Sipping Tea to Reggae

Even as the chilly wind blows, my ears still cling to summer—

to the rhythm of reggae.

To keep the cold away, I stir honey and ginger into my tea.

Tea, of course, belongs to Britain.

In an English morning, it is tea that greets you, not coffee.

Not because the English loved it.

But because the East India Company forbade coffee trade.

So the English drank tea not out of passion, but out of empire’s necessity—

pretending it was their choice, sipping with poise.

Today, that bitterness sinks into the inner pocket

of a City businessman’s tailored suit.

In Japan, afternoon tea is still in vogue.

A princess once brought it over—

an aristocratic pastime of idle hours,

a sweet, sugared space reserved for women.

But Britain had another teatime:

high tea.

Workers at dusk.

A tall table.

Cold meat.

Exhausted hands.

No one cares to tell that story.

Labor is too far from beauty.

Punk was propaganda—

too sharp, too staged, it lost its own words.

Reggae, instead, finds another truth

through the smoke.