I Downloaded an App and Removed My Kidney for Free Boba

By Claire Hua | Photo by Alex Gaines

There are only a handful of moments in life when you know, without a doubt, that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be. For some people, it’s meeting the love of their life. For others, landing their dream job. For me, it’s hearing the words, “Free boba! Free boba!”

So, whenever this lovely opportunity arrives, you know my big back is walking very fast (but not running) toward the glorious calls to claim my free boba. 

When I arrive at the stand, I look down at the table and honestly the boba looks so incredibly mid. Not to judge based on looks, but it’s probably emo and cries in the shower, but I didn’t come this far just to not get it. One of the sellers starts speaking rapidly to me in Mandarin. She’s Asian, I’m Asian—so naturally she assumes I speak the language. The only issue is that I’m too whitewashed to understand what she’s saying. The most my Chinese vocabulary extends to is “你好” “谢谢,” and ordering food (by pointing). I nod along to whatever she’s saying, sprinkling in a “mmm” or “ohh” at what I hope are the right intervals. I get a little ahead of myself and even throw in a light chuckle at one point, which may have not been the right move since she stares at me oddly for a few seconds before continuing. I’m sure I’ve convinced her that I’m a native speaker. Like, just give me my Oscar. I should stop her and just admit I don’t speak Mandarin, but the boba is right there. I’m soooo close.

She makes me scan some QR code for an app that looks like it was designed by a middle schooler with malware ambitions. I know my data’s about to get shipped off to 67 different servers in random countries, but whatever—free boba. The app finally downloads after 12 pop-ups and the lady “borrows” my phone to finish the process (she’s probably stealing my data too). I figure that’s the end of it, but no. She says something else, still in Mandarin, and now there’s a form I have to fill out?

She proceeds to pull out a piece of paper, and of course it’s written in, you guessed it, Mandarin. At this point, I have committed too deeply to the bit. The lioness never asks for help when it hurts her ego. So I skim the paper, furrowing my eyebrows as if I’m really thinking about these terms and conditions, before checking all the boxes and signing at the end. Besides, it’s just a form. What could a boba company possibly do?

Immediately, two very buff men appear and escort me to a van nearby. “Oh,” I think, “this must be the VIP boba storage unit. Clearly they keep the better drinks in refrigerated conditions for people who can speak Mandarin. Sucks to be the non-Mandarin speakers getting warm drinks off the table.” But as we approach the van, one of them blindfolds me. “For suspense,” I convince myself. “Just like a surprise birthday party or before a big reveal.”

Next thing I know, there’s a sharp prick in my arm— “wow so bougie they’re even doing vaccinations here” —and I’m out.

When I wake up, my stomach feels like I followed every single Chloe Ting ab workout video before getting punched by Muhammad Ali (apparently he’s a famous boxer? Idk, I just googled it). There’s a weird wrap around my abdomen which smells faintly of disinfectant and… brown sugar? I somehow ended up on the fifth floor of CDS on that massive couch facing the window to the stairs that’s always taken up by someone napping (yes, it’s the one you’re thinking of). I almost forget what happened, but then I see it. On the side of the table, a single, 16oz cup of boba. Regular size.

Should I use Google Translate next time? Probably. 

Should I admit when I can’t understand Mandarin, even when it very deeply hurts my ego and every other Asian auntie within a five-mile radius? Maybe. 

Should I report this to… someone? Absolutely. 

Will I? Well, I would, but I can’t read the discharge papers so…
 But hey, at least I got my lukewarm, bland, watered-down, FREE brown sugar boba.