It was just after five in the morning when I went to find him. The roads in Centurion were wet from the ’s rain, the air heavy with the smell of petrol and fresh bread from the corner garage. I had seen him once before, months earlier, a flash of yellow at the intersection. I was stuck in traffic, craving caffeine, and he caught my eye. I promised myself I would come back.
That morning, I did.
In the half-light, I saw him again. He was wearing the same bright yellow jacket, standing at the intersection of Voortrekker Street and Marrias Avenue, weaving between cars with a silver flask strapped to his side. His name is Lehubedu Mohlabe, and he runs a small business called Coffee to Car.
“I am the ray of sunshine,” he says, smiling as he pours. “Yellow means slow down, have a cup of coffee and continue.”
Watching Lehubedu at work is hypnotic. Cars crawl forward, windows open, and he greets each person like an old friend. Some hand him notes, others tap their cards, and all of them drive off with the same small look of relief that only caffeine and kindness can bring.
I went there expecting to meet a street vendor. What I found was something else entirely, a man who had turned his own struggle into a story of invention and grit.
“In 2022, I did not have a job,” Lehubedu tells me. “You know how it feels when you wake up and there is nothing to do. I was on my way to work one morning and thought, why is there no one serving coffee to me at five o’clock? That is when it hit me. Why not become that person?”
He started small, selling cups from that same flask he now carries every day. Today, he serves dozens of people each morning. He talks about his pricing, his customers, and his children with the same calm confidence.
“He who waits for the moon, waits for darkness,” he says. “Perfection is not coming. You just need to start with what you have, wherever you are.”
It is a philosophy that fits him perfectly. There is no complaint in his tone, only purpose. He tells me he wanted his children to see a real-life superhero, someone who started with nothing and built something out of courage.
“People are scared of starting,” he says. “They worry about what others will say. But people will always say something, so you might as well give them something to say.”
The longer I stand there, the more I realise that his presence is part of the city’s rhythm. He is not in the way. He belongs to the morning.
“I am proud of myself,” he says. “I am happy to wake up and do exactly what I need to do to grow my brand from the ground.”
When the traffic finally eases and the sun breaks through the clouds, he waves to his last customer and begins packing up. I thank him for letting me share his space for a while. Lehubedu smiles again, lifts his flask, and says, “Same time tomorrow.”
As I drive off, I keep thinking about that.
How some people wait for opportunity, while others create it, one cup of coffee at a time.
