The sun scorches the ground and the wind stirs restless among trees,
There are whispers no one speaks aloud.
This is a land of open skies and heavy silences,
Where fear lives close to the tongue.
If I speak, I may disappear.
There was a time when voices rose like a morning tide,
Songs of freedom swept through the hills,
Children dreamed of megaphones,
Their words carried far and wide,
But now, whispers turn into silence,
Muted colors fading into gray.
That’s Kenya for you,
A country of open skies and closed mouths,
Where history’s murmurs still ring
“Nchi ya Kwanza” sang of land, of sovereignty,
Yet here we are,
Gathered beneath fragile roofs,
Afraid to shake the walls of comfort.
Freedom of speech ?
A dandelion crushed under heavy boots.
“Speak up,” they say,
But the claws of consequence lurk close,
Each word a risk, each sentence a threat,
A storm brewing on the horizon,
Every raindrop a truth
That floods the streets,
Only to vanish into silence.
In the market square,
Eyes flicker with stories not told,
Lips press tight as fingers point
At faces of power,
But silence costs less
Than the price of speaking truth.
At dinner tables,
Ideas clash like spoons in a bowl,
A family walks the line
Between safety and outrage.
One wrong word,
And the room holds its breath.
Beneath it all,
The weight of freedom lies,
Written deep in scars,
Buried in graves of those who dared.
And what of the poets,
The dreamers who once danced with danger?
Now they tread softly,
Pens hovering above paper,
Caught between courage and caution.
On the shores of Lake Victoria,
The fishermen watch the waters,
Their mouths sealed tighter
Than the nets they cast.
For even here,
The law grips tighter than any tide.
Still,
Hope refuses to die.
It grows like grass and fern between cracks in the pavement,
It rises in laughter, in hands held high.
It blooms in the smallest corners,
In murals painted on concrete walls,
In songs hummed beneath breath.
If I speak, I may disappear.
But even silence carries a rhythm,
A beat that cannot be stilled.
For every voice quieted,
Ten more rise.
For every dream crushed,
A thousand seeds scatter.
We are the embers,
We are the sparks,
And no storm can put us out.
If I speak, I may disappear.
But if I stay silent,
Who will tell our story?
@okelododdychitchats
Category: Uncategorized
A Letter to You, Men
Dear man,
I write to you in the quiet of dawn,
When the world stirs with whispers of promise,
And shadows yield to the birth of light.
This is a letter, not a sermon, not a scolding,
But a soft wind stirring your soul,
A call from one heart to another,
A pause to remember who you are
And who you could be.
Wake up,
Wake up from the numbing slumber of conformity,
From the comfortable tomb of inertia.
Shake off the chains of apathy
That bind your dreams to the ground.
The world is waiting,
Rise with the sun, let its warmth fill your chest,
And carve your place into the marrow of this earth.
Build your own self,
A man not sculpted from the molds of expectation,
But one built with integrity’s fierce hands.
Lay your foundation with truth,
Brick by brick of courage and humility,
Mortared with the lessons of failure.
Let self-love be your cornerstone,
For how can you lead others
If your own heart is a wilderness of doubt?
Build your family
Make it a refuge where love spills like morning light,
Where tears are cups of truth,
And laughter rings like unbroken bells.
Be the architect of sanctuary,
Not with walls of pride,
But with open doors of kindness.
Do not let regret cloud your vision,
Chart the way with faith and tenderness.
Homes are not houses,
They are hearts tied together by love’s hands.
Play your roles with love
Father, son, brother, partner…
Wear these names like a crown of stars.
Not with dominance,
But with the strength of gentle hands,
With the quiet force of a shoulder that bears,
A heart that listens.
Vulnerability is not a weakness,
It is the marrow of connection,
The place where love lives and breathes.
Oh, dear man,
Don’t be a ghost of a father,
A name whispered in longing,
A shadow in a child’s dreams.
Children need roots to hold them firm,
And wings to lift them high.
Be the guidance in their storms,
The steady light on a darkened shore.
In your arms, they learn to trust,
To dream, to become.
Be their hero, not perfect,
But present.
Do not lose yourself to anger,
That wildfire that devours forests of peace.
Let it pass through like the storm it is,
Rage, then rest, then rise again,
But never let it take your soul.
Meet it with understanding,
For the world is a fragile thing,
And love is always the better sword.
Don’t chase applause,
For it is the fleeting chorus of hollowed hands.
Seek truth instead,
Sing your own song,
Unapologetically yours.
There is no peace in pretense,
There is only weariness.
Live authentically,
Raw, flawed, radiant.
Choose your battles,
Do not draw your sword for every slight.
Wisdom is knowing when to fight
And when to let silence be your answer.
Restraint is not weakness,
It is the quiet power of kings.
Give, dear man,
Give with open hands,
But know when to rest.
Life is not a scorecard,
It is a dance of give and take,
A river that drys and flows.
In generosity, there is beauty,
But let balance be your guide,
For even oceans need shores.
And if love is not returned,
Do not wither, do not fall.
Some chapters are meant for growth,
Not permanence.
Let them go with grace,
And walk unburdened by what was.
Detachment is a kind of freedom,
A breath of peace when the weight is too much.
Do not linger where the air is poison.
When toxicity suffocates,
Leave with your spirit intact.
Boundaries are not walls,
They are gardens,
Places where your soul can bloom.
Seek light, seek life.
Don’t stay where your laughter dies.
Life, dear man,
Is a song waiting to be sung,
Art waiting for your hands.
Be the artist of your existence,
The poet of your days.
You are more than breath and bone,
You are a force, a dream, a maker of worlds.
Wake up.
Step into your becoming.
This life is yours,
A Limitless and glorious scene.
Write your truth,
Shape your legacy with love,
And dance boldly into tomorrow.
This, dear man,
Is your story.
@okelododdychitchats
Lady in Black
“Mimi ni wa kucum, oh, scrap that, my bad, I meant Mimi ni wa kucome.’”
I was raised in the village. Well, not really a village because Rongo qualifies as a town, but Nairobians will still call it Moshadha, or ushago, or something else altogether. Forget it.
I grew up in Rongo for most of my childhood and only moved to Nairobi for campus. That’s right, I went to Multimedia University of Kenya in Karen, Nairobi County. Before anyone comes at me with, “Multimedia iko Rongai, bro,” before we argue, check your maps! The lower fence of Multimedia separates Nairobi from Rongai in Kajiado County. So yes, I schooled in Karen and stayed in Karen for four years. Si ni Mimi nawashow.
I bring up this whole kukucome thingie because when I first got into the Nairobi scene, matatu touts kept shouting “Tao Amboseli,” I didn’t catch it right, so I genuinely thought every estate in Nairobi had an Amboseli, just like almost every hood has a Kwa Chief in it. Turns out, they were saying “Tao hamusini,” as in, fare to town was 50 bob from wherever the pickup point was. Today, I’m in one of the moderately pimped Mapepe mats of Utimo Sacco. It’s carrying Tao Hamusini from Umoja Jeska stage. It’s Almost full. People love it because the driver here, knows how to dodge traffic….I’m sitting in the back, on the left window seat, giving me a clear view of everyone getting in, and, of course, judging them. Before I’m done profiling my fellow passengers, a lady slides in beside me. She’s today’s topic. This is udaku for free, feel free to share it with your crew. I hear y’all love udaku, so buckle up.
She’s in a sleek black dress, paired with not-so-new maroon Nike TNs, probably Kamukunji stock, judging by the soles, which haven’t been worn down by exposure to air (yes, I noticed the shoes when she stepped in, don’t ask). Her makeup is flawless, compensating for her questionable style. Thick lenses with frames hugging her round face sit perfectly on her.
Her eyes? Twin pools of wonder and mystery, they speak in whispers, framed by lashes as soft as a lover’s caress.
Her lips? Succulent and juicy.
Her nose? Perfectly symmetrical.
Her face is a masterpiece on a perfectly sculpted body.
Her hips don’t lie. When she sits, our hips meet, and I feel something, a desire mixed with comfort and curiosity mingling with hunger. Unsettling and oddly familiar.
I don’t know her name, but I know she smells nice, her dreadlocks are freshly done, clean, and not a hint of dusty brown in sight.
The bus starts moving, and she turns to me.
“You look good,” she says.
So do you, I think.
“You smell nice,” she adds.
So do you, I think again.
Match made in heaven, I convince myself, until she starts talking. And talking. And talking. A relentless stream of words. This river has no banks. Suddenly, I’m not so sure. I reconsider my initial instincts about asking for her name or number.
She pulls out a Juicy Fruit from her Gussii bag (yes, that’s what it says, probably meant to say Gucci). The way she chews it… carefree, wild, tasting life with abandon. It’s unbothered. It’s maddening….
We are in Town now,
When we reach past Mfangano Street, she turns.
“What’s your name?”
I tell her.
She smiles and walks away, heading toward Luthuli Avenue.
I watch her walk. That dhudha (that’s ass in some local sheng language.) That graceful stride. That hypnotic sway.
And for a fleeting moment, I wonder if I could’ve traded all that talking and careless chewing for the simple joy of watching her disappear into the crowd…
I almost get knocked down by a bike. As I snap back to reality, I realize it’s partly my fault. This part of town is always packed with people and matatus. When you mix those two, it feels like the sum of mchanga wa bahari, a bit of an exaggeration, but downtown Nairobi CBD is always a madhouse. I apologize to the boda guy and keep walking toward Nyayo House, with the lady in black still on my mind… I’ll tell you this, if you meet someone in a matatu or anywhere else who catches your interest, don’t wait around. Go for it. Take the risk! The guilt of not trying is way worse than whatever the outcome might be. I wish I’d gotten her number, even if it ended up on that list of contacts I don’t talk to. At least I’d have it, and what I choose to do with it is on me.
All day, I can’t stop thinking about the lady in black. She’s in my thoughts, even in the words I’m about to say. I try to dodge the usual chaos of the crowded streets, so I take a detour towards Kencom, then City Hall. It’s quieter here, with less hustle, and the buildings are lined up neatly, giving off this calm vibe. It’s the kind of peace that lets me think about the lady in black without anything pulling my attention away.
As I get closer to Nyayo House, I notice the street next to Cardinal Otunga and Holy Basilica is lined with Kienyeji ladies, each with an eye on the crowd. They’re advertising cyber services, not with signs, but with their words “bro, cyber, printing…” They’re looking for people who might need a printout or scan before heading into Nyayo House. Their smiles say they’ve seen it all, and they walk with the kind of confidence only Nairobi’s hustle can teach.
I don’t need any cyber services today, so I head straight to the NEMA offices to meet the Nairobi County Coordinator. Her office is warm and welcoming, and one day, I’ll ask her for an interview. But today, I’m here for something else.
Catch you later, guys!
@okelododdychitchats
The Quiet Lies
It’s early, just before dawn,
when the world should be quiet,
but there’s this restless hum,
like something’s brewing,
just out of reach,
just under the surface.
That’s how these stories start,
not with dragons or heroes,
but with real people
getting swallowed whole
by a world too busy to notice.
See how they twist it?
An abduction becomes
a headline.
A headline becomes
a show.
And suddenly, tragedy is entertainment.
“Mara, they weren’t even abducted,”
As if a smile in a photo somehow proves you’re okay.
“Look, they’re well-fed. They’re fine.”
But are they?
What does freedom mean
when fear follows you home
and sleeps in your bed?
Did they really have to die
for you to believe they were abducted?
Do they need to spill their trauma
for all to see?
Do they have to cry
for their truth to matter?
Isn’t the fear in their eyes,
the shake in their voice,
already enough?
Say it,
and the sycophants will twist your words,
speaking with honeyed lies,
shrugging it off…
They’re just politicians anyway.
They’ll tell you it’s complicated.
They’ll say, “Things are being handled.”
They’ll dress their deceit
in smooth, practiced tones,
their voices bending like shadows
on the evening news.
And behind the scenes,
nothing changes.
Because the truth isn’t a press release.
It’s what happens when the cameras turn off.
It’s in the silence between the headlines.
It’s in the questions no one’s answering.
And while we chase distractions,
real problems rot in the dark.
Borders fall apart.
Hunger gnaws at homes
too far from the spotlight.
This isn’t chaos by accident.
It’s chaos by design.
A game of look over here
while they tear everything down over there.
Don’t let them trick you.
Don’t trust the shiny things.
This world is full of mirrors,
and they’re hoping you won’t notice
the strings behind the curtain.
Every headline is a magic trick.
Every outrage is a smoke bomb.
And while we argue
over who said what
and who’s to blame,
they keep moving the pieces, writing new rules for a game we didn’t agree to play.
Wake up.
Families are broken.
Communities are bleeding.
And all they give us
are statements wrapped in lies
and promises that disappear
the moment we blink.
Look deeper.
Ask harder questions.
Don’t settle for their version of the story.
They’ll tell you It’s too complicated for us to understand,
but that’s just another trick.
This isn’t a show.
It’s real.
And we deserve better
than lights, cameras, and soundbites.
We deserve answers.
We deserve justice.
We deserve the truth,
no matter how messy it is,
no matter how much it hurts.
So stop.
Think.
Push back.
Don’t just watch from the sidelines
while they play us for fools.
We have the power to end the show.
We have the power to write a new story.
One where fear doesn’t win.
One where hope doesn’t get sold for headlines.
This isn’t freedom.
It’s a performance.
And it’s time we tear it down and start again.
Because real life isn’t a script.
It’s ours to shape.
And justice,
justice isn’t a show.
It’s a fight worth having.
#ENDABDUCTIONSKE
@okelododdychitchats
I Remember
I Remember This
I remember that day like it was yesterday,
When time just… stopped.
Everything felt heavy, like carrying sacks of maize on my back,
And your words, they hit me,
Soft but sharp, cutting through the quiet.
It was the 31st.
That date? It stayed with me,
Stuck in my chest like a thorn.
It made me thirsty, not for water,
But for answers, for understanding,
For some kind of meaning that never came.
We walked, remember?
Under those jacaranda trees,
Purple petals falling like tiny blessings
Or maybe tears we couldn’t cry.
The wind? It whispered secrets,
Or maybe I imagined that too.
Everything about that moment was a blur,
But your voice?
Your voice was clear,
Soft, steady,
Like a song from long ago.
You told me about her,
And I felt it.
Every. Single. Word.
Like the weight of rain-soaked clothes
Clinging to my skin.
I whispered a prayer that day,
Not because I knew what to say,
But because silence felt heavier than speaking.
“God, please… please guide her home.
Hold her close. Let her rest.”
Ooh, Yesu Kristo!
My heart,
It broke wide open,
And your name slipped from my lips
Along with tears I didn’t even realize were falling.
Grief, they say, is the price of love,
And we,
We paid in full that day.
Every tear,
Every ache,
Every silent scream.
Loss sits in your chest,
Heavy like a stone you can’t put down.
But even stones wear smooth over time.
Grace,
That’s what you taught me,
Grace shapes us,
Even when we’re broken.
May her soul find peace,
That kind of deep, deep peace
That feels like warm sun on tired shoulders,
Like a calm lake at dusk.
And I’ll carry her,
Her memory,
Her laughter,
Her love,
Because love doesn’t die.
It just… changes.
It becomes wind,
And light,
And breath.
Osiepa,
You’re still here, In the stories we tell, In the way we laugh even when it hurts, In the quiet moments When memories sit with us
Like a fire we gather around for warmth.
I remember.
And I always will.
@okelododdychitchats
It’s 2025
2024 was one hell of a year.
It started with so much hope. I had plans, big plans, to leave certain things behind, and to be honest, I did. But it wasn’t all smooth sailing. The struggles came too, hard and fast, but somehow, God showed up every single time.
I’m not the kind of person to stand in front of a church and give a testimony, not me. But today, I felt tempted. I’m writing this right here in church, and it’s probably the fifth time I’ve been here this whole year. One of my goals for 2024 was to go to church every Sunday. I tried, I really did. January was great, I was consistent. But then life happened, and somewhere along the way, I got lost. I try again in 2025
So now, I’m sitting at the back, on the right-hand side of the church. I’ve never sat here before, and I can’t help but notice how full it is today. It’s never been like this. Seeing so many people here, God’s children gathered under one roof, it makes me happy. This place feels alive, like a marketplace of blessings. And I’m here to claim mine, to carry me through 2025.
I’m not writing a long list of goals this time. I’ve learned something about life, it doesn’t follow a formula. There’s no perfect plan. All I know is that the effort I’m going to put in this year will get me where I need to be. That’s it. Simple.
I don’t have much to say, really. I’m just thankful. Thankful that I’m here, alive, and hopeful again. Thankful for a chance to start over.
So goodbye, 2024. You were tough, you were beautiful, you were messy. But it’s time to move on.
Here’s to 2025. Let’s go.
And this is my Prayer,
I know I messed up along the way
But God, just give me a chance to say
I am trouble, I am a f up
But give me another chance to make up
I’ve made mistakes, I won’t deny
But please, don’t let this be goodbye
I’m begging you, hear my plea
I know I can be better, just wait and see
I’ve stumbled and fallen, lost my way
But I’m asking for your grace today
I’ve let you down, I’ve let myself down
But I promise, I won’t wear this frown
I know I don’t deserve your love
But I’m hoping for a sign from above
To guide me back onto the right path
To escape this cycle of wrath
I know I’ve caused pain and hurt
But I’m willing to do the work
To make amends, to right my wrongs
To sing a new and hopeful song
I may be broken, I may be flawed
But I believe in the power of God
To grant me forgiveness, to show me the way
To a brighter and better day
I know I don’t deserve a second chance
But please, just give me one more dance
To prove that I can change and grow
To show that I can bloom and glow
I am a sinner, I am a saint
I am a puzzle, missing a paint
But with your help, I can be whole
With your guidance, I can reach my goal
So please, God, just give me a chance
To show that I can rise and dance
To show that I can mend my ways
And live out my remaining days
I know I messed up along the way
But God, just give me a chance to say
I am ready to face my fears
And dry up all these tears
I know I am a f up, I’ve been trouble
But I believe I can burst this bubble
With your grace, with your love
I know I can rise above
This is my prayer, my plea
To be the person you want me to be
To walk the path you’ve set for me
To live a life that’s pure and free
So please, God, just hear my cry
And give me a chance to try
To be the best version of me
To live a life that’s full and free
I know I don’t deserve it, I know I’m not perfect
But with your help, I know I can resurrect
My spirit, my soul, my heart
And make a fresh new start
So please, God, just give me a chance
To prove that I can advance
To a place of peace and light
To a future that’s bright
I know I messed up along the way
But God, just give me a chance to pray
To ask for forgiveness, to seek redemption
To find a path to salvation
I know I am a f up, I’ve caused trouble
But I believe I can burst this bubble
With your mercy, with your grace
I know I can find my place
So please, God, just give me a chance
To mend my ways, to make amends
To create a life that’s true
To become the person you always knew
I know I don’t deserve it, I know I’m not worth it
But with your love, I know I can unearth it
The strength, the courage, the will
To break free from this endless drill
So please, God, just give me a chance
To find my purpose, to enhance
My life, my soul, my being
To finally find that feeling
Of peace, of joy, of love
That only comes from above
So please, don’t turn away
Just give me another chance today.
@okelododdychitchats
People Still Wear Safari Boots
I’m in a Latema Travels bus, heading to the village, not Kikuyu or Dumboini. It’s a new bus, charging Ksh. 1,600. At least I’m not paying Ksh. 2,500 to board those cramped 10-seater minivans driven with reckless abandon! There are hardly any vehicles heading to Nyanza or Western, they’re either full or charging outrageously high fares. This Latema bus, playing bongo is a hot cake!
The bus is almost full, and the fare collector, a broker called Ongeri, is everywhere, moving up and down the aisle. He’s wearing an old orange Transline reflector jacket, paired with faded navy-blue trousers and a collared t-shirt with frayed edges. His safari boots have seen better days. Ongeri, though loud, isn’t annoying, his humor keeps things light.
In less than an hour, the bus fills up, but not without drama. We’re parked at Oilibya along Moi Avenue, just past Afya Center and opposite Picasso Restaurant. The commotion is between touts and Kanjo (County Council officers, the Zakayos of our time). Like the police, they extort money from struggling citizens. There’s an argument about unpaid dues, but before I can figure out the details, we finally leave the bus stop.
As we head toward KPCU (I don’t know what that stands for, but it’s Ena Coach’s home ground), Ongeri and the official bus tout are at odds. Ongeri notices an empty seat and insists the tout go back to fetch another passenger. Oddly enough, the tout complies, leaving us waiting at the Total petrol station near Pastor Nga’nga’s Neno Evangelism Center. The driver and Ongeri engage in a loud, heated math session, calculating their profits while the rest of us grumble about the delay-it’s already 2 PM, and a seven-hour journey awaits.
Eventually, the tout returns with a lady passenger, and we’re finally on our way. Ongeri heads back to Oilibya or whatever.
Now, we’re past Suswa, somewhere between wheat plantations. The bus is playing Arbantone, Sean MMG, Lil Maina, Danski, and YBW Smith’s “Now You Know.” My mood would be better if the legroom weren’t so tight- my long legs are cramping in this confined space.
Next to me is my cousin Jack. On the other side, there’s a UON student, he’s taking biochemistry. I didn’t catch his name, but he mentioned he’s from Sori, Karungu. He’s with his cousin, Eddy Moses, a structural engineer who went to Ringa High School and TUK. Eddy is one of those guys who make sure you know they’re engineers. Cocky but still decent company.
The vaibu in this bus is something else. There’s a guy called Kasongo (yes, that’s his actual ID name). He’s from Nyamarambe, near Riosiri Market, the border between Rongo and Kisii Highlands. Kasongo is Gen X, infact he studied during the colonial period, but he’s cool enough to keep up with the younger crowd. He’s referring to us as Gen Si. He has an accent and his “Z” falls in the place of “S.”
At 4:22 p.m., we stop for food. Kasongo and the Sori cousins go straight to the egg vendor, get kugongewa mbili, and then melt away into a liquor store. When we get back on the bus, it’s proper mavaibu, it’s now a full-on party. People are talking, laughing, and doing whatever. Vybz Kartel’s “Don’t Follow Me Like Jesus,” is playing, and I think, did he curse himself with that line? He still has fans, yes, but not as many people are following him like Jesus.
The party energy carries us all the way to Kisii. By the time we get there, the rain has started, and the bus quietens down. The journey is over, and everyone’s mood sobers.
We walk through the drizzle and I think back on the trip, It was a crazy one, in the best way. Kasongo, Eddy, and his cousin made the ride memorable, like free entertainment you didn’t ask for but enjoyed anyway. Then I spot Pastor Ezekiel’s billboard and think to myself, How much does this guy spend on these things? PLO Lumumba was right, Jesus is a money making Industry.
And Ongeri’s safari boots? Kwani people still wear safari boots these days?
@okelododdychitchats
Sunday Afternoon
This is the Mwiki-Njiru tarmac road, definitely not calling this a highway! Catch me dead, wena! I hear this massive bare land, with the Nairobi River cutting through it, belongs to the Kenyattas. Kwani, how much land do they have?
The matatu I’m in is struggling to climb the hill, all while playing some boring reggae tracks-those that lament suffering in every single lyric. Meanwhile, the tout is busy complaining about a lady, Florence, who supposedly didn’t pay her fare. Honestly, that’s on him. He was probably too distracted by her looks to confirm payment. Now I’m imagining how Florence must look, one of those who draw a single thin strip for eyebrows and act like they’ve achieved peak makeup artistry. Always carrying an unnecessary attitude.
I am with my cousins, Jack and Kevin, and earlier they dared me to try their kinyozi. I was hesitant, but I went for it. Turns out the skinny Luhya barber from Webuye, who hasn’t gone home for Christmas and drowns the quiet with a flood of endless words, did a decent job on my hair-except for a scratch at the back of my head. Now my paranoia is through the roof. I keep worrying if I can catch something from that scratch. I know it’s unlikely, but overthinking is always my weak point.
Setting paranoia aside, my mind is flooded with thoughts. People I hold dear promising to get back to me and not bothering, even after 12 hours. It’s the weekend, I’m broke, stuck in Nairobi, and Christmas is just two days away. I look confused and feel shameless about it. All I want is to get home for Christmas-at least this year!
Jack and Kevin, on the other hand, are cracking up the entire community. These guys are funny! Wena, they’re talking about football and mixing it with wild banter like, “Mimi mtu alisoma shule yenye imekuwa named after a dead person hawezi niambia kitu.” It’s all in good humor, and everyone around is laughing, probably wondering, “Who are these guys?”
We’re now waiting for today’s games, and I’m crossing my fingers. I desperately want a win for the crippled Manchester United.
I know you’re probably wondering why I named this “Sunday Afternoon.” Well, it’s because… it’s Sunday afternoon. Simple as that.
@okelododdychitchats
Grace in the Details
I’m at this restaurant along Moi Avenue. Its food looks like an upgraded version of Homabay High School meals (you will understand why). I can hardly pronounce its name, let alone write it. Honestly, why name a restaurant this hard? I thought names were supposed to connect with customers. Has that changed? Marketers, is this strategy now a relic of the past, is it a vestigial structure ?
The place is well-designed. It’s a sanctuary carved out of dreams, and that’s what drew me in! I love good designs, but I’ve just learned the hard way that the prettiness of a place doesn’t guarantee the sweetness of its food. Trust me, you can use this in any context you want !
The receptionist is a light-skinned lady with poorly done makeup and an attitude to match. I choose to ignore her entirely and look for a seat where I won’t have to see her chewing gum carelessly every time I lift my head.
I settle next to a window, where I can take in the scenery. It’s beautiful in its own way-not green, but full of life with people walking in different directions, a flock of matatus, and a road that seems to have missed maintenance since independence.
The waiter here is Grace-at least, that’s what her badge says. She’s beautiful. Her skin is a rich mix of bronze and gold. Her wide, luminous eyes seem to hold a thousand untold stories. She carries a natural beauty that stands out effortlessly, paired with a calm and confident demeanor that speaks volumes about her self-assuredness. Her restaurant uniform is a clean white blouse neatly tucked into a black skirt-looks like it was tailored just for her. The simple outfit hugs her elegant figure perfectly, and the black-and-white contrast gives her a sharp, polished look. She moves with such poise and confidence that something as ordinary as a uniform suddenly seems extraordinary on her. Simplicity has never looked this good.
Grace approaches me, asking what I’d like to have while taking me through the menu. Everything on it seems mlimarish. I settle for ugali with beef. She tells me, “Hiyo mbando hainjaiva,” in a heavy accent. From her voice, I can tell she’s Meru. Her second name is probably Gitonga, Kendi, or something similarly Meru-sounding. There’s something irresistibly beautiful about the Meru accent. I listen, I judge, and I know, I’m not wrong about this one.
I decide to wait because my craving for beef won’t let me pick anything else. It feels like I’m nursing a hangover, but I’m not!
When the food comes, I’m shocked, bana! This is thufu in reality. Tiny chunks of meat are floating in a watery broth, and the ugali is poorly made. To make it worse, they’ve served it with cabbage. My appetite disappears in an instant. I can’t eat this food, it’s beyond poorly done.
But at least Grace is here. I can enjoy listening to her accent. She has a heart of gold, and I feel guilty sending the food back. I pay the bill and even leave her a tip. She smiles and says, “Azante.” I want to laugh, but I hold back. As she walks back toward the reception, I catch myself admiring her “Nyash,” and honestly, it’s worth every shilling I just spent. Bana Nyathini Kado !
I have no more business here, so it’s time to leave.
Will I return for the food? Absolutely not. But I’ll come back for Grace, for her smile, her accent, and her presence. I think she might just be the one. Forget the food, this “Nyash” is unmatched!
@okelododdychitchats
Behind the Walls
In this city’s very soul, behind its walls
There’s a hidden place, where poverty does not pass by.
A settlement, with huts made of tin,
The streets are littered, and the air is thin.
Here, order is but a dream,
Children roam the streets, with nowhere to be seen.
Their playgrounds are filled with rubbish and waste,
Their homes are cramped, with no sense of taste.
The stuffed room they call home, with everything thrown everywhere,
Is a sight to behold, a scene of despair.
Toys lie scattered, amidst piles of clothes,
While the stench of decay, through the air it flows.
How safe is that stuffed room, for your kids to play?
With sharp objects hidden, amidst the disarray.
Their fragile bodies, at risk of harm,
In a space so cluttered, with no sense of charm.
The stairs that lead to their home, littered with waste,
Is a danger waiting, a disaster in haste.
Broken bottles and debris, scattered all around,
A trip and fall, a loud crashing sound.
How healthy is that stairs, for their little feet to tread?
With filth and grime, underneath their thread.
Their tiny lungs, breathing in the dust,
Their innocence tainted, by the lack of trust.
The balcony they call theirs, a space so small,
Is a makeshift playground, with no safety at all.
A rickety railing, a crumbling ledge,
A fall from above, towards the edge.
How safe is that balcony, for them to roam and play?
With no barriers to keep them away.
Their laughter silenced, by the fear of a fall,
Their joy overshadowed, by the looming wall.
Must poverty be associated, with being dirty and unclean?
With no sense of pride, in the space they call serene.
But why must their world, be suffocated by filth?
Why must their homes, be devoid of wealth?
We have good roads, and some drainages too,
Yet the filth persists, amidst the view.
Why must we throw litter, everywhere we go?
Why must we live in filth, and not let it show?
Their parents work hard, to put food on the table,
But cleanliness is lacking, in a world unstable.
They want their kids to enjoy, a good environment too,
But the odds are against them, in a world askew.
So let us not judge, the ones in poverty’s grasp,
For their struggle is real, a never-ending task.
Let us lend a helping hand, to clean the streets,
To make their world cleaner, with no defeat.
For every child deserves, a safe and healthy space,
To grow and learn, in a world of grace.
Let us make a difference, in their lives today,
For a cleaner tomorrow, in every way.
@okelododdychitchats
okelododdychitchats 