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

Niskize

You don’t know the battles I’ve fought
The struggles I’ve faced !
You don’t realize the depth of my sorrow
So before you judge, just wait, niskize !

Don’t mock me with your words of scorn
Don’t criticize me from dusk till morn
Your harsh remarks don’t offer insight
They only push me further from the light

My pain runs deep, it’s a part of me
It’s only I who truly see
The struggles I endure day by day
So take a moment, niskize !

I may seem weak when tears fall down
But crying is my way, my sound
Of releasing the pain that weighs me down
Of letting go of the burdens I’ve found

Don’t label me as frail or meek
Just listen to the words I speak
I have a story that needs to be told
A tale of pain and courage bold

So before you pass judgment on me
Take a moment, niskize !
The strength it takes to face each day
To keep going despite the wear out

I am not defined by my tears
But by the battles fought through the years
So next time you see me cry
Remember, it’s not a sign of weakness, but of strength inside

Don’t underestimate the power of a tear
The release it brings, the healing near
So before you speak, just listen first
To the story of pain and hurt

I may not be what you expect
But my strength lies in the tears unchecked
So listen to my words, my plea
And see the true strength in me.

@okelododdychitchats

Still, I am

I didn’t get the privilege of being born in a hospital. My mother labored in my grandmother’s smoky kitchen. They were with my late father, who tried rushing her to Lwak hospital, but I grew weary of the womb’s care for, I was eager to taste the world’s sweetness and bitterness alike, I had to step into the light and meet it head-on. I came out right outside the fence, and my grandmother, Stella or if you like Min Ombewa, delivered me.

I was born in Asembo, my paternal home. A place I hardly know, a place I hardly visit, but a place I recognize much with. That’s why I call myself Jakolal, because Kolal is my village,Kolal is in Asembo.

When I was four, wait, I didn’t get the chance to be light-skinned when I was born. Kids are often light when birthed, but the colors of their skin often change after tasting the different rays of the sun. Their skin changes, picking the shades of their parents’ skin. Biology calls it genetics. The point is, the skin changes and sometimes becomes hard with pimples on the face and sometimes with a lot of hair standing straight on the surface. They change! I was dark at birth, and still, I am. My father, Isaiah Oguta Ngesa Nyakwar Okelo found a way of making me comfortable wearing the dark skin. He called me Rateng‘. Rateng’ means black. He narrated to me during free time how well black is priceless as the first breath of dawn after a long night. I love black ! Black is beautiful. I love my skin. I owe it to my dad.

One night after his karate sessions, he complained of pains. My mother says it was sharp pains that gripped his chest, something like asthma, yet they called it typhoid. I still wonder how chest pains and typhoid dance together in the same space. He was rushed to Aga Khan Hospital Kisumu, and on February 14, 2002, he slept, closed his eyes eternally. His brain stopped functioning. Everything in his world stopped. He rested. Mama was only 26. I am told she was only earning Ksh. 1000 as a Board of Manager teacher. She had kids and a family to take care of. She remained strong, productive and everything positive. We never lacked. We never knew poverty. We saw all good and got at least everything we wanted. I just didn’t get to practice karate anymore because my company was gone! After he was gone, he took the name Rateng‘ with him. Nobody else knew me as that. Nobody called me that except my uncle, Dr. Odongo. But with that alone, I knew how priceless my skin color was. I wore it with courage growing up. I miss the one who made me comfortable in it, but fate had just brought it that way. Sad!

Forget that though. My mother left footprints of success in the sands of time. She did all a mother could and more, and that’s why I hold her dear. That’s why my best sentence begins with the word “Mum.” My definition of love begins with the word “Mum.” My definition of beauty begins with the word “Mum.” My definition of strong begins with the word “Mum.” Her display of substance and appearance makes her just the best. She is the best!

This doesn’t concern you, but I am still dark. My mum is dark too. We wear this fine melanin, black chocolata skin with beauty and pride.

@okelododdychitchats

See You Soon

“The ambulance cannot transport your patient to Migori,” were the indifferent words spoken by the receptionist at the hospital where my mother had been admitted for two weeks without adequate care. While I refrain from mentioning the hospital’s name, I do so out of gratitude for the exceptional care provided by some of the nurses and two doctors. Accompanied by my brother-in-law and uncle, we were in the midst of arranging a transfer to a facility closer to home for proper care. Our home is in Rongo, Migori County, and all this time, we were in the cold, unfamiliar highlands of Kikuyu town.

I know you’re wondering why we were in Kikuyu when we’re from Rongo. Just give me one second to explain. My mother was attending a women’s conference in Kiambu town, and on a Thursday evening, while heading to their hotel with her fellow female believers, she was knocked down by a speeding motorist who was drunk and driving on the wrong side of the road. I wrote about the incident, but instead of directing you to a link, allow me to paste it here!

She Loves God,

Why am I shaking in town?
I thought I was okay.
Why do I feel like crying every time my mind switches to her?

She was just smiling.
I mean, I saw her smile on that phone call.

And you know, I hear she was very happy
while joking with her mates about how they’ll receive punishment if they don’t sing for God on Sunday.

She loves God, you know.
I often hear her say how God has moved her, and I see that too….

She was at the scene from the Lord’s house, the church, of course.
She had just received that good news that she shared with me before that heartbreaking call.

That call from Daktari wa Masomo, Dr. Bernard Alaka, forget that he’s called Bernard, ‘Boy’ sounds good on him…
He told me, “Prince, Mum amepata accident. Find a cab, and I’ll send you money to come.”

I was heartbroken.
I was like, “Didn’t she just finish praying to God, and even come here because of prayer?”

You know how sometimes you can question God, not blaming Him though…
I felt mad. I was really angry.

Anyways, I took a cab and went.
Everyone was there, all worried but happy because she was alive.

I went in to see her, and she said, “Baba, Bwana Asifiwe, Umekuja ?”
I saw that from her lips; she was not able to speak.

What I saw wasn’t pleasing, but I felt hope!
And the fact that members of the church were there with me till morning kept me strong.

I didn’t call any family member until morning.
They all came; people came.

And when she saw people she knew, I saw her feeling strong.
I know you’ll be fine, Mom, thanks to all for showing the love…

It’s made the two days that I have not slept completely feel like one minute.

***

I won’t dwell on it much, but let me say all is well. Today, we’re in an ambulance, headed to a facility of our choice in Migori County. In the back of the ambulance, I’m accompanied by a paramedic from Eagles Nursing Home, her name is Patricia. She’s calm, professional, appears to be around 21 years old, wearing grey Vans shoes, and she’s scrolling down her Samsung Galaxy Note “Something.” Beside my mother, who’s in a lot of pain and sweating profusely, sits my aunt, Nyar Seme, she looks worried. She hasn’t eaten anything since morning, and besides her concern for her sister-in-law, I bet she’s hungry and tired. I’m seated next to my mum and Patricia, the paramedic. Yes, remember her? I’m worried, asking myself when we’ll reach Rongo because I can feel my mum’s pain.

In the front, we have the driver, Jeff. I met Jeff at the hospital; he was from Garissa, bringing a patient, a police officer who was badly injured in an attack. We had just been informed that the facility ambulance couldn’t take us to Mashinani, and then God brought Jeff to us in the midst of our distress after calling several service providers whose fees we couldn’t afford. Jeff had the exact ambulance we were instructed to use. He’s a good man. He’s seated with my uncle, Uncle Oloo, the kind of man who can rescue you from anything, anytime. He loves sports, was a footballer, and enjoys doing handy jobs. Isn’t that enough with my humble descriptions?

The weather is unfriendly, Oh my God ! it’s raining heavily, I mean kunanyesha very bad, the kind of rain that I would describe as “it was raining cats and dogs” in my lower primary composition. What we’re witnessing is quite threatening; soil has been swept onto the tarmac by the waters, the road is resembling a farm where vehicles are stuck and unable to move. There’s traffic, and it’s in the middle of nowhere. Thank God, we have been given way because we are in an ambulance and we’re just utilizing one of those favors of riding in an ambulance. Anyway, we need to get to the next facility, which is almost a 4-hour drive away, real quick!

My ink is depleted, as well as my creativity for now. I can’t promise to keep you posted, but we’ll catch up on my next piece, and let me give some hope that Mum will be all right. See you soon!

@okelododdychitchats