‘Tasteless Humanitea’ by Oluchi Eunice Myron
Like adding honey to a cup of bland tea,
We love to reform personalities,
To draw our own meaning,
And establish it as reality.
We weave universes out of a grain of sand,
Simply because we can,
We counter social order with tear-rubber philosophies,
And even then,
We don’t still our hands.
We defy what it means to be human,
Complicating God’s equation,
And it’s a puzzle,
How we manage to riddle our own existence with confusion,
The answers our intellectuals give equals…questions,
More questions, and half-baked answers.
Everything means nothing,
Yet we are told to feel everything,
“Feel angry…Feel afraid…Feel love,”
Feel this and that,
And by our own hands, we paint a picture of humanity,
With four arms and a set of wings,
With no moral conscience,
Yet with an arrogant God complex,
Are we all meant to be the same?
Or are we different?
Should I celebrate commonality?
Or my own uniqueness?
These voices seem to know me more than I know myself,
They tell me to sit still,
Powder away,
Till I resemble the shifting images on the wall.
In their defence,
Humanity was tasteless,
So they had to do something about it,
But as I sit here,
Sipping my share of artificial tea,
I do not taste tea,
And I wonder if this is what my tastebuds were built for.