Is dit Jacobs met ’n J, of met ’n K?
Frankly, it’s no longer clear whether I’m sipping a premium roast or a cheap imposter
According to Coffee Dasher — a nifty platform that helps American businesses track down and compare office coffee service providers — over 1 billion people worldwide, or roughly 12.6% of the global population, drink coffee every single day. That adds up to a staggering 2.25 billion cups daily. I personally contribute at least three of those… and that’s just before 10 a.m. Not even my two other vices — golf and wielding the inkhorn — come close to rivalling my insatiable addiction to caffeine. It’s the one habit that refuses to be outplayed or outwritten.
For me, coffee isn’t just a morning ritual — it’s a liquid miracle with tax-free perks. Thanks to its caffeine kick and antioxidant arsenal, it’s been linked to sharper energy, better performance (mental and physical), and even a lowered risk of some pesky chronic illnesses.
Who knew good health could come in a cup?
However, much like navigating Joburg’s treacherous streets, the journey to caffeine-inspired good health is strewn with potholes — deep, jarring, and plentiful enough to raise your cholesterol by the skyrocketing prices alone. Before long, even the clean-living javaphile like me are clutching their wallets and statins like a spare tyre.
Lately, the price of my beloved Jacobs Coffee has been climbing faster than the ANC’s promises in an election season — reaching heights that even my caffeine addiction struggles to justify. Loyal though I may be to the brand (and, let’s be honest, to my vices), I, like most weary-eyed consumers, am feeling the squeeze of this never-ending price gouging.
According to Domaine Rautenbach, Senior Brand Manager at Jacobs Coffee, the blame lies with a familiar trifecta: global supply chain chaos, jittery currency markets, and rising production costs. In short, everything except our desperation to function before 9 a.m.
But the true villain in this dark roast drama? Climate change. It’s been reportedly merciless on Arabica and Robusta crops — torching yields, flooding fields, and sending green bean prices into a stratosphere where only hedge funds and hipster baristas dare tread. Apparently, the climate isn’t just changing — it’s coming for our coffee. And our emaciated wallets!
But the cynic in me can’t shake the suspicion that, never mind the pitiful excuse trotted out to justify the exorbitant price increases, we’re not being told the whole truth. And, fortunately, my exceptionally discerning palate is in full agreement. Something’s changed — be it the beans, the roast, or both. For, this isn’t the Jacobs Coffee my family and I pledged allegiance to.
And to think this is all unfolding on the eve of President Ramaphosa’s much-touted, face-saving national dialogue — a moment supposedly designed to pacify a restless nation. One can only imagine the grumpiness levels rising among already weary citizens who, deprived of their usual coffee fix, will be even less inclined to entertain platitudes and political theatre. It’s hard to engage in constructive dialogue when your nerves are frayed and your mug is empty.
It’s enough to make one consider launching a national roadshow à la campaign for the return of the real, makoya Jacobs Coffee — the bold, dark, richly flavoured, and affordable brew we once knew and loved. Mayibuye!
But alas, even that once-powerful rallying cry has recently been hijacked by the former EFF deputy Führer and ever-flip-flopping ex-uMkhonto Cadreshian himself, Floyd Shivambu — he of the chicoried political blend and thoroughly charred moral fibre. With the Mayibuye! slogan now as watered down as the coffee, what hope is there for a proper revival, never mind national dialogue?
In the end analysis, it would appear that Jacobs Coffee is doing everything in its power not to boost my energy, but to drain it entirely — dulling my mental sharpness, sabotaging my physical vigour, and possibly nudging me toward the very chronic ailments it once helped me stave off. At this rate, it seems determined to wean this conscientious observer off coffee waya waya (altogether), whether by price, taste, or sheer disillusionment.
And in moments of bleary-eyed frustration next to a boiling kettle, I find myself echoing the immortal words of actress Nana Stapelberg in Panic Mechanic: “Is dit Jacobs met ’n J, of met ’n K?” — because frankly, it’s no longer clear whether I’m sipping a premium roast or a cheap imposter.
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