The world has sung of sunrises,
of rivers keeping their promise to the sea,
of roses opening after rain.
But rarely has the world spoken
of the first flower it ever knew,
the blossom that does not grow in gardens,
yet feeds every root of humanity.
It cannot be withered by winter,
cannot be starved by famine,
cannot be broken by storm.
It is the beauty at the center of woman,
the place of birth,
of power,
of beauty,
of poetry.
It is no accident that her body
carries both beauty and beginning.
She is a garden,
her petals folding and unfolding with grace.
No sculptor has carved it,
no hand could fashion it better.
This is the seat of power,
waiting in patience,
waiting in reverence.
Do not call it small.
It is wide as oceans,
deep as memory.
Within its folds
nations are conceived,
histories take breath.
Its lines are strong
as the roots of the baobab,
steady as mountains
that do not move.
Yes, it is a flower,
but not a fragile bloom
that dies in the sun.
It is a rose of fire,
a blossom of strength,
pulsing with flow,
beating with song.
Tender for creation,
not decoration.
Its beauty is not for passing eyes,
but for the truth that life itself
begins here.
When it opens,
It blooms in trust,
in the warmth of love,
in the honest catch
of reverent hands.
Like dawn, it spills light.
Like rivers, it flows free.
And in its unfolding
is both poetry and prophecy.
Many have tried to name it,
to paint it,
to own it.
But it belongs to no brush,
no word,
no claim.
It is the garden every woman carries,
the fire every woman guards,
the throne every woman sits upon,
with dignity,
with laughter,
with strength.
Touch it,
and you touch mystery.
Look upon it with reverence,
and you see the handwriting of God
upon flesh.
Here hunger softens,
longing becomes creation,
desire meets its answer.
It is gift,
not possession.
Blessing,
not burden.
So speak of it with respect.
Speak of it as you would
the sun,
the river,
the ground beneath your feet.
It is flower,
it is fire,
it is freedom.
It is woman.
And in its beauty
lives a truth unshakable:
that life,
in all its splendor and sorrow,
begins here,
and nowhere else.
Stay With Me
I have never known a pain this sharp,
a hurt that stays in every breath,
as if sorrow has built a home inside my chest.
I sit here drowning in my own silence,
tears spilling like tides I cannot command,
wondering how I strayed,
wondering if I’ve lost the best part of me,
you.
I keep replaying my mistakes,
each one cutting deeper than the last,
and I fear that in their shadow,
your love for me might dim.
The thought alone unmakes me.
It is a heaviness I cannot outrun,
a shame that knots itself into my bones.
If only regret could mend,
if only apologies could erase,
I would gather up every fragment of your hurt
and carry it away until you felt light again.
But healing, I know, is not so quick.
It asks for patience. It asks for trust.
“I’m sorry” feels too small,
too fragile for the weight of what I mean.
Yet it is the truth on my tongue,
and I speak it with trembling hope.
Because we have weathered storms before,
you and I,
and somehow we’ve always come through
stronger, side by side.
Still, I know you deserve better
than the hurt I’ve caused.
I hate myself for placing this burden on you.
But if your heart can find space
for one more chance,
I promise I will spend every day
proving love right again,
proving us right again.
@okelododdychitchats
The Hour of Resignation
Is not the deep, dark rest a better plea,
When every single waking breath is war?
What am I fighting for, and what’s in store
But the same old tide that washes over me?
I searched the sunrise for a silver coin,
A simple piece of joy I could rejoin,
But found the coffer empty, shut, and cold,
The story of my striving left untold.
They promise gain, a comfort to be won,
If I just keep my shoulder to the stone.
But I have carried burdens all alone
From the first shadow cast beneath the sun.
I’ve seen no profit, felt no easing touch,
Just giving everything and getting much
Less than the peace the simple stones enjoy,
A hollow effort that I can’t employ.
Look on the record, read the final count,
There is no happiness beneath this sky.
The truth is written in the tear-wet eye,
The only offering from a spent account.
Every hard-won moment just a trade
For a new hurt, a deeper struggle made,
The only harvest that my hands can claim
Is the slow, bitter knowledge of the flame.
I tell you plainly, I can take no more.
The line is drawn, the final cord is cut.
My stubborn spirit, now locked in a rut,
Cannot hold past the breaking of the core.
This weight is not a thing you lift and clear,
It is the atmosphere of sorrow here.
The mind gives way, the tired will descends,
And all the forced endurance finally ends.
The anchors slip, the vessel has no guide,
The heart’s great drum beat only low and faint.
I won’t pretend, nor make myself a saint,
I only know I can no longer hide.
I am too fractured to be fixed again,
Too soaked in the relentless, icy rain,
The scaffolding of hope has bowed and split,
And I am done with all the grit and wit.
So let this truth be clear when I am gone,
My failing was not weakness of the soul.
I did not stumble short of any goal,
But fell beneath the weight of every dawn.
It was not sickness, foe, or sudden blast,
Life Itself came for me, and overcame at last.
The battle’s over. Hear the final word,
I lay my weary head down, like a bird.
@@okelododdychitchats
Man, I am Handsome
Men are not taught to see themselves as wonders.
We are raised to be stoic pillars, to bear weight in silence, to give and rarely pause to admire the giver. Yet here I stand, seeing myself with unashamed eyes, and for once, I speak it.
I am the most handsome man.
Mirrors tell me so,
Life itself sculpted me into this. I walk into a room and the air hesitates; I am presence. Followed by the rest—ah, perhaps one or two who might come close, but even then, I remain singular.
O God, you must have stayed on me.
When you carved the curve of this jaw, the arch of these shoulders, the stretch of these long bones reaching six feet tall. You painted my skin the deep color of rich earth after rain, dark, fertile, alive, and filled it with juice sweeter than the tongues of poets could ever capture.
Look at this frame: built with labor, yet graceful; strength that does not shout but simply exists, unyielding.
And within, a mind—ah, this mind!sharp enough to draw envy, steady enough to draw trust, restless enough to seek and never settle.
What else, man? What else could I ask for?
Potential thrumming in my veins, character like bedrock under my feet.
I am art. Not perfect, no, but what masterpiece ever was?
So here I am.
Appreciating me.
Because if I cannot honor the marvel of my own making, who will?
@okelododdychitchats
If I Die Today
What if I were to die today, beloved, would your heart stir at all, or would the silence between us deepen into an endless grave? Would you pretend, for the eyes of the world, that you had loved me, that in the shadows of our days you carried a flame you never lit? Or would you let truth, raw and cruel, escape your lips and say, “He was never worth knowing”? I wonder how heavy my name would sound upon your tongue when spoken before mourners, how steady or broken your voice would be if asked to read the words of my eulogy. Would my absence cut through your chest like a blade, or would it wash over you like a gentle relief, as though a long burden had at last been lifted?
For often, in your weariness, I hear a sentence unspoken, that my love itself wearies you, that my presence is not balm but weight. And I, foolish in devotion, still stretch myself toward you like a tree bends toward a reluctant sun. You say you are tired, yet it sounds to me as if you are tired not of days but of me: tired of my words, tired of my arms, tired of the tribe from which my blood flows. My heart trembles with the thought, do you despise the very breath with which I call your name?
If death should come to me as swiftly as twilight, would it soothe you? Would the quiet of my absence give you the peace my living presence could not? To love you has been to walk a path of thorns barefoot, yet still I would choose it, still I would kneel before the altar of your indifference and offer the bruised fruit of my heart. For love, when true, does not measure return, nor count the wounds it gathers; it only asks to give, even unto its last breath. And if that breath comes today, then my only prayer is this, that somewhere in the hollow of your silence, you might whisper that I loved you, fiercely and without apology.
@okelododdychitchats
New, and New Again
There is a lantern burning in the darkened orchard, its flame steady though the winds conspire against it. So is my heart, unshaken by storm, for it has taken your name as its eternal wick. No night has been so deep that your light did not find me there.
There is a river that bends and bends again, yet never loses its way to the sea. My devotion follows. Each thought of you is a current, each dream of you is a tide, until all of me is poured into the great ocean of your being.
There is a star that stays when the dawn has claimed the sky, a lone sentinel of night’s mystery. That star is the memory of your eyes, refusing to fade though the day demands dominion. Even in the crowded brilliance of life, it is you I see, burning beyond the reach of time.
There is a music that no instrument can summon, yet I hear it whenever your spirit brushes mine. It is the song of beginnings, the hymn that shepherded the first lovers through gardens of wonder. It comes to me as though the world were created anew each moment I think of you.
There is a door that opens in silence, where absence becomes presence, and distance is folded into breath. Each time you cross my mind, you do not return as you were, but as something more, a revelation sharpened by longing, softened by tenderness.
There is a secret, older than scripture yet younger than every heartbeat: that to love is to discover eternity within the hour. I touch your soul not as one who has known, but as one astonished still, as though my lips had just now learned the miracle of your name.
There is, at last, this vow, not sculpted in stone, but written in the quickening blood of a heart undone. I will meet you again and again as though for the first time, a pilgrim at the gates of wonder. And when the world is ash and the sky a forgotten scroll, my love shall still be there, new, and new again.
@okelododdychitchats
Her Candle
The gift of strawberry and vanilla
is sweet, light as breath upon glass,
a fragrance that stays softly
but drifts like memory in the air.
The gift of peach with apricot
is warm, full, and ripened by desire,
a deeper note that stirs the senses,
yet it fades as twilight fades from day.
But her skin holds a scent beyond the jar,
a living perfume no hand can craft.
Her face is the light the flame seeks to imitate,
her spark the fire no wax can contain.
So I do not long for the candle she makes,
nor the perfumes she blends with care,
but for the burn that lives in her presence,
a flame that is wholly hers.
@okelododdychitchats
In the Dust, A Pulse
I like to seek the treasure hidden in the dust.
To lift what is broken, what others have thrown aside,
and hold it until it speaks.
There is a life in things the eye does not see,
a cup that has forgotten the lips it once touched,
a blade that once sang in the air,
a flower that still dreams of sun though it is ash.
I do not take them as they are.
I search for what they wanted to be.
I listen for the pulse beneath their silence,
for the promise that time could not keep.
And in that quiet,
I find something greater than beauty,
the truth that nothing is ever truly lost,
only waiting to be seen again.
@okelododdychitchats
When I Fall in Love
When I fall in love,
it will be as though the earth itself
has drawn breath beneath my feet,
and I will know,
for the first time,
that I am alive.
I will want her always,
not as the moon wants the tide,
but as roots want the rain,
as a flame longs for the wick
that lets it burn.
In joy,
I will laugh beside her
until our voices rise like larks
and scatter in the morning sun.
I will hold her close,
so close that my heartbeat
resonates with hers.
In sorrow,
I will be her shelter,
a quiet roof beneath the storm,
my hands the cloth
that wipes away each falling tear,
my chest the place
where grief can come to rest.
When I fall in love,
every waking moment
will be a prayer of gratitude,
every sleeping hour
a dream where her name
blooms like jasmine
on my tongue.
I will gather each instant,
not to keep it,
but to cherish it,
like pearls
slipped gently through my fingers.
And when I must leave,
when parting presses its bitter kiss
upon our lips,
I will miss her
before I have even gone,
and yearn for the soft resurrection
of our next “hello.”
When I fall in love,
the shadows of old wounds
will wither,
their traces silenced
by the music of her being.
I will find courage
where once there was none,
and I will walk through fire
with bare feet
and an unshaken heart.
When I fall in love,
I will want only this:
for her joy to rise like dawn,
for her soul to sing
as though the heavens themselves
were listening,
for her to feel,
deep in her marrow,
that she is the most cherished
among all living things.
For that is what I will feel
when I fall in love,
with her.
@okelododdychitchats
Why Would Another Man Reach for Another Man’s Crotch?
Saturday morning wears a coat of reluctant sun and wind-whipped dust. The cold has teeth. It doesn’t bite; it nibbles slowly, like a rat on wood, until it finds your bones. Dust hangs restless in the air, stirred by invisible hands, rising in small whirlwinds, then falling, settling on windowsills, eyelashes, and forgotten dreams.
My tap is dry. Hopeless Nairobi dry. It yawns and spits a dry cough as if mocking you. There’s a little water left in the blue bucket outside, barely enough for a quick shower. It won’t be the glorious Saturday morning cold shower I like, the one that sends tiny soldiers running on my skin, but water is water. I strip, splash, shiver, and step out.
I have thirty minutes to leave. Thirty minutes to catch up with Pie, Spiky, as I call her. My Pie. We’re catching up after a long time. 3 months, I guess.
I pull on black pants, last season’s Manchester United home jersey, Puma slides, sling my bag, and head to town.
It’s been three months since I walked these streets. Nairobi always changes when you’re gone. Shops sprout, pavements glow with new cabros, and faces you don’t know walk like they own the city. The streets are sardine-packed, humanity rubbing against humanity, yet in all that chaos, the pavements look…beautiful. Like they are trying too hard for a city that never slows down.
Spiky is on the other side of town, at Iconic Plaza, ground floor. She’s picking out perfume. She chooses something that smells like her alone, misty, woody, quiet but unforgettable. I smell it from those tiny folded scent papers, the ones that look like blue litmus strips, and I know this is a good one.
I’m here inquiring about a phone cover, but I can’t get one because my phone isn’t in the Kenyan market. To appreciate the attendant’s effort, Spiky decides to get a screen protector for her phone.
Next stop is EastWest Fashion for a jersey. EastWest is full. Weekend full. Bodies like migrating wildebeest. We do not find the specific jersey we are looking for, so we move on to downtown, Bus Station. We’re waiting for a vendor at Quickmart Mfangano, Spiky found them on TikTok. They sell good pants. She tries on five pairs and looks super good in all of them. I tell her so, because I am a man of honesty and survival instincts.
We then move to RNG Plaza for phone accessories. RNG is chaos. Shops full of indifferent attendants scrolling on their phones like they’re paid to ignore customers. We move from one shop to another, frustration swelling like a balloon. Just as we’re about to leave, we find one shop, a small, humble spot, where the attendant smiles like they’ve been waiting for us all their life. They listen, understand, do not rush. There is a patience to them, like still water under a hot sun. We get everything we need. We leave lighter, happier.
By now, it’s almost five. We’re hungry, and there is no time to sit and eat. Hotdogs and sodas from Naivas will do. And that’s when the world shifts.
We’re crossing the road when I feel it, a hand. Moving towards my thigh, no, my… flight deck. For a second, my brain refuses to register. Then it does. A touch. A graze. A violation. I turn sharply. An old man wearing a red beanie, black jacket, and ugly khaki pants that hang on him like shame.
My first instinct is to slap him. Call the mob. Let Nairobi justice, swift and merciless, have him. But I freeze. My feet are rooted, and my heart is pounding. He walks past, unbothered, as if reaching for another man’s crotch is a daily errand.
Spiky saves me. She grips my hand, pulls me forward. “Leave it,” she says. Her voice is firm, like a rope pulling me out of quicksand. Thank you, Jaber.
Inside, I’m binding everything by the blood of Jesus. Out loud too. Because, honestly, what else do you do when a strange man molests you on Ronald Ngala Street at 4:57 PM? I bind demons. I bind principalities. I bind ancestral spirits of confusion. Why? Because why would a man reach for another man’s crotch?
As we walk away, my mind churns. Was he trying to pickpocket me? Was he… that way inclined? Or was this some evil spirit manifestation? I’m angry, humiliated, confused. More than eighteen hours later, I’m still here, writing this, still asking the same question:
Why?
Why would another man reach for another man’s crotch?
@okelododdychitchats
okelododdychitchats 