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
Tag: Africa
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
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
Holy Hypocrisy
Why did I stop going to church? One of the funniest reasons I’ve heard is, “My pastor was crippled and healing cripples. Like, why not heal yourself?” It’s a dark statement, but I get where they’re coming from. Let’s be honest, are these people God’s messengers or money makers in Poverty Pulpits ?
I believe in God, but I have a million questions. My friend and colleague, Evans Asudi challenges me every time we have a discussion about religion and the existence of God, he argues that the design of the universe, nature, and everything in it must have an origin. My question is, is that origin the God of the Christian Bible, Allah of the Muslim Quran, or the supernatural forces in Buddhist texts like the Tripitaka? I’m not saying these religions worship entirely different gods. They argue as if they do, but interestingly, they all seem to agree on the same devil. Crazy, right? Anyway, I believe in God and identify as Christian, but I rarely go to church. I have my reasons !
As a kid, I always questioned my existence, and while that hasn’t changed, I now find myself questioning the origins of religion. Who created it, and what was it really meant to achieve? History shows how religion has been used to create divisions, often for political gain, and it still happens today. Different religions hold varying beliefs, and even within Christianity, denominations clash. Paul even addressed this in Corinthians, questioning why Christians were divided when they were all baptized in Christ’s name. These divisions are often exploited for political purposes, given the strong influence religion has on society and politics.
I was raised in a strict Christian background where questioning the church or its leaders was off-limits. It was considered disrespectful and even thought to bring curses. Looking back, I laugh at how much I used to fear that. But, even as a kid, I could see pastors giving in to “earthly” temptations, sins they were never held accountable for. They seemed untouchable, immune to any form of criticism. Over time, this made me start questioning things more deeply, and now it’s part of why I find it difficult to step inside just any church today.
To make sense of where we are, let’s start with the history of Christianity. It began in the 1st century after Jesus’ death as a Judaic sect with some Hellenistic influences. The Catholic Church claims to be the original, with the first church said to be in Jerusalem. Over time, Christianity branched into several groups like the Church of the East, Oriental Orthodoxy, Eastern Orthodoxy, Roman Catholicism, Protestantism, and Restorationism.
In its early days, the traditional churches built schools, hospitals, and provided services that genuinely benefited the community. They did this without exploiting their congregants. But as time went on, evangelical churches started popping up what one of my great of all time writer, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie calls “mushroom churches” in her book “Purple Hibiscus”. I’m not generalizing all evangelical churches, but many sprouted after the colonial period, often without any regulation, and some have become quite problematic.
These churches often target vulnerable people, especially our mothers. With this, sometimes, I tend to believe that the colonialists had a plan, schools for the children, prisons for the fathers, and churches for the mothers. Anyway, that’s just a detour, let’s get back on track…A lot of these churches manipulate their followers, brainwashing them into accepting whatever the pastor says without question while reasoning that questioning will lead to the unthinkable,absurd! When pastors claim that questioning them will lead to whatever, it’s really just a way to manipulate their followers. You don’t fail or fall by speaking up or seeking answers for God’s sake !
Times without number, I’ve also heard pastors glorify poverty, insisting that wealth distances you from God, they say that having money makes you less inclined to pray. These same pastors live in luxury, strikingly paradoxical ! Some even discourage their followers from seeking medical help, claiming that doing so demonstrates a lack of faith in God, despite the Bible stating, “faith without action is dead.” Are they referring to something who’s content they do not understand or did it change overnight ?
It’s ironic how these extreme churches often have the largest followings. And what really frustrates me is the constant fundraising, with no transparency on where the money goes. I’m tired of seeing congregants grow poorer while pastors grow wealthier. Churches should be shaping and speaking up for the community, but many stay silent when it doesn’t affect them…I am just sick and tired of this top tier deception, emotional control, psychological tactics, coercion, gas lighting, name it all! let me take a break! One day, we’ll go deeper into this, especially on how pastors are now called “Daddy” and their wives “Mummy.”
@okelododdychitchats
Bad Man Bache
“Larry Madowo fascinates me! Someday, I’ll be like him-maybe even better! I adore him, I love watching him, let’s go watch The Trend.” These were Steve’s words. Back then, Larry was still just a journalist working for Nation Television (NTV) and hadn’t yet risen to the heights of his career. Steve admired him deeply and loved how he did his journalism. The first time I watched “The Trend” by Larry Madowo was because of Steve. I loved it, except for the time slot-10:00 PM on a Friday! Despite that, it became a weekly routine. Steve influenced a lot in my life, he rekindled my love for football, got me into PlayStation, and would even walk me through the ladies’ hostel just to do nothing! (This is unnecessary information for sure) Steve is a good man, he’s going to heaven for sure.”
Steve, drop that! Let’s call him Bache. Bache is now a three-time award-winning journalist. He began his journey right after campus in 2021, starting with the BetKing Premier League (The Kenyan Premier League (KPL) was rebranded as the BetKing Premier League due to a sponsorship deal with BetKing, a sports betting company), then moving to Mozzart, and now he’s at Sportpesa making history. He loves sports. He has become my favorite journalist, so natural and creative! He writes and hosts the “Match-Xperience” segments. What I’ve learned from his journey is that it’s all about passion, sticking to the plan, and being focused. It’s less about being a jack of all trades and a master of none! Bache is amazing. I love his minimalist nature, how he goes about things, how carefree he is, and his sense of humour. Honestly, I love how he manages to do it all, from work to managing his finances-he’s quick at thinking and solving problems. The only thing he might struggle with, though not badly, is style and fashion. He’s a bit basic in that department. And oh, I almost forgot, he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Or Bache, do you have one now? If you do, I’ll gladly accept her, just make sure she doesn’t drop the name Bache! And to any ladies reading this, Steve is a good man!
Bache was the first one to attend class, it wasn’t his problem! He was just doing the right thing by showing up, kwani nini ilitupeleka shule ? But for the Logic and Critical Thinking lecturer, Ochieng Jaffas (I hope I’m spelling that right), having only one student for the first class was a big deal, infact a sacrilege. His comments afterward really set the tone and filled us with dread. We were first-years, after all, we had to fear! Jaffas was a Cold-hearted atheist who didn’t believe in God or Thomas Aquinas’ theories on God’s existence, despite having once wanted to become a priest. His way of teaching tickled the funny bone. But I’m getting off-topic. Jaffas instilled fear in us, making us believe we would all fail-except Bache, who attended class. That fear changed a lot of people’s views on higher education. Eventually, Bache joined us in our antics, and despite being jokers, we all passed our exams. We mastered the content in class and watched UEFA Champions League matches during the exam period. You could say we were geniuses!
Oh, and there’s something else, Bache is actually my cousin. I didn’t even know until a coincidental, and somewhat unfortunate moment. It’s one of those stories I’ll tell someday, but for now, let’s just say it’s a part of what makes our bond special. Life has a funny way of connecting the dots, doesn’t it?
I could say a lot more about Bache, but I’ll stop here for now. We’ll continue this conversation once I master the art of speaking confidently in front of a crowd!
@okelododdychitchats
To Dream, We Must Leave
We stand in the land of our birth,
Where the soil is rich,
Yet dreams suffocate beneath heavy skies,
And hopes lie buried where they mourn.
Here, we are born with hands wide open,
Grasping air, reaching for a future yet to be revealed.
But the streets tell us stories of hunger,
Of shackled lives and promises unfulfilled.
We grow, we study, we strive in vain,
Taught to believe that success is near,
Yet the doorways close, and the silence whispers,
“You have no room to dream here.”
So we turn our eyes toward the seas,
To lands where the stars seem to shine.
We leave in desperation, hearts heavy with hope,
Chasing a life that might finally be mine.
But in the hands of strangers, we are trapped,
Told lies of riches, and work that promised success,
Only to find chains where freedom was denied,
And shadows where truth reveals.
Our sisters sold into prostitution, our brothers enslaved,
In distant lands where our names are lost,
The price of our dreams is paid in pain,
And no one speaks of the cost.
Oh, Africa, land of forgotten wealth,
Your soil rich, your people poor,
Why do you allow your children to lose their way?
Why must we leave to dream once more?
If only self-interest could fade,
If justice could rise from the dirt,
Perhaps then we’d stand unshackled,
And know what it is to dream without hurt.
But until then, we flee, we fight,
Crossing borders, losing sight,
Of who we are, of where we’re from,
For in our lands, we cannot dream as one.
Why We Must Reclaim Our Right to Dream at Home
Dreaming is a universal right, it is for everyone, not just a select few. Dreaming allows us to look ahead to better futures, pursue opportunities, and shape our lives. Yet, for many Africans, dreaming feels like a distant privilege. Whether educated or not, skilled or unskilled, the struggle for a better life remains an unstoppable force. For most, the only option to escape this harsh reality is leaving home in search of greener pastures abroad, whether legally or illegally.
But these journeys are often treacherous. Promises of good jobs and better lives abroad lead many into the traps of human trafficking and exploitation, Sad! The stories are painfully familiar, young men and women, driven by desperation, leave their homes only to find themselves trapped in modern-day slavery. Some are forced into labour without pay, others into prostitution. They lose not only their freedom but also their identities, their dignity! Having been deceived into believing that life outside Africa holds the answers they seek.
The tragedy is that these journeys take their origin from a single painful truth, many African countries don’t allow their citizens the freedom to dream at home. In a continent so rich in natural resources, oil, diamonds, gold, copper, and more. This reality is hard to reconcile. But the wealth of Africa is often mismanaged or hoarded by a select few, leaving the majority to struggle. Corruption, poor governance, and self-interest have prevented this wealth from translating into opportunities for ordinary people. Instead of developing industries that can employ millions, or investing in systems that allow citizens to thrive, resources are drained to feed the desires of a few. And so, we are forced to seek out dreams elsewhere, in lands that promise more but often deliver less.
Why must we leave to dream? Why can’t we fulfil our ambitions at home? The answer lies in the conditions that force so many to flee. Opportunities are scarce, infrastructure is weak, and education systems, while improving, often fall short in equipping young people with the skills they need to compete in a global economy, take a look at what the 8.4.4 education system in Kenya achieved and compare it to what the Competency-Based Curriculum (CBC) is doing now. Both systems have well-designed structures, but due to poor implementation, they will for certain fail to equip students with the skills needed for real-life success. Those who do succeed in gaining education or skills often find there are no jobs to match their qualifications. And while entrepreneurship is an option for some, it is often hampered by a lack of access to capital, poor infrastructure, and overly complicated regulations.
These challenges create a vicious cycle where leaving becomes the only viable option. But leaving doesn’t always lead to the freedom or success that many envision. Human trafficking has become one of the most dangerous industries preying on vulnerable Africans. Unscrupulous agents lure people with promises of high-paying jobs abroad, only to subject them to brutal conditions once they arrive. Men, women, and children are often forced into hard labour or sold into sexual exploitation, trapped far from home and without the means to escape. They either do it, or they pay for it with their lives! These stories project an image of a wider problem, a continent whose potential is stifled, whose children are forced to seek safety, success, and dignity far away.
But it doesn’t have to be this way. Africa can become a place where dreams are born and fulfilled. It begins with us demanding better governance and believing in our potential. For too long, corruption and manipulation has drained the lifeblood of African countries, siphoning off billions that could be used to create jobs, build schools, improve healthcare, and support industries that generate wealth for the people. Good governance where leaders are accountable and resources are managed responsibly can create environments where opportunities flourish. With transparent systems in place, we can begin to build the infrastructure that allows businesses to grow and employ people, reducing the need for migration in search of work.
Education is another crucial piece of the puzzle. For Africa to truly grow and develop, we must invest in quality, accessible education. Young people need not only academic skills but also practical, vocational training that allows them to build sustainable livelihoods. Entrepreneurship, too, should be nurtured. Africa is brimming with untapped talent and creativity. With better access to finance, mentorship, and infrastructure, local businesses can thrive, creating jobs and lifting communities out of poverty.
We also need to protect those who seek opportunities abroad. Migration should be a choice, not a necessity. African governments must work with international organizations to create safer, legal pathways for those who wish to work in other countries. Stronger labour protections and better enforcement of anti-trafficking laws can prevent many from falling into the traps of exploitation. But most importantly, we need to build systems that make staying home a viable option so that Africans no longer feel the need to leave in order to live their dreams.
Africa’s wealth should be used for the benefit of its people. For too long, multinational corporations have extracted resources from the continent without giving back to local communities. If African governments prioritize local ownership and control of resources, they can reinvest profits into vital sectors like infrastructure, education, and healthcare. This, in turn, creates a foundation for long-term development. When managed responsibly, Africa’s natural wealth can lift millions out of poverty, turning our vast resources into a force for good.
We also need to empower communities through civic education. People need to understand their rights and hold leaders accountable. An informed and active citizenry can demand better services, transparency, and the creation of real opportunities for all. Civic engagement helps ensure that governments prioritize the needs of their people over their own self-interests.
The story of Africa is not one of despair. It is one of potential of a continent that has everything it needs to make significant progress, but hasn’t yet realized its full potential. By tackling the root causes of migration, human trafficking, and exploitation, we can create a future where Africans can dream and build fulfilling lives at home. This is not just a possibility, it is a matter of urgency.
We must reclaim our right to dream, and we must do so on African soil. Only then will we see a future where migration is no longer a necessity but a choice. Only then will we stop the tragic stories of exploitation that have plagued our communities for far too long. Africa is rich, not just in minerals, but in the brilliance of its people. It is time for that brilliance to shine here, where it belongs. To do that, we must invest in our people, build our institutions, and ensure that every African has the chance to dream, right at home.
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