A Look Back at Our First Ayyo Gathering — October

October feels like it will always hold a quiet place in my heart — the month Ayyo stepped out of my notebook and into a room full of people. Our first gathering was hosted at Nunu’s Café, a space that already feels like an extension of home. Warm light, familiar faces, a hum in the air that reminded me of the gatherings my mother used to host — where people weren’t rushed, where stories unfolded slowly.

From the moment the doors opened, the scent of freshly roasted Ethiopian coffee drifted through the space. We started the evening with Ayyo brewed in the way I grew up watching — beans roasted patiently, the aroma rising long before the taste reached our cups. The ceremony brought back flashes of my mother moving beans in a cast-iron pan, fanning away the embers while telling stories of Oromia, of coffee trees, of mornings wrapped in the smell of home.

Our espresso martinis flowed quietly from the bar — a little modern thread woven through an ancient ritual. I loved seeing guests move between the traditional coffee ceremony and the bar, watching both versions of Ayyo tell their own story.

Throughout the evening, friends and strangers drifted between tables, sharing sips, thoughts, and memories that weren’t mine but felt familiar in the way community always does. On one table, beautifully arranged dessert dates — thoughtful little creations from Holy Dates — disappeared faster than I expected. Nearby, delicate henna bloomed across hands in slow, steady strokes, thanks to DreamsHenna. None of it was loud or staged. It all just… lived in the room.

People asked about the beans, about Ethiopia, about what Ayyo means to me. I found myself speaking about my mother more than I planned. About the Oromo farmlands, about the women-led farm that nurtured our first batch, about why I believe some things deserve to be done slowly. Maybe it was the coffee. Maybe it was the warmth of the room. Maybe it was the way everyone listened — not out of politeness but out of genuine curiosity.

There was a moment, near the middle of the night, where I stepped back and just watched. People laughing. People tasting. People grounding themselves in something that, for me, has always been a tether back home. It felt like a soft beginning — not a launch, not a debut, but an introduction made with intention.

We’re moving slowly now, intentionally, as we prepare for our next steps. But October reminded me that even in seasons of pause, community keeps growing. Culture keeps moving. Stories keep unfolding.

Thank you to everyone who came, who tasted, who sat with us, who added their own colors to the evening. And thank you to Nunu’s Café for opening their doors to us with so much warmth.

This was our first gathering. And it felt like the start of something that will continue to grow in its own time, in its own way.