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

Final Gear

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 hollow, wind-swept 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.

Bye 2025.

@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

Jowi Jamuomo

I went, though my heart dragged its feet through sorrow,
I went, because love called my name through the crowd.
They said, Agwambo is gone, but how can truth perish?
How can wind vanish from the lake that bore it?
There he lay, Agwambo Tinga Wuod Jaramogi,
his face still owns the calm defiance,
his rest too noble, too tender, to be called death.

O Maker of dawn, the hand that stirs the tide of Nam Lolwe,
can You not breathe once more into this still chest?
Can You not summon him as You do the sun at morning?
For some men are forged, not born,
tempered in the furnace of struggle and faith,
Raila was such a one, flame and storm in human form,
a god who walked barefoot among the dust of his people,
teaching them courage by the weight of his silence.

No, gods do not die, they turn into wind,
into whispers that rise when nations kneel.
Jakom sleeps now, but even his sleep commands,
for peace follows him like a loyal song.
And today at Nyayo, love overflowed like a river breaking its banks,

Jowi! Jowi! Jowi!
The lion sleeps,
but his roar has become our prayer.

@doddyokelo

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

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

Lady in Black

“Mimi ni wa kucum, oh, scrap that, my bad, I meant Mimi ni wa kucome.’”
I was raised in the village. Well, not really a village because Rongo qualifies as a town, but Nairobians will still call it Moshadha, or ushago, or something else altogether. Forget it.
I grew up in Rongo for most of my childhood and only moved to Nairobi for campus. That’s right, I went to Multimedia University of Kenya in Karen, Nairobi County. Before anyone comes at me with, “Multimedia iko Rongai, bro,” before we argue, check your maps! The lower fence of Multimedia separates Nairobi from Rongai in Kajiado County. So yes, I schooled in Karen and stayed in Karen for four years. Si ni Mimi nawashow.

I bring up this whole kukucome thingie because when I first got into the Nairobi scene, matatu touts kept shouting “Tao Amboseli,” I didn’t catch it right, so I genuinely thought every estate in Nairobi had an Amboseli, just like almost every hood has a Kwa Chief in it. Turns out, they were saying “Tao hamusini,” as in, fare to town was 50 bob from wherever the pickup point was. Today, I’m in one of the moderately pimped Mapepe mats of Utimo Sacco. It’s carrying Tao Hamusini from Umoja Jeska stage. It’s Almost full. People love it because the driver here, knows how to dodge traffic….I’m sitting in the back, on the left window seat, giving me a clear view of everyone getting in, and, of course, judging them. Before I’m done profiling my fellow passengers, a lady slides in beside me. She’s today’s topic. This is udaku for free, feel free to share it with your crew. I hear y’all love udaku, so buckle up.

She’s in a sleek black dress, paired with not-so-new maroon Nike TNs, probably Kamukunji stock, judging by the soles, which haven’t been worn down by exposure to air (yes, I noticed the shoes when she stepped in, don’t ask). Her makeup is flawless, compensating for her questionable style. Thick lenses with frames hugging her round face sit perfectly on her.
Her eyes? Twin pools of wonder and mystery, they speak in whispers, framed by lashes as soft as a lover’s caress.
Her lips? Succulent and juicy.
Her nose? Perfectly symmetrical.
Her face is a masterpiece on a perfectly sculpted body.
Her hips don’t lie. When she sits, our hips meet, and I feel something, a desire mixed with comfort and curiosity mingling with hunger. Unsettling and oddly familiar.

I don’t know her name, but I know she smells nice, her dreadlocks are freshly done, clean, and not a hint of dusty brown in sight.
The bus starts moving, and she turns to me.
“You look good,” she says.
So do you, I think.
“You smell nice,” she adds.
So do you, I think again.
Match made in heaven, I convince myself, until she starts talking. And talking. And talking. A relentless stream of words. This river has no banks. Suddenly, I’m not so sure. I reconsider my initial instincts about asking for her name or number.

She pulls out a Juicy Fruit from her Gussii bag (yes, that’s what it says, probably meant to say Gucci). The way she chews it… carefree, wild, tasting life with abandon. It’s unbothered. It’s maddening….

We are in Town now,

When we reach past Mfangano Street, she turns.
“What’s your name?”
I tell her.
She smiles and walks away, heading toward Luthuli Avenue.

I watch her walk. That dhudha (that’s ass in some local sheng language.) That graceful stride. That hypnotic sway.
And for a fleeting moment, I wonder if I could’ve traded all that talking and careless chewing for the simple joy of watching her disappear into the crowd…

I almost get knocked down by a bike. As I snap back to reality, I realize it’s partly my fault. This part of town is always packed with people and matatus. When you mix those two, it feels like the sum of mchanga wa bahari, a bit of an exaggeration, but downtown Nairobi CBD is always a madhouse. I apologize to the boda guy and keep walking toward Nyayo House, with the lady in black still on my mind… I’ll tell you this, if you meet someone in a matatu or anywhere else who catches your interest, don’t wait around. Go for it. Take the risk! The guilt of not trying is way worse than whatever the outcome might be. I wish I’d gotten her number, even if it ended up on that list of contacts I don’t talk to. At least I’d have it, and what I choose to do with it is on me.

All day, I can’t stop thinking about the lady in black. She’s in my thoughts, even in the words I’m about to say. I try to dodge the usual chaos of the crowded streets, so I take a detour towards Kencom, then City Hall. It’s quieter here, with less hustle, and the buildings are lined up neatly, giving off this calm vibe. It’s the kind of peace that lets me think about the lady in black without anything pulling my attention away.

As I get closer to Nyayo House, I notice the street next to Cardinal Otunga and Holy Basilica is lined with Kienyeji ladies, each with an eye on the crowd. They’re advertising cyber services, not with signs, but with their words “bro, cyber, printing…” They’re looking for people who might need a printout or scan before heading into Nyayo House. Their smiles say they’ve seen it all, and they walk with the kind of confidence only Nairobi’s hustle can teach.

I don’t need any cyber services today, so I head straight to the NEMA offices to meet the Nairobi County Coordinator. Her office is warm and welcoming, and one day, I’ll ask her for an interview. But today, I’m here for something else.

Catch you later, guys!

@okelododdychitchats

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