Two Coffees

Musa bought two coffees before he remembered.

The barista set them on the counter at King Shaka International and called his name. One cappuccino, one flat white. Exactly as always.

For three seconds, Musa stared at the cups as if the mistake belonged to someone else.

Then the truth returned with its usual lack of ceremony.

Nomsa had been dead for eleven months.

He carried both coffees to Gate A12 because throwing one away in front of the barista felt too public. At the window, the Durban morning was bright and clean. Aircraft moved across the tarmac. Families negotiated hand luggage. A little girl slept across three chairs with her shoes on.

Musa placed Nomsa's flat white on the empty seat beside him.

It was his first flight since the funeral.

Cape Town. Three days. A conference his manager had insisted he attend because work had finally run out of compassionate ways to let him hide.

His phone showed a notification from his daughter, Naledi.

DAD PLEASE TEXT WHEN YOU BOARD. And don't forget to eat.

He smiled despite himself.

Nomsa used to send the same instruction, usually while sitting next to him.

He opened his passport. A faded supermarket receipt fell out.

On the back, in Nomsa's handwriting, were three words:

WINDOW SEAT. ALWAYS.

Musa closed his eyes.

At the gate, boarding began.

He did not move.

The barista called his name and pushed two paper cups across the counter.

Musa stared at them.

“For Musa?” she repeated.

“Yes. Sorry.”

He carried both to a table near the window. One was black coffee. His. The other was a cappuccino with cinnamon. Nomsa’s, ordered automatically by a body that had not yet accepted new rules.

Seven months had passed since she died, and grief still lived in muscle memory. He reached for her side of the bed in the morning. Bought the yoghurt she liked. Turned toward the passenger seat when a radio presenter said something foolish.

His daughter Naledi had booked the flight to Cape Town and refused to let him cancel.

“You need to see Uncle Vusi,” she had said. “And you need to fly again sometime.”

Musa knew she meant because the last plane he had boarded was the one that brought Nomsa’s sister to Durban for the funeral.

At the terminal window, aircraft moved with impossible normality. People left every day. People arrived. Nobody paused the runway because one person had become difficult to travel without.

His phone contained a voice note from Nomsa recorded during their last holiday. He had not played it since the week she died. The file was thirty-one seconds long.

He touched the screen, then locked the phone.

Not yet.

Musa had packed badly. Nomsa had always packed for both of them—not because he could not, she insisted, but because watching him fold shirts made her lose respect for engineering as a profession.

That morning he had opened the suitcase three times. The first time to add a jersey. The second to remove two pairs of trousers. The third because he could not remember whether he had packed underwear.

Naledi arrived at five-thirty with a packet of sandwiches and found him standing in the passage holding Nomsa’s old travel pouch.

“You don’t need Mom’s passport,” she said gently.

“I know.”

He was holding it anyway.

Inside were receipts from trips they had taken together: Cape Town, Gaborone, Victoria Falls. Nomsa kept useless paper as if borders might one day ask for proof that they had enjoyed themselves.

Naledi took the pouch, removed Musa’s passport and boarding pass, then gave the rest back.

“You can keep it,” she said. “Just not in hand luggage. Security will think you are travelling with a ghost.”

“Your mother would enjoy the attention.”

The joke surprised him. Naledi smiled but did not overreact. That was another thing grief had taught the family: if laughter appeared, nobody should point at it too loudly.

At departures, she hugged him and said, “Call when you land.”

Nomsa used to say the same thing.

Musa almost turned around right there.

The coffee beside him cooled.