The Monologue of a Coffee Bean — Geisha

 

“Once, I was their moonlight — pure and rare.

Now, the moon still shines, but no one looks up anymore.”

1. A Name Written in Gold

My name is Geisha.
Most people think I’m a coffee variety.
But the truth is far more complicated — and far more human.

In the chronicles of Specialty Coffee, my name is written in bold, shimmering ink across the opening pages.
They call me legend, queen, benchmark — a measure of whether a cup of coffee is worthy of the world’s finest tables.

At auctions, I’ve set prices that made headlines.
My flavor has been called divine: a burst of jasmine, the sweetness of citrus and bergamot, and a tea-like body as smooth as velvet.

And yet, tonight, as I gaze up at the stars over a quiet estate in Baoshan, Yunnan, I feel a strange sense of confusion.
Is this the same sky that watched over the village of Gesha, Ethiopia, seventy years ago?
My name is the same — but I, somehow, am not.

2. The Forest and the Mistake

My story began with a beautiful mistake.

In 1931, a team of British botanists trekked through the misty forests of Gesha, in southwestern Ethiopia.
I was nothing remarkable then — just another wild coffee shrub breathing in the wet forest air, hidden under thick leaves, listening to the hum of life.

They collected me — labeled “Gesha” — as material for breeding stronger, disease-resistant plants.
From there, I traveled: to Kenya, to Tanzania, and finally to the New World —
to the highlands of Central America, where destiny waited in the soil.

3. The Forgotten Guardian

In Costa Rica and Panama, I was not a star.
I was a guardian.
My tall, slender branches offered shade to fragile Typica and Bourbon trees.
My natural resistance to leaf rust was my only worth.

No one cared how I tasted.
I was an old, practical piece of furniture — tucked away in a forgotten corner of the estate, quietly living, quietly blooming, quietly bearing fruit.

4. The Awakening — 2004

Then came 2004.

In Panama’s Boquete region, the Peterson family of Hacienda La Esmeralda rediscovered me — almost by accident.
They entered me into the Best of Panama competition.

And that year, I stunned the world.
Judges described my flavor as “something never experienced before.”
My cupping scores shattered every record.

Overnight, I went from an anonymous shade tree to the queen of coffee.
It was my brightest moment — and my loneliest one.

Humans, after all, prize rarity above all else.
My beans were sold by the gram.
My prices climbed to the heavens.
I became the world’s most expensive coffee.

From Gesha I became Geisha —
no longer a place, but a legend.
A myth.
A golden label stamped with luxury and profit.

5. The Global Migration

Once my value was proven, humans began to move me.
My seeds traveled across the oceans —
to Colombia, Guatemala, Costa Rica, and finally, to Yunnan, China.

At first, they believed only the terroir of Panama could give me a soul.
But then came the Colombian Geishas, the Guatemalan Geishas — each with their own voice.
I realized I could sing different songs of terroir on different lands.

And so, “Geisha” became not a place, not even a plant —
but a phenomenon.

6. The Dilution

That was when my troubles began.

In pursuit of yield and adaptability, humans began to reshape me — crossing and selecting, mixing and remaking.
There emerged “Gesha 1931,” seeking the purity of the original,
and many others, bearing the names of estates.

My lineage grew large and tangled.
My purity faded.

And the land under my name multiplied a hundredfold.
Especially in Yunnan, where eager farmers carved new Geisha gardens into the hills.
They experimented with anaerobic fermentation, carbonic maceration, enzyme washing —
hoping to unearth ever more dazzling layers of flavor.

But in doing so, they made me… common.
Once, I was a rare whisper on auction lists;
now, I appear on café menus everywhere.
A “Hacienda La Esmeralda Geisha — Auction Lot” may still command a breathtaking price,
but right beside it sits a modest, approachable “Yunnan Geisha.”

The myth was democratized.
And in that democracy, I began to fade.

7. From Rarity to Routine

When the first waves of Colombian and Yunnan Geishas entered the market, people still spoke my name with awe.
But then came the second wave, the third…
Production soared, my price plummeted.

“Geisha? Oh, that’s everywhere now.”
“This one tastes… kind of normal.”
“Nowhere near as good as Panama.”

Their words sting more than frostbite.
I — once a singular name — have become a mass identity.
My divine complexity has been diluted by the endless pursuit of quantity.

My genes, once wild and fragile, are now endlessly manipulated.
My soul, once whispered through forest wind,
is vanishing in the noise of globalization.

8. The Mirror of Catimor

I look beside me — and see Catimor.
I remember its story: once celebrated for its strength and resilience,
then condemned as “coarse,”
pushed to the edge of the specialty world, branded commercial.

How alike we are.
Both created for human ambition.
Both exalted.
Both multiplied.
And then… discarded.

At least Catimor still has the earth —
its roots sunk deep,
its life force raw and real.

But me?
When my rarity fades, when my flavor no longer thrills,
when I am just another industrial crop —
what will I become?

9. The Fading Light

Once, I was their moonlight —
the precious glow they held gently in their palms.

Now, the moonlight spills everywhere,
touching every cup,
every café,
every shelf.

No one looks up anymore.

Will I be the next to vanish beneath the tides of time?