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

It’ll Take all of Us

I walk the familiar paths,
their beauty dulled by the litter that lines them.
Plastic bottles, discarded wrappers,
a shoe missing its pair,
a trail of neglect that’s hard to ignore.
Why always here?
Why do we treat our home this way?

The roads are heavy with filth,
the air thick with fumes and frustration.
Bins stand idle, waiting for use,
while rivers, once full of life,
carry the weight of our waste.
Water, meant to be clear and pure,
now tells a different story, A very dark story.

I step carefully, dodging the trash.
An empty soda can here,
a torn newspaper dancing in the wind.
Is it so hard to care?
So hard to find a bin,
to think beyond the moment?

I search the faces around me,
hoping for answers, but find none.
Just more garbage, plastic bags snagged on trees,
cigarette butts crushed into the dirt,
fast food wrappers blowing like tumbleweeds.

It makes me sad,
not just for the streets,
but for the way we’ve let them become this way.
The beauty of Eastlands
hidden under piles of indifference.

I bend down,
pick up a piece of litter,
and toss it into a nearby bin.
It feels small, insignificant,
but it’s something.

I know it’ll take more than one person,
more than one act,
to fix this mess we’ve created.
It’ll take all of us,
a shared sense of responsibility,
to bring life back to these streets.

Still, I dream,
of rivers running clear,
of air free of smoke,
of roads where the only footprints
are those left by hopeful feet.

Until that dream becomes reality,
I’ll keep walking these paths,
beautiful but broken,
reminding myself that change
starts with me.

@okelododdychitchats

Tukutendereza Yesu

State House Road smells fresh, like the air has been scrubbed clean. The rain came down hard, soaking everything in sight, and now I’m walking past YMCA Central, taking it all in. Two holes sit dangerously by the roadside, barely covered with small tree branches – useless at stopping anything from falling in.

It’s still drizzling, but the world feels different. The water in the trenches flows peacefully, no trash clogging it up. The road is strangely clean, almost surreal, but the traffic toward University Way is as crazy as ever. Amid the noise, I can hear people singing. The voices are gentle, calming, carrying the unmistakable melody of an SDA hymn. “Blessed Assurance, Jesus is Mine” floats around me, a song I know will stay in my head long after it fades-just like “Tukutendereza Yesu” always does.

The drizzle is cool against my skin, I can feel gentle drops of water kissing it. It’s almost refreshing, but I’m freezing. I thought I was smart leaving my jacket at home, it would have ruined my look, but now I’m regretting it. Style is one thing, warmth is another. Today, “freeze and shine” is a reality. Style will kill me !

When I get to the bus stop, what we call Stage here in Kenya, I’m lucky enough to find a matatu right away. I climb in and grab a seat at the back, but there’s a random remote sitting there. For a second, I wonder if that’s why the seat was empty. Maybe it belongs to the woman next to me? Turns out, it’s the matatu’s remote. I pick it up, planning to hand it to the makanga when he comes for the fare.

Finally, I’m warm again, but I’m so tired. My mind feels heavy, and I just want to get home. Looking out the window, I remember it’s Christmas season. But, something feels off. The streets are still crowded, kwani watu hawajaenda ushago hii Christmas! The shops aren’t decorated like they usually are for Christmas, nothing like the usual festive look we’re used to – no green, no gold, no red. The waiters, shop and supermarket attendants aren’t wearing those red and white Santa hats. Has Christmas lost its magic, or is it just me?

We reach my stage (yes, that’s the bus stop again), and I step out. The drizzle hasn’t let up, and it’s still cold. I pull my scarf tighter and rush home, I just want to escape this cold.

That’s all for now. Stay warm out there!

Wait a minute, “makanga” is tout. As I warm up at home, I’m going to play “Tukutendereza Yesu!” It always reminds me of my dad, and I love it just as much as I love my dad.

Adios !

@okelododdychitchats

Golden Hue

My skin drips cocoa butter,
rich and unparalleled,
like the earth holding stories of rain and sun,
like a promise whispered by the night.
It’s dark and beautiful,
mysterious as a velvet sky laced with stars,
It tells a story of history.

It doesn’t glare or dull,
it balances like a seashell
cupped by moonlight,
a perfection gleaming in the sun,
catching light like a secret revealed.
This is my skin,
a story of generations,
a mark of resilience passed down with pride.

Its scent is Yara cologne,
layered and lingering,
a melody made tangible,
a fragrance infused with culture,
with memory, with home.
Every breath of it recalls
the places, the hands, the voices
that shaped me.

Above it rests a crown,
soft coils and curls that stretch toward the sky.
Hair that defies gravity yet welcomes touch,
a crown sculpted by no one but me,
alive in its strength, its freedom,
a hymn of self-love in every strand.

This essence of me,
is seen and felt
it’s carried,
it’s lived.
Every inch speaks
in a language only I can translate,
a declaration of identity,
a love letter to the self.

So let my skin drip cocoa butter,
let it shine unapologetically.
Let it sing of power and joy,
of beauty that doesn’t ask for permission.
This darkness isn’t a void, it’s fullness,
it’s richness, it’s light wrapped in shadow.

Let it carry the rhythm of culture,
the heartbeat of diversity.
In its depth is strength,
in its texture, truth.
It doesn’t hide,
it never will.
My skin drips cocoa butter,
and in it lies the whole world.

@okelododdychitchats

The Burden of Being

They say men drag themselves to hell,
As if each step they take is a burden,
As if the weight of their struggles,
Their pride, their pain,
Should remain hidden,
Silent, unspoken.
And when a man is wronged,
When his dignity is stripped away,
When his worth is questioned,
They turn away,
As if it’s his fight to bear alone.
No one speaks up, no one defends,
He’s left to pick up the pieces,
His bruises ignored.

Have you ever seen
What happens when a man’s life is taken?
How the story shifts,
How the reason for his death is twisted,
Explained away,
As if it’s somehow justifiable,
As if it’s easier to accept
If the pain can be rationalized,
If the wrong can be painted in a different light.
The truth is bent,
The facts contorted,
Until the sharp edges of injustice
Are softened, made palatable.

Why is it only wrong when it doesn’t fit the narrative?
When a man’s struggle doesn’t meet the approval of those who’ve never walked in his shoes?
When the pain doesn’t match their prescription of how things should be,
Why do they bend and twist the story to make it easier to understand?
Why is it that the wrongs done to a man are shrugged off,
Ignored, forgotten,
Until they can no longer be ignored?
Is it because they expect him to endure quietly?
To accept disrespect as part of his place in the world?

Why must we turn a blind eye when a man is dismissed,
When he’s disrespected,
When his value is diminished,
As if he doesn’t deserve the same empathy,
The same respect,
The same justice?
Why do we question his pain,
His frustration,
When he’s left standing alone,
Fighting battles that no one else sees?
Is it because he’s a man,
And somehow, his hurt is less?
Somehow, he’s expected to rise without the help of others?

It’s a sad, painful truth that we live in a world
Where some lives are weighed differently,
Where some struggles are minimized,
Where the wrongs done to men are excused,
Simply because they’re men.
But when will we see that pain is pain,
That disrespect is still wrong,
That when a man’s dignity is stolen,
When he’s pushed down,
When he’s wronged,
It’s just as heavy, just as real
As the wrongs done to anyone else?

I won’t stand for it.
I won’t accept it.
I believe we can do better.
I believe we can rise beyond these broken rules,
Beyond these silent expectations,
And see each other for what we truly are,
Human.
Every one of us, deserving of dignity,
Deserving of respect.
And maybe, just maybe,
When we stop justifying wrongs,
When we stop twisting the truth,
We can heal, together.
Men, women, everyone,
Equal in our worth,
Equal in our struggle,
And equal in our right to be seen,
To be heard, to rise.

@okelododdychitchats

Behind Closed Doors, Break Free

Violence doesn’t always leave bruises you can see.
It hides in words that cut, in silence that smothers,
A shadow waiting, patient, behind closed doors,
Quietly chipping away at who you are,
Until you feel small, afraid, unseen.
But knowing the signs, that’s where it begins.

Do they tear you down with a smile on their face,
Chip away at your confidence with every word?
Do their actions make you shrink in fear,
Walking on eggshells, afraid to breathe?
Their cruelty doesn’t need fists to leave scars,
It traps you behind those same closed doors.

You try to convince yourself it’s not so bad,
Smile, laugh, say “I’m fine,” to anyone who asks.
But when the silence settles and no one’s there,
The words come back, loud and sharp,
Reminding you of their power,
Reminding you of your place-small, broken, alone.

And then you start to question yourself.
Maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re the problem.
But you’re not.
It’s their control, their manipulation,
Their need to keep you afraid,
Hidden, quiet, behind those closed doors.

But you can break free.
You can speak. You can stand.
Your voice is stronger than their silence.
Your courage is bigger than their control.
One step, then another, through the open door,
Toward freedom, toward yourself.

It’s time to name their words for what they are.
Time to break the silence,
To reclaim the you they tried to erase.
Because the scars they leave may not be visible,
But you are still here,
And you are still whole.

@okelododdychitchats

Pieces of Me

I’m not stubborn about most things.
I want to change, I really do, but not everything.
There are pieces of me I just can’t let go of,
Like my accent, which always feels like home.
Or my style, which speaks for me without a word.
And my team, Manchester Red, through the wins, the losses, and the heartbreaks. I stick!
Those are pieces of me I’ll never trade.

But some things? I’ll leave behind.
I’ll swap the bars for church,
Trade the noise for peace,
Let my spirit find rest in quieter places.
I’ll keep my screen time, I’m not ready to fight that battle,
But I’ll change what I’m watching.
No more wanking to strangers’ explicit tapes.
No more moments that leave me feeling emptier than before.
Instead, I’ll open a Bible.
Not promising to be holy,
But I’ll seek meaning in verses rather than fleeting thrills.

And that muscle, that restless, familiar muscle?
It’s time I show it some respect.
But you better behave too.

I sit, thinking about what stays and what goes.
The pieces of me that make me who I am,
my voice, my name, my roots,
those will always be mine.
But I’m ready to grow.
Not all at once, but slowly,
Like a tide reshaping the shoreline,
like a man learning to carry himself differently.

I’m not stubborn,
I’m just figuring it out.
Step by step, choice by choice,
trying to become someone better
without losing the parts of me that matter most.

….. And to you all , this isn’t a series of “we listen but we don’t judge.”

@okelododdychitchats