Still, I Write

I hate words.

They slip in when I don’t want them to,
curl around me like smoke,
sharp at the edges, soft in the middle,
always taking more than they give.

They crash like waves, loud and relentless,
dig into places I thought were safe,
fill up the quiet until it isn’t quiet anymore.
And when they cut, they cut deep.

But I use them anyway.
I shape them, mold them, send them out into the world,
let them dance across pages, spill from my lips,
like I trust them, like they’ve never left scars.

And yeah, I’m good at it.
Words are how I find my way,
how I turn the mess into meaning,
how I make sense of the silence.

But not all words are gentle.
Some hit like fists, sharp and sudden,
slice through moments that should’ve been soft.
They linger in the air long after they’re spoken,
turning into ghosts that refuse to leave.

So if I ever throw the wrong ones your way,
don’t let them fester.
Call me out. Make me see.
Because I know words can wound,
can twist, can take more than they were meant to.

Still, I write.
Even when my hands shake.
Even when the words don’t feel safe.
Because somewhere beneath it all,
where kindness still breathes,
I know there’s light waiting to be found.

Words can build or break.
They can hold you together or tear you apart.
And maybe, if I get them right,
they’ll be enough to bring me home.

@okelododdychitchats

I want You Bad

Girl, I want you bad,
The way the night craves the moon,
Like a song that stays long after the music fades,
Like a fire that never dies.

I want to feel your breath on my skin,
To hold you close, our hearts in sync,
To lose myself in the way you look at me,
Like I’m the only thing that matters.

I want to gently hold your neck,
As I kiss your lips, taste your tongue,
My left hand sliding between your thighs,
Reaching for that sweet, dripping warmth.

I want to hear your soft sighs,
Feel your fingers tangled in my hair,
Trace every curve of you like a love letter,
Written in the language of touch.

Let’s get lost in this moment,
Forget the world, just you and me,
Wrapped up in heat, in whispers, in need,
In something that feels like forever.

@okelododdychitchats

What If ?

What If?

What if the sky burned red in the morning,
not from war, not from fire,
but from a love too bright to dim,
a warmth too strong to ignore?

What if the rivers ran gold,
not for pockets, not for greed,
but to remind us we were always rich,
just too blind to see?

What if a child, skin dark as the earth,
walked through this world without fear,
without whispers behind closed doors,
without hands that push instead of pull?

What if we tore down the borders,
the ones built in fear, in hunger, in hate,
and called each other kin,
not stranger, not enemy, but home?

What if the hands that built this world,
weathered, cracked, forgotten,
finally held something more than struggle,
finally rested in the justice they were owed?

What if love was not a trade,
not a bargain, not a game,
but a force so wild and full,
it lifted the broken, the tired, the unseen?

What if?
What if?

Or maybe, just maybe,
we stop asking,
and start making it real.

@okelododdychitchats

I Rise, Again

Once bright, once golden,
then dim. Then dark. Then gone.
The lost whisper in silence,
but silence is just the womb of rebirth.

From ashes, I do not crawl.
I stand.
No begging hands, no shattered knees,
only fire licking at my heels,
only the knowing that I am made of storms
and storms don’t kneel.

New day, same hunger,
same rhythm pulsing in my bones.
Only now, the vision is sharper,
the aim, righteous.
I do not move for the sake of movement,
I move with purpose,
I move because my spirit demands it.

The style is mine, the path is mine,
Written with sweat, laced with dreams.
The grind? Oh, the grind is gospel,
a hymn written in calloused hands
and midnight prayers.

Here’s to the fallen,
and the ones who rise laughing,
the ones who build from broken,
who dance in the wreckage
and call it home.

Watch me.
Not with pity, not with doubt.
Watch me, because I rise.
Again. And again.
And again.

@okelododdychitchats

I will not Dim my Light

If I do all you want today,
Will your love shift?
Will your arms stretch wide,
Wide enough to hold the ghost of me?

I have danced on the edge of your wanting,
Spun circles ‘round your longings,
Bent my back, bowed my head,
Tamed the fire in my chest
To keep your comfort warm.

You ask for little things.
A smile where silence sits.
A nod when my spirit shakes its head.
You ask for more.
To silence my no’s, to trim my edges,
To mold away the man
Who dares to stand whole.

I have walked your road,
Worn my feet down to whispers,
Lost my name in the fading call of your voice.
But tell me,
If I do all you want today,
Will I wake up tomorrow
And know the shape of my own shadow?

I have learned the lessons of yielding,
Learned to tuck my thunder away,
To let the winds of your needs
Blow me soft, blow me small,
Blow me into something easy to hold.

But what of me?
What of the man who sings her own name?
Who does not shrink,
Who does not fall silent,
Who does not twist himself
Into the shape of another’s desire?

I will not be whittled down,
I will not be swallowed whole.
Love should not ask for a life
That forgets how to live.

So I ask you,
If I stand tall, if I stay true,
If I let my wild bloom,
Will you still call my name?
Or will you fade,
A dream that could not bear
The weight of my wings?

I will not trade my fire for comfort.
I will not barter my soul for belonging.
If I must walk alone,
Let my feet find steady ground.
Let my heart beat in its own time.
Let my love be limitless and unchained.

For love should lift,
Not bind.
It should open doors,
Not lock them shut.
If I stay,
Let it be as I am,
Unshaken. Unshamed. Unafraid.

And if you must go,
Go gently.
But know this,
I will not dim my light,
Not for you.
Not for anyone.

I was born to shine.

@okelododdychitchats

She Still Wears Dirty Shoes

She was beautiful.
Not the loud kind of beautiful,
not the kind that demands attention,
but the kind that catches you off guard,
soft, steady,
like the warmth of the sun on your skin when you didn’t realize you were cold.

I admired everything about her.
The way she walked,
like she wasn’t just passing through the world,
the world was lucky she chose to walk on it.
The way she spoke,
words rolling off her tongue like they’d been waiting for her to find them,
gentle but firm,
like truth dressed in silk.

Her skin-flawless.
Not flawless like makeup ads promise,
but flawless like rivers cutting through stone,
like history written softly across her face.
Her body?
Not perfect by anyone’s rules but her own,
a shape that felt like poetry,
not the kind you study,
the kind you feel.

Her style was effortless.
Not curated,
just honest.
Clothes didn’t wear her;
she wore them,
with a grace that made simplicity look like art.

But her shoes were always dirty.

It didn’t matter if they were brand new,
straight from the box,
or worn down from years of walking,
somehow,
they were always stained with something.
Dust, mud,
Just something

And I hated that.
Not because it mattered, really,
but because I thought it should.
Maybe it was the part of me that needed order,
needed neatness,
the part that saw beauty in straight lines
and clean edges.

Her shoes didn’t fit that picture.
They kicked at the corners of my mind,
scuffed up the idea of what “perfect” should look like.

So I let her go.
Not because she wasn’t enough,
but because her shoes weren’t clean.
It sounds ridiculous now,
but at the time,
it felt like reason.

Five years passed.
Life happened,
the kind of life that leaves its own dirt behind.
Mistakes, lessons,
love gained, love lost,
all of it piling up like dust in places you forget to clean.

Then I saw her again.
Last week.
Standing there,
the same light in her eyes,
like the years hadn’t dimmed a thing.

She smiled,
the kind of smile that could stretch across oceans,
the kind that makes you feel like you’ve been missed,
even if you haven’t.

She still looked good.
Better, actually.
Like life had layered her with more stories,
more depth,
and none of it weighed her down.

Her teeth were bright,
her scent was warm,
her presence still undeniable.

And her shoes?
Still dirty.

But this time,
I didn’t care.

Because now I know,
life isn’t about spotless shoes.
It’s not about keeping clean what’s meant to get messy.
It’s about walking,
about moving,
about showing up,
even if the road leaves its mark on you.

Her shoes weren’t a flaw.
They were proof.
Proof that she’d lived,
that she’d walked through things and kept going,
that beauty isn’t about what stays clean,
it’s about what survives the dirt.

She still wears dirty shoes.
And now,
I think that’s the most beautiful thing about her.

@okelododdychitchats

It Stuck with Me

It’s Monday morning, cold, grey, and raining heavily. The kind of rain that makes you question all your life choices, especially the one about leaving a warm bed. My body is screaming for one more hour of sleep, but duty calls. I’m exhausted from traveling, and honestly, stepping outside feels like a bad idea. But I have an appointment at the Ministry of Lands at 9 AM, so I have no choice. I convince myself to get up, though I leave the house shingo upande-reluctantly, dragging my feet like it’s a punishment. It’s the kind of feeling that’s like being forced to eat sukuma wiki, something my nephew Azel treats like the ultimate betrayal when it shows up on his plate.

The Ministry of Lands is somewhere around Upper Hill. If you’re ever headed there, just say you’re going to Ardhi House. That’s the magic word. Without it, you might find yourself wandering around aimlessly. Directions aren’t exactly my strong suit, bu that’s the best advice I can give. Though, if you check Google Maps, you’ll see it’s somewhere around 1st Ngong Avenue. But that’s not Ngong, it’s still Upper Hill. Upper Hill has these Ngong Avenues running from 1st to around 5th, and it’s confusing, that’s just the city’s way of messing with you.

I get there, take a seat at the waiting area, and brace myself for what I suspect will be a long wait. Two hours in, I’m still sitting there. The counters are open, but the employees are busy beating stories, laughing, sipping tea, and chewing gum carelessly like it’s part of their job description. There’s a crowd of us waiting, but it’s like we’re invisible. I guess that’s just how government offices work-people paid to show up with an attitude, sip tea, and tell you, “Rudi after 2 to 3 weeks.” Absolute nonsense.

Eventually, after what feels like forever, I finally get sorted. I leave the building feeling drained but slightly relieved. My next stop is Kasarani, so I head towards Imenti House to catch a Metro Trans. When I get there, the bus is almost full, just one seat left at the back. My seat.

I head straight to it, ready to sit down and disappear into my thoughts. But just as I’m about to sit, the guy next to me looks up and says,
“I like your style in particular.”

I smile, say “Thanks,” and settle in. The bus starts moving. A few minutes later, he turns to me again,
“What’s your take on love? Do you think it exists?”

I pause, not sure how to respond to such a deep question from someone I’ve known for less than ten minutes. But before I can even open my mouth, he starts talking.

Grab a seat. If you can, get some popcorn. This is where things take a sad and confusing turn.

He’s been in a relationship for three years, the only woman he’s ever truly loved. He helped her out with school fees and rent, even though he was still a student himself. She was studying in Mombasa, and he was in Nairobi. Long-distance is tough, but they made it work, meeting whenever they could.

She wasn’t just his girlfriend; she was his person. She shaped his character, helped him grow spiritually, and made him a better man. He told me he used to be the life of the party, always out drinking and living recklessly. But she introduced him to faith, and before he knew it, he’d swapped club nights for Church Keshas. Friday nights that were once filled with the buzz of whiskey and loud music became quiet thoughts and bible studies. Life had flipped on him, but in a good way.

They had a good thing going, late-night calls that stretched until dawn, surprise visits that felt like scenes from a rom-com, and inside jokes only they understood. Their love was the kind that made the future feel certain, like they were slowly piecing together the blueprint of a family. It was rosy, the kind of relationship that makes you believe love really can conquer all. But then, life threw a twist.

His dad was diagnosed with stage four cancer (I didn’t ask for his name or the lady’s name, that’s why I’m just going with he, she, and whatever fits. Boys don’t really bother with names, they just get along and let the conversation flow). Everything changed. He had to step up, juggling school, work at his dad’s law firm, and caring for his father. His relationship took a hit. Calls became less frequent, meet-ups rare, and slowly, the distance grew, not just physically but emotionally.

Then came the heartbreak. She got pregnant after a one-night stand with someone she can barely remember, a random guy from a party she didn’t even want to attend. It wasn’t her scene, but she showed up anyway, maybe out of boredom, maybe just to get her mind off things. One reckless decision, in the middle of loud music and blurred conversations, flipped her world upside down. Now she’s expecting a beautiful child, innocent and unaware of any of this, while she drowns in regret, reaching out, asking for forgiveness, hoping somehow to fix what feels too broken to mend.

He’s on his way to see her, somewhere around Mwiki Phase 3. He doesn’t know what will come of it, whether they’ll find closure, reconciliation, or just more heartbreak.

The bus slows down, it’s my stop. I stand up, unsure of what to say to someone who’s just poured out their soul. So I keep it simple,

“I hope you find the answers you’re looking for.”

I step off the bus and find myself thinking about how random encounters with strangers can really stick with you. It’s funny how a brief conversation with someone you’ll likely never see again can stick in your mind long after the moment has passed. Life’s like that, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s the unexpected, the small interactions, that leave the biggest mark.

That conversation stuck with me, and now I can’t stop thinking about what happened after.

@okelododdychitchats

It must Be a Beautiful Death

It Must Be a Beautiful Death

Let it come like a sigh,
like the silence between waves,
like the slow separation of a ribbon,
loosened by the hands of time.
No violence. No suddenness.
Just the peaceful folding of the day into night,
a quiet hand-over to the pull of the tide.

Let it not be an end,
but an opening,
a door swinging wide to something big and golden,
a breath released, not stolen.
Let it feel like stepping into warm water,
like sinking into silk,
like the weight of the world slipping from tired shoulders.

Something will rise from the silence.
It always does.
A blade of green through frost-bitten earth,
a flame that flickers but never dies,
a heart that stops only to be remembered
in the sound of another’s breath.
Life does not go. It stays.
It clings to the air, to the hands that once held it,
to the laughter built into the walls of an old house.

It must be a beautiful death,
the kind that smiles instead of weeps,
that glows instead of dims,
that steps lightly into the unknown,
leaving warmth where it once stood.
Not a Disapearance, but a soft dissolve,
like sugar in tea,
like smoke curling into the sky.

Something sweet will remain.
A voice Singing in the quiet of morning,
a scent-faint yet familiar-caught on the wind.
The way their name still tastes on your tongue.
Love is stubborn.
It does not bow to time.
It finds itself into the cracks of your bones,
into the spaces between dreams.

And something great will rise from the silence
A light in the dark,
a constellation drawn from the ashes,
a name that refuses to be forgotten.
No one is ever truly gone
if their love still stains the walls of the world.

It must be a beautiful death,
not because it does not pain,
but because it matters,
because it leaves fingerprints on the soul,
because it whispers through the wind,

I was here. I loved. I lived.
And somewhere, somehow, I still do.

@okelododdychitchats

Death Didn’t Do Us Apart

We stood there, below the soft glow of candlelight,
breathing in the scent of fresh roses,
draped in the hearth like glow of promises
we thought would last forever.
“For richer or poorer,” we said,
holding hands with our hearts open,
two souls tied in something bigger than ourselves.

Love felt easy then
like laughter in the spring,
like whispered dreams in the dark.
“In sickness and in health,”
we swore, certain of our strength,
believing love was enough
to keep the storms at bay.

But love doesn’t stop the seasons from changing.
Leaves still fall.
The air still grows cold.
And somewhere between yesterday’s kisses
and today’s silence,
we lost ourselves.

It wasn’t death that parted us.
No tragic ending, no final breath.
Just the slow erosion of trust,
The burden of unspoken words.,
the sting of knowing
I was no longer enough.

You slipped away in pieces
a late reply, a distant stare,
a touch that felt like a ghost of what it used to be.
And when the truth came,
it wasn’t a sudden crash,
but a quiet breaking,
like the final glow dying out.

“Good guys finish last,” they say,
as if kindness is a weakness,
as if loving fully means losing completely.
I should have been harder,
colder,
but love, real love, doesn’t wear armor.
It stands bare, hoping,
even when hope feels like a foolish thing.

I still remember the mornings
the way your laughter filled the room,
how breakfast in bed felt like a love language,
how silence between us was once soft,
not sharp.

I thought love was something you built,
something you watered and nurtured,
but I didn’t see the weeds creeping in,
the slow suffocation of something beautiful.
Every I love you became an afterthought,
every kiss felt borrowed,
and suddenly, love was just a memory
we were trying too hard to relive.

What is love, if not a choice?
Every day, again and again.
But choices change.
And somewhere along the way,
you stopped choosing me.

I read books about love,
but they don’t talk about this part,
the quiet ache,
the way rooms feel bigger when someone leaves,
the way time moves on
even when you beg it to stay still.

“Good guys suffer,” they call them simps,
as if love is a game where only the ruthless win.
But I don’t believe that.
Not really.
Because love, real love, doesn’t die.
It bends, it breaks,
but it finds a way through the cracks.

I see you in dreams sometimes,
smiling like you used to,
before love became something
we had to fight for.
And maybe that’s all we were,
a beautiful thing that wasn’t meant to last.

But love will come again.
Maybe softer this time.
Maybe stronger.
And when it does,
I’ll be ready.

Because love isn’t a weakness.
It’s a lesson.
A story.
A promise we make to ourselves,
that no matter how many times we break,
we’ll find a way to be whole again.

@okelododdychitchats

What’s Love Anyway

There was a time, wasn’t there?
A time when love felt like everything.
When we didn’t need to ask permission for it to stay.
It just showed up, uninvited, and we welcomed it like an old friend.

We thought it would stay forever, didn’t we?
We thought we’d always walk side by side,
Two hearts beating in unison,
Believing that nothing could tear us apart.

But somewhere, somewhere in the silence,
Love changed.
It changed, almost without notice.
One day, we were laughing, and the next, silence.

It’s strange, how love can be so gentle and so harsh,
All at once.
How it can bloom and fade,
In a breath, in a glance.

The hand that once held yours, so tenderly,
Now feels distant, cold.
And the words that once lifted you,
Now fall heavy, like stones.

It’s not always the big gestures that tear us apart.
Sometimes, it’s the things left unsaid,
The silence in between.
The small fractures that no one sees,
Until they break wide open.

And you stand there, staring at the pieces,
Wondering when it all fell apart.
Wondering when you lost yourself,
And when love became a stranger.

But here’s the truth I’ve come to know,
Love doesn’t disappear.
It doesn’t vanish like smoke.
It leaves a mark.

It leaves a scar,
Not one that makes you weaker,
But one that makes you stronger.
Because, after all, we survived it.

We carry love with us,
Even when it’s gone.
We carry the warmth,
The joy, the sorrow.

Love may not last forever,
But it teaches us more than we ever thought we could learn.
And when the pieces finally settle,
We realize we’re still here, still standing.

So, yeah, love hurts.
It breaks you down.
But it also builds you up.
And that’s something we can carry with us, always.

But then, we pause,
And we wonder,
What is love, really?
Is it the promises we make and break?
A fire that flickers, then fades?
Or is it just the quiet moments,
When we finally learn to love ourselves,
Without needing anyone else to show us how?

@okelododdychitchats