THEY say, write what you know.
Well, I know espresso shots, public dysfunction, and the slow death of urgency.
I used to think we ran on rice. Now, I’m convinced we run on denial — decaffeinated, diluted, and dangerously close to disaster.
I watch from the corner café — my usual seat, where satire meets suffering — and I see it unfold: the Lower Earth sprained with pixie dust, conjuring illusions of progress while the people sip their instant coffee, unbothered.
It’s the lack of caffeine. Or we’ve confused sleepwalking with serenity.
I pace in loafers now — not because I’ve given up stilettos, but because even a critic needs arch support in these uncertain times.
The caffeinated critic moved in style with her rekindled love for loafers.
Swiftly — like a leopard out to hunt.
Not for prey. But for a purpose.
Should she write about legislators auditioning for the national circus?
Or about carnivorous corporate folks dressed in philanthropy, devouring dignity in daylight?
Her strides are long and fast. Outpacing her own shadow — that thing called cynicism, clawing at her conscience, asking: “What difference does your next piece even make?”
She doesn’t answer.
She orders another coffee.
It’s not paranoia. It’s caffeine and clarity.
You move too fast in a country that prefers slow deterioration and start looking suspicious.
I get side-eyes in lobbies and polite threats in boardrooms disguised as compliments.
They think I’m just a columnist.
But I’m a caffeine-fueled cartographer of dysfunction — mapping every TikTok that pretends to be fact-driven information.
I no longer chase stories. They chase me — into elevators, inboxes, and comment sections like flies drawn to satire.
But it’s not just them. It’s the silence. The tolerance.
The fairy godmothers of bureaucracy who turn casting noise into quiet deals.
Where personal ventures swell behind curtains — side hustles turned silent empires — all while their day jobs stay curiously undisturbed.
And the public? Numb. Decaffeinated.
Like they’ve developed a bland taste.
She wasn’t just being chased by the enablers.
She was being chased by her conscience — the one she silenced years ago.
She had seen the signs — oh, they were there.
But she trained her eyes to blink.
“Why haven’t I seen that?” she asked.
“Have they been playing with me all this time?”
The thought alone made her wince.
She, who prided herself on being sharp — eagle-eyed in the boardroom, merciless in editorial notes —
Had been outwitted not by policy, but by her own ritual.
It wasn’t the system that lulled her. It was the coffee.
Her greatest love. Her greatest betrayal.
Every sip was a spell.
A slow intoxication that made dysfunction look poetic.
Until one day, the spell broke.
She doesn’t know if it was the bitter roast from a new café,
Or the moment someone called a lie a “legacy project” with such confidence it made her skin crawl.
But she knew.
She was no longer just sipping.
She was seeing.
And now?
Now she’s out like a hyena.
Claws sharp. Teeth bared.
No longer dainty with critiques.
No longer writing to please the public.
No longer caffeinated into compliance.
I will not be lulled again.
No more sleepwalking through headlines.
No more soft laughter at sharp lies.
No more mistaking motion for movement, or magic tricks for policies.
I’ve tasted the poison. And I’ve spat it out.
Caffeine, you’re mine now.
You work for me.
You will fuel my fire — not numb it.
You will sharpen my pen — not steady my silence.
You will keep me up — not keep me blind.
Gone is the girl who romanticized the system.
Mistook PR for purpose.
Confused privilege for peace.
From now on, I will write with my eyes wide open.
Sip with purpose.
March in loafers — not in circles.
Let the fairy godmothers wave their wands.
I’ll be watching — pen in hand, espresso in grip,
And this time, I’ll call it what it is.
Because I’m no longer a critic under a spell.
I’m a woman wide awake.
Still brewed, no longer bewitched.
Still brewing thoughts — no sugarcoating, just stories steeped in truth.
