The First Morning

You carry a light that holds against the wind,
A soul that has weathered the seasons of this year
Without losing its fragrance. It is a rare thing,
Like finding a spring that stays clear in the mud,
And I find myself wondering, in the cooling air,
If my own shadow provides a place for you to rest.

The calendar marks a line we are about to cross,
A fence between the old hay and the new growth.
I have no map for what lies on the other side,
No towering design or blueprints rolled in my palms,
Only the simple desire to walk that uneven ground
With my hand finding yours in the spaces between.

Let us not be like the summer travelers who meet
Only where the view is easy and the sun is high.
There is a deeper labor in the soil than just joy,
I would rather we be the stone walls that hold,
Building something well-weathered, inch by weary inch,
Instead of a tent that collapses when the birds fly south.

It should be a slow abiding chime, like the pulse of a clock,
A turning toward one another to ask, “How goes it?”
Not out of debt, but because the garden needs tending.
I can carry the heavy end, and you the light,
Or we can switch when the day grows long and lean,
So neither of us has to walk the furrow alone.

We must come to this without the polished masks
Or the hollow hope of what the other might provide.
True love is not a merchant weighing out silver,
It is the acceptance of the bread on the table,
Finding grace in the plainness of the wooden grain
And the warmth of a fire we both labored to feed.

So, if you are willing to step into the white frost,
Find me as I am, unadorned and standing still.
I will look for you in the same honest light,
The new year is coming, cold and bright and wide,
Shall we see what the morning has to say to us?

@doddyokelo

Plain Dealing

Your pastor clears his throat behind the wood,
To trade you prophecies for silver coin.
He’ll promise that the coming year is good,
A holy harvest that the stars will join.
He’ll say the year is yours to fence and keep,
As if the seasons care for what you claim,
Or that the seeds of luck are sowed so deep
They’ll grow for anyone who speaks a name.

He’ll warn you of the way the year begins,
That if you start it weary, or in pain,
You’re destined for a winter of your sins,
A long and bitter walk through freezing rain.
But I have lived enough of life to know
A blackout at the start is just a night.
The dirt is indifferent to the things we sow;
It’s up to us to find the morning light.

Don’t mind the bells that clamor in the town,
Nor all the talk of what the year will bring.
A man must pull his own bright vision down
And do the work that makes his spirit sing.
Listen to the wood that builds the frame,
And drop the rot that seeks to make you slow;
A life is not a prayer or ancient name,
But just the steady way you choose to go.

The things that harm you have no place to stay,
So shut the gate and let the latch fall tight.
It’s better far to walk a lonely way
Than lose your footing in another’s light.
Go find the task that fits your heavy hand,
And tend the field that calls your heart to be;
There is no luck within this frozen land,
Save what you strike from flint and mastery.

Be happy in the marrow of your bone,
And make the memories worth the time they take.
The path you walk is yours and yours alone,
With every choice a promise that you make.
You are the master of the coming day,
The only one who holds the final key;
So turn the page and walk the winter way,
As certain as the tide upon the sea.

Happy New Year.

@doddyokelo

First Light

The bells will ring to claim a brand new sky,
And men will preach that luck is bought with gold.
They’ll say the way you start is how you’ll die,
A weary tale that’s long been over-sold.
But shadows do not haunt the year’s first cry,
Nor does the dusk dictate what days will hold.

Go find the work that makes the spirit tall,
And lean into the craft that you adore.
The world will try to make you hear its call,
But you must learn to shutter up the door.
If something seeks to break or make you small,
Then let it fall and find your side no more.

The soul is mended by the things we choose,
By quiet walks and whispers in the dark.
You have no debt to pay, no time to lose,
By chasing every faint and fleeting spark.
To save yourself is all the path you use,
Let joy become your only steady mark.

Happy 2026.

@doddyokelo

Rivers of My Own Making

There is no universe in which I am sitting down to read how someone built a whole cereal shop from a single grain of rice. Never. I respect the effort it took to type all that optimism, but no. Your road doesn’t bend like mine, and I refuse to be shamed into feeling inadequate simply because my idea of joy moves to a different sun. If you want to pray, pray. I pray too, my brother. We are all sinners anyway. The only difference is how we manage our sins. Mine are personal. I enjoy them quietly and carry the consequences alone. Yours arrive with collateral damage, cloaked in lies, dipped in theft, and sanctified from the pulpit. A pastor from hell, if we’re being honest. Cut me some slack, man.

2025 has been incredible. Financially, the fireworks stayed away, but the lessons arrived on time. Lessons that stay. I learned how to take care of myself by leaning into what I love. I learned that some opinions bloom like flowers but are made of dust, pretty to see, hollow to hold. I learned the strength that lives in subtle sighs, the subtle mastery in watching without interference, the rare discipline of letting words fall around me without reaching for a reply. And perhaps the hardest lesson of all. When the lights dim, the applause fades, and the crowd vanishes into the night, only your own shadow remains. That truth seeps in like a silent river, carrying its weight with quiet insistence, tracing the contours of the soul, unseen yet unstoppable, leaving freedom in its wake.

I carry no resolutions scribbled on paper for 2026. Free of banners of ambition and untouched by public drumbeats, I carry instead intentions. I plan to be better. To build myself financially. To chase what I want without hesitation or apology. And yes, I plan to cut people off, gently but firmly, when their presence drains more than it gains. Whether I leave or stay, your life will continue uninterrupted. I’ve made peace with that long ago. I plan to do more business, take bolder risks, and travel wider, seeing places for their stories, feeling the streets beneath my feet, tasting lives outside my own. Unfettered by heralded plans, letting the quiet flowering of my journey reveal its own story.

Still, gratitude stays. Deeply. For the hands that steadied me when my footing slipped. For those who pulled me out of trenches without demanding explanations. For those who trusted my strength enough to place opportunity in my hands. For that, a special medal goes to Sheila Chepkirui Yegon. Some people are mere passing notes in your life, others are chords that resonate. Sheila is a river of melodies, a living network that carries you forward, flowing steady, connecting what was, what is, and what could be. May God widen her path and multiply her grace.

And always, my brother Stephen Ochieng (Soo Ochieng), take your flowers, bana. Always. We remain stubborn believers in the impossible, still dreaming with the audacity of people who refuse to shrink their visions too early.

This isn’t a storm, it’s alignment,
It’s growth,
It’s choosing your lane, and driving without explaining the route.

Solo Drive

I’ve marked no map with ink or public pride,
To show the woods where I intend to go.
The things I seek have nowhere left to hide,
And what I reap is what I choose to sow.
I take the path where fewer shadows bide,
And leave the crowds to talk of what they know.
The fence I mend is built of quiet stone,
To keep the peace and part the draining guest.
A man can walk a standard mile alone,
And find in silence all he needs of rest.
For every seed of will that I have grown,
I ask no leave to put it to the test.
So let the wheels engage their rhythmic song,
Across the hills and through the turning lane.
I owe no word to prove where I belong,
Or why I chose the sun above the rain.
The drive is short, the inner light is strong,
I go my way, and need not explain.

@doddyokelo

Monday, But Why ?

I am tired,
shrunken, chilled, and worn at the cuffs of my soul.
The night itself, a careless laundress,
folded me wrong and ironed in the creases of a bad mood.

My thoughts are heavy, they are a parade of strangers
wearing wet wool coats, stomping through the hallways of my mind.
And my intellect is bald, yes, but worse,
a barren, frozen tundra where not a single rebellious idea
has the audacity to sprout.

It is Monday.
the same old cracked vinyl of a gloomy chorus,
stuck, skipping, repeating the universal dullness.
My strength is a barometer at zero,
my motivation a phone on airplane mode.

This is the taste of it,
Monday, served on a cold porcelain plate.
Bitter at the edges, bland and beige in the middle,
a main course of immediate responsibilities.

But really,
why must Monday always show up like a guest who never takes the hint to leave?

@doddyokelo

I Miss You More

I feel it everywhere.
In the quiet moments,
in the places you used to sit,
in the way the air feels a little heavier
without your presence in it.

There’s a space,
not loud or dramatic,
just a soft kind of empty
that follows me around.

I try to fill it with noise,
with work, with words,
but nothing really fits.
Because it’s you that’s missing.

I don’t just miss you in the big ways,
I miss the small things too.
The glance. The laugh. The comfort.
And somehow,
I just keep missing you more.

@okelododdychitchats

IF YOU LOVE ME, HOLD ME

Hold me,
not just my hand,
but all of me.
Wrap your arms around my body
like you know what it’s been through.
Like you’ve heard the storms it carries
and still want to dance in the rain with me.

Take my hand,
don’t ask where we’re going.
Let’s run,
not to escape,
but to feel free
for the first time in a long time.

Hold my heart,
gently,
like it’s the last soft thing in a hard world.
Place it close to yours,
let them beat together
in a rhythm only we understand.

Touch my waist like it’s sacred.
Pull me into your chest
like you’re pulling me into forever.
And when you kiss me,
don’t make it rushed.
Kiss me like you’re trying to teach time
how to slow down.

If one tear falls—just one,
don’t panic.
Wipe it.
Don’t ask if I’m okay,
just look at me like you see everything
and say,
“It’s going to be alright.”
And mean it.

When I say I’m cold,
don’t go looking for a sweater.
Be the warmth.
Be the safe place I curl into
when the night gets too loud.

And when I say “I love you,”
don’t whisper it back.
Say it like a vow.
Say it like your soul recognizes mine.
Say it like you’re not going anywhere.

Because real love
isn’t made of grand gestures.
It’s in how you stay,
how you see me,
how you reach for me in silence.

So if you love me,
hold me,
not just in your arms,
but in your everyday.

@Okelododdychitchats

AND YET, WE VOTE

WHO PROTECTS THE PEOPLE FROM THE POLICE ?

You may write us off,
dismiss us ,
ignore us in Parliament halls padded with stolen wealth,
but still, we see

We are the country beneath your motorcades,
the hands that build and break,
the voices cracking in the dust
because hope costs too much now.

And yet,
we vote.

We vote for thieves in clean suits

We vote for wolves draped in our flags,

Enough.

We are tired.
Tired of job descriptions reading “Must be connected.”
Tired of degrees gathering dust
while our dreams starve in silence.

We are tired of joblessness turned into weaponry,
young men hired cheap to kill our own voices,
paid to break bones they’ve never healed in their own lives.

Tired of watching peaceful protesters
shot dead,
while those who loot in daylight
are guarded like royalty.

Tired of asking:
“Who protects the people from the police?”

Tired of staged outrage,
press conferences filled with air,
and politicians who only remember their roots
when it’s time to lie again.

You fight for positions, not for people.
You dine with the devil,
then kneel in churches too small for your sins.

You debate your egos on live TV
as our people dig trenches
not for roads,
but for graves.

You die to be seen.
But we die because we’re ignored.

Kenya is choking.
On debt.
On lies.
On the stink of promises unkept.

We are not asking.
We are telling.

This time, we vote with memory.
With pain.
With names.
With tears that learned how to speak.

This time,
you will not scare us with teargas.
You will not buy us with t-shirts.
You will not distract us with empty tribal drums.

We will remember who was silent when we bled.
We will remember who smiled while we starved.
We will remember who disappeared our brothers
and called us TREASONOUS CRIMINALS.

We are not the children you once fooled.
We have grown teeth.
We have grown rage.
And we are coming.

So let the ballot tremble.
Let your seats shake.
Let the ground beneath your stolen homes shift.

Because next time,
we are not just voting.

We are reclaiming.

And if you still don’t listen,
then hear this:

We are not afraid.
We are not asleep.
We are not yours.
Not anymore.

@Okelododdychitchats

#RUTOMUSTGO #ENDPOLICEBRUTALITY #RAGEANDCOURAGE
#JUSTICEFORELIJOSHUA

Tomorrow is Friday Guys!

People used to smell like One Million and 212, those who had stretched their pockets just enough to afford a whiff of something slightly premium. Not premium-premium, just one million with a funny logo and a scent of 212, sometimes rebranded as 242. But at least they tried. At least they smelled nice. That was the point.

Now everyone smells of Yara. Including the lady seated next to me in a maroon cardigan, white top, and black pants and sneakers—coincidentally, just like me. Someone might think we are together, or worse, on some synchronized promo for maroon, black, and white outfits. But no. We are not together. I just know she has done her hair well, and she smells of Yara. I am actually even too shy to look at her face again but I know she’s wearing pink nails. I mean I can see her nails…

I don’t know which Yara she’s wearing, but I’ll assume it’s the good one because she looks expensive. Expensive like an iPhone 15.

And yes, she has an iPhone 15. A whole Pro Max. And you know, owning an iPhone is already rich (So we think). A whole 15 Pro Max? That’s generational wealth. That’s “my uncle works at UN” money. That’s “I don’t ask for prices before ordering” kind of money.

Now, unless the SI unit for expensive and richness changed overnight (It used to be or still is an Iphone), I am confused. I mean, is she rich-rich, or is this the “niongeze ten bob ya Kutoa “ type of babe? You know, the one where someone casually flexes their iPhone but deep down, their Fuliza is gasping for air, their M-Shwari is in ICU, and their branch loan officer knows them by name? Because here she is, sitting in a Kasarani-bound bus, scrolling like she’s never been in a financial group chat discussing “nani alishikwa na Tala?”

She keeps smiling, and I keep wondering, has she ever walked through the sardine-packed chaos of Mfangano Street? Has she ever set foot in that mall-that-is-not-really-a-mall called Cianda and tried to pronounce it? But then I dismiss the thought. We are all in the same loud bus to Kasarani. I convince myself she lives in Sunton. And I’m not saying Sunton isn’t classy. I’m just saying it’s affordable class. But forget that ! – Just know, she’s pleasing to look at. The kind of person you’d instinctively place in Kilimani, yet here we are, and Sunton is the reality. At least she smells nice.

I have just left three government offices, and for the first time in my twenty-guess what years of living, I have not been served with attitude. I’m beginning to think the only ones who throw attitude are the Sub-County office folks because these ministry guys? They have mastered the art of hospitality. If only their bosses were the ones delivering services to us daily, ningefurahia!

But for now, I am just a happy man. Happy to sit next to someone who smells nice. Happy that, for once, I have not inhaled the unfortunate concoction of refilled Invictus mixed with a random scent that dares to bear Beyoncé’s name. Happy that three government offices served me without the signature “rudi after two weeks” response. Happy that I have finally cleared a backlog of work.

I haven’t slept since Saturday. Today is Thursday.

Tomorrow is Friday, guys.

@doddyokelo

@okelododdychitchats

I Don’t Care

I Don’t Care

I sit.
And I watch you.
You dance in colors that aren’t yours,
A queen in paper armor,
A prophet of mirrors who fears reflection.

You laugh loud.
Louder than truth.
You wear pride like a coat with the sleeves too short,
Talking about wisdom you never heard,
Pointing at horizons you’ve never chased.
The ground shifts beneath your feet,
But you don’t feel it.

And I,
I don’t care.

You build kingdoms with sand,
Palaces of opinions stacked like cards.
The wind speaks warnings in whispers,
But you never learned to listen to silence.
So go ahead,
Stack your stones,
Yell into the wind.
I’m not holding the wall when it falls.

You ask for counsel,
But only to hear your own thoughts.
You want change,
As long as it looks just like you.
There are cracks in the glass you refuse to see,
A compass that spins and never lands north.
You follow it anyway.
I watch.
I stay still.
I don’t care.

What kind of human walks without leaving footprints,
Shouting justice but stumbling over truth?
You brandish swords forged from hollow words,
Slicing wounds in places no one else sees.
You call it bravery.
I call it noise.

Let me be clear,
I don’t care.
Your storm is yours to drown in,
Your sea to sink or swim.
I have my own shores to walk,
My own sun to chase.
I’ll breathe air that’s free of your thunder,
And find my calm beneath skies you can’t reach.

You tell me to climb your glass mountain,
But I see through it,
Thin as pride,
Fragile as ego.
I’ll stand at the bottom and watch it shatter.
You’ll bleed.
I won’t.

This is not lethargy,
It’s freedom.
I won’t wear your chains of validation,
Won’t dance to the beats of your demands.
Let the tide rise,
Let your words fall like rain on someone else’s skin.

I’ll walk.
I’ll breathe.
I’ll write my own name into the wind,
And let the song belong to me.

So live your truth,
Call it gospel,
Call it fire.
Build your temples,
Shout your sermons.
But don’t ask me to kneel.

The world is vast,
Full of roads I haven’t walked,
Of songs I haven’t sung.
And I will walk them,
I will sing.
Unbound.
Unmoved.
Unapologetically free.

I don’t care.
Not out of spite,
Not out of scorn,
But because I refuse,
To be a prisoner of someone else’s storm.

This is where I leave you.
Keep your crown.
I’ll keep my soul.

@okelododdychitchats