use of unfamiliar phrase both intrigued and slightly annoyed me.

“What does that mean?” I finally asked.

He stood up and chuckled once more, reaching out his hand—a silent signal that it was time for us to head out. I accepted his gesture, rising from the carpet where we had spent hours sharing stories, tales of adventures, laughter, and of course cups of tea and bowls of porridge, a small space that had held a lifetime of memories in a single night.

“It should take us about an hour to walk to work if you can keep up the pace,” he said as we stepped out toward the company where he worked—the same company where I had my interview.

As we walked through the rural township, he greeted people with joy, and they responded with the same warmth. At times, we cut through people’s yards to shorten our journey or avoid crowded paths—especially those marred with cow dung and feisty goats (he was not fond of goats).

The path grew livelier as we neared the main road. Children in school uniforms danced their way to school in coordinated steps, careful not to dirty their clothes in the muddy footpaths. Women sat outside their homes peeling vegetables, their hands moving in a practiced rhythm. Faint smoke curled in the air from early morning fires. The township was alive, yet beneath its pulse, I still felt the weight of my own uncertainty.

“Mzee, I never actually asked... of all places in this country, why did you come here? You have no family in this city, you are unfamiliar of this place, and you’re so far from home,” he asked as we slowed our pace.

It struck me then—though we had talked of many things, yet never the details of my journey. In fact, I didn’t even know his name. He had found me sitting by the rails opposite the company gates, a stranger with only a backpack and the clothes on his back. Perhaps he had noticed me standing there when his shift began, a young man waiting by the rails at 9 AM. Perhaps he noticed my desperation when I was still there at the same spot as the day approached noon, a young man unmoved. Perhaps mercy sent him.

Flashback

Three days ago, on a Monday afternoon, my phone rang with an unknown number. I almost didn’t answer, thinking it was a telemarketer trying to sell me something I couldn’t afford. After all, I was unemployed.

“Hello, is this Langa?” a woman’s voice asked.

“Yes, hi. But if you’re selling something, I can’t afford it,” I replied flatly.

A soft giggle came from the other side. “No, Mr. Langa. My name is Lethi. I came across your CV online and wanted to know if you’re still in the market for a job.”

My heart leaped. “Yes, yes ma’am, I am!” I said, barely believing my own words.

“Great. Would you be able to make it to Natal by Wednesday morning, 08:00 AM sharp, for an interview?” she asked.

“Absolutely, ma’am! I’ll be there.” I answered—excited, but also confused. I had never been to Natal. I didn’t even know which part of the country it was in.

“Fantastic! We’ll see you soon, Mr. Langa.”

She hung up the call.

I remember that call too well—like a lifeline thrown to someone barely clinging to the surface, as if being slowly swallowed by relentless sands. In that moment, when it felt as though a giant hand was crushing you from within, and after fighting desperately with every ounce of strength only to gradually fade into the earth, a rope of hope was extended to your fading hand, pulling you back from oblivion.

That was me—at least, that’s how I felt in those moments before Lethi’s call. Immediately after we ended the conversation, a sudden surge of hope filled my entire being, overwhelming me with joy and excitement for the tomorrows to come, as I sat in a taxi on a Monday evening just before sunset.

“I’ve been struggling to find any form of employment in my hometown ever since I finished my studies nearly two years ago. After receiving an ocean of rejections—even when I offered to work for a pittance, just enough to cover my transportation—I was turned away from every company door I knocked on. I mean, they wouldn’t even give me a chance. Just this past Monday, when I had been turned away from the last door I approached. Finally a call from the heavens came. A sweet lady by the name of Lethi spoke softly over the phone, punctuating her words with gentle giggles. I was nearly swept away by her supple voice, ready to confess my newfound, undying admiration for this potentially beautiful stranger. She swayed me with her warm words, telling me that I was the one they had been searching for—that this company, across the other side of the country, had long been in need of someone like me, someone with my wisdom and unmatched skills. Yes, that is why I am here.”

I told him playfully.

“Sighing at me with a cinnamon side-eye and a doubtful grin.”

“Really now? And yet, I found you sitting by the rails yesterday, looking like a lost child separated from his mother in a crowded place,” he said.

I laughed sheepishly. “Ah, yes... about that.”

I explained how I had scraped together just enough money for a return trip on the bus and a cheap pie at the garage, only to arrive and find out the interviews had been postponed by a day. I had no place to sleep, no extra money, and no idea what to do next. I had planned to sneak into the company’s bathroom—find a quiet corner to rest for the night and wash my face in the morning—until he found me. “For that, I am truly grateful,” I finished glancing at him.

He didn’t respond immediately. He just kept walking, his face unreadable. But I could tell—he understood.

It wasn’t long before we neared the gates, where I had sat just hours ago, plotting my plans to sneak in for the night. But now, here I was, about to enter officially—no tricks, no schemes—just a simple “Hi, I’m here for an interview,” to the security guards at the gate.

“We’re here,” he said. “My journey ends at these gates for now. This is my post, after all. I believe your journey lies ahead, so please state your business.”

His voice was formal now, taking on the calm authority of his role. I stood just outside, still processing the shift in the air, in him, in me.

“I’m here for an interview, sir,” I replied.

“In that case, please allow me to call the office to confirm your appointment,” he said, his tone now taking on a more formal quality.

“Please take this visitor’s card. You are expected at the blue building over there. Reception by the entrance, and they’ll take it from there.”

He spoke with even more authority now as he directed me through the steps, and I followed each one, still wearing that familiar grin. This man wasn’t just a security guard at the gate—he felt like a friend, maybe even an older brother.

I completed the forms and was handed a visitor’s card for access. He opened the pedestrian gate and led me in, pointing toward the building where I needed to follow to reach my immediate destination. Before he could return to his post, he placed a firm yet gentle hand on my shoulder, as a proud father might and with only a few minutes left before my interview, he shared some unexpected words:

“Mzee,”

He said, his voice steady,

“The fear of failure weighs heavy on your heart, does it not?”

“Perhaps you came all this way for nothing. Perhaps the interview will go so terribly that you’ll never be considered for the position you so desperately seek.”

“Perhaps it has all been for nothing—the long journey, the empty stomach, the heavy shoulders, the cold rails you sat on, uncertain of the next steps ahead.”

“Perhaps even the sugarless tea with a stranger was in vain.”

He paused, his gaze soft yet firm, placing his arm across my shoulders as if offering a shield against the world.

“I wish I could tell you with certainty what tomorrow holds, Langa, but I’d be lying through my crooked teeth,” he said, his smile warm and crooked. “In all honesty, none of it matters. What matters is that you are here now. What matters is your resilience to keep going despite the uncertainties. What matters is your unwavering heart.”

“Yesterday, at this same time, I saw a young man refusing to turn back, despite his unfavourable circumstances. Yesterday, when I saw you sitting by the rails hour after hour, I knew you were a tree whose roots could withstand the greatest winds.”

“You might not realize it yet, but I believe you’ve already conquered tomorrow.”

“No matter what happens, you are more than a 30-minute interview could ever reveal.”

His words were heavy on my heart, yet somehow light on my soul. They relieved the weight on my shoulders, making the journey ahead seem more bearable. Suddenly, I no longer felt unworthy of a great tomorrow. I couldn’t explain the overwhelming feeling in my chest, but it was a reassuring one, as if the universe had whispered in my ear, telling me that everything would be alright.

We shook hands and wished each other a successful day ahead. He pointed me in the direction of the HR offices for the interviews, and just like that, I was on my way. This time, though, my steps felt lighter, for I had embraced the certainty of tomorrow and today.

“Mr. Langa, what makes you the best candidate for this position?”

That was the final question they asked me. Yet, for the life of me, I cannot remember my response. But I do remember their laughter.

Deep, uncontrollable laughter, spilling through their noses and echoing off the walls like a hysterical crowd—while I sat there, cheeks ablaze, sweat gathering at my brow, my stomach threatening rebellion.

Somehow, I made it through the interview with my dignity—mostly—intact. But as I stepped out of the room, the weight of uncertainty settled over me like an old, unwelcome coat. Will they even consider me after that? Will they call? Offer me the position? I exhaled, realizing only then how little I had eaten since sunrise. I suppose anxiety and suspense make for a strange kind of sustenance.

He stood by the gate, facing my direction—not outwards, like a guard should, but as if protecting the outside from the inside. A familiar stranger. His eyes followed my steps as I neared, and though he tried to maintain composure, his glee was unmistakable.

“You did great, didn’t you, Langa?”

I hadn’t said a word, yet he proclaimed it as if it were fact.

“No matter how you feel about how it went—how it should’ve or could’ve gone—you did great in there. Be proud, Mzee.”

His certainty unsettled me. His faith in me was unwavering, almost irrational.

“Why are you so sure? What makes you believe all is well?” I asked.

“Because you showed up and saw it through to the end,” he said simply, with a knowing smile.

I wanted to joke about my unexpected potential as a stand-up comedian, but instead, I smiled back. Pulling out my phone, I hesitated for only a moment before speaking.

“May I have your phone number? I’d love to share another cup of tea with you someday—brown sweetness or not.”

He took my phone, holding it a moment longer than expected. His gaze lingered on me, cautious yet amused, as though waiting for something. Then, with a raised brow, he spoke.

“My name is Saro.”

He said it with a raised brow, amusement flickering across his face—almost as if he already knew I hadn’t thought to ask.

“You never asked my name since we first met. It breaks my heart.” He placed a hand over his chest dramatically before chuckling. “Imagine you come back tomorrow, ready to start your new job, only to find I’m not here. Not tomorrow, not the next day. Who would you even ask for?”

His grin was teasing, but something in his words made me pause.

“A name is important. It’s the first gift we’re given at birth, the one thing we carry to the very end. Always remember to acknowledge those around you—not just by their presence, but by who they are.

He was right. I had been so consumed by my own worries that I never once thought to ask for his name. How could I be so self-centered? This man who had shared a cup and a bowl with me when I had nothing to offer—only desperate eyes fighting back tears and a drowning heart barely beating to survive.

“Alright then Mzee. I guess I’ll be seeing you soon.”

He called me that again — Mzee.

“And I hope to see you soon, Saro. Thank you once again—for everything.” I replied, my voice thick with emotion.

I took my leave without looking back. Tears welled in my eyes, and I couldn’t understand why they fell—or why they refused to stop.

Later that evening, I caught the bus back to my hometown. It was a long journey—nearly twenty-four hours from Netal to my hometown, and the entire ride was a storm of emotions: excitement for what could be, and fear of everything that might go wrong.

What if I wasn’t considered for the position? Would all my efforts be in vain—all the sacrifices, the persistence, the hope? Would it be a mockery, a wasted journey? My family had scraped the very bottom of the barrel just so I could afford the bus tickets for this interview.

And if I was called back—if the job was mine—what then? Yes, I would dance to my Tsonga neighbor’s horrendously loud music with joy. Yes, I would count the seconds until my first day, my first stay, my first pay. I would finally feel worthy of my existence.

But how would I afford the trip back to Netal? Where would I stay once I got there? How would I survive until that first paycheck? Gratitude and fear wrestled in my chest, neither willing to give the other an inch.

A week went by as I waited for a call or a message—anything to ease the weight of my anxiety. Some days, I could swear I saw the grass grow with my own eyes, or perhaps it was just the waiting playing tricks on me. I checked my phone violently every passing minute, switching it off and on in case it had lost signal or frozen without my noticing. I even dialed random free-call services just to be sure my SIM card was still active.

On other days, I’d ask my neighbour to turn his music louder, just so I could focus my frustration elsewhere—and complain about his horribly loud tunes that sounded like a donkey with diarrhoea. Only this time, it wasn’t one donkey. It was fifty, maybe more.

Weeks evaporated as a droplets on hot stones and eventually I grew tired—tired of waiting, tired of the silence, tired of the endless “what ifs” running through my mind like a toddler on a sugar rush. My anxiety had defeated me ten times over, and I remember thinking that if it were a physical being standing before me, surely I’d be in the ICU by now, sipping soup through a straw.

As the days stretched into weeks and the weeks blurred into a month or two, my hope began to fade. Surely, I thought, I must have meant less than a passing thought to those interviewers, who couldn’t spare even a moment to send an update. A simple message—good or bad—would have been enough to calm my heart. But silence? Silence was cruel.

Soon it had been months since that adventurous trip to a place I had never known before—a place called Netal, where I met the kindest stranger who shared a cup of tea and a warm, safe space with a desperate soul like me. As memories of those brief, gentle moments crossed my mind, an ocean of tears welled in my eyes, and I couldn’t stop them. I felt like a failure—helpless, small, a child trying to be a man in a world too large for his grasp.

The pain of failure was unbearable.