It didn’t fall so much as it unfolded. One minute, the sky was a familiar ceiling, and the next, a bruise began to spread from the center out, smothering the sun until the light felt thin, brittle enough to snap between my fingers.
You don’t realize how much the light holds you up until it’s gone.
Now, the air is thick with the soot of burned-out stars. The iron draft of a closing door has changed everything, it’s a predatory thing. It’s in my bones now, pulling my shoulders toward the dirt, turning my footsteps into heavy prayers that no one hears. My knees have forgotten the habit of standing.
There is a cold, dense knot where my chest used to be, a collapsed star, a private black hole feeding on the scraps of my better days. It doesn’t just take, it erases. It has swallowed the before, the maybe, and theus, leaving only this heavy, crippled silence where my heart used to beat.
Hey, broken man, you don’t have to hold the sky tonight. Let it fall. Let it rain through your chest. Strength is not silence, it’s the courage to shatter and still call yourself whole. The world taught you to be iron, but even iron rusts when it holds too much sorrow. So cry, let your saltwater baptize the pain, let softness be your rebellion.
You are not weak for weeping, you are simply human enough to heal. Tears don’t strip your masculinity, they cleanse it. Let them fall, and when they do, may they wash away every lie that said you shouldn’t feel. Even lions cry, brother, we just never stay long enough to hear them mourn.
I have never known a pain this sharp, a hurt that stays in every breath, as if sorrow has built a home inside my chest. I sit here drowning in my own silence, tears spilling like tides I cannot command, wondering how I strayed, wondering if I’ve lost the best part of me, you.
I keep replaying my mistakes, each one cutting deeper than the last, and I fear that in their shadow, your love for me might dim. The thought alone unmakes me. It is a heaviness I cannot outrun, a shame that knots itself into my bones.
If only regret could mend, if only apologies could erase, I would gather up every fragment of your hurt and carry it away until you felt light again. But healing, I know, is not so quick. It asks for patience. It asks for trust.
“I’m sorry” feels too small, too fragile for the weight of what I mean. Yet it is the truth on my tongue, and I speak it with trembling hope. Because we have weathered storms before, you and I, and somehow we’ve always come through stronger, side by side.
Still, I know you deserve better than the hurt I’ve caused. I hate myself for placing this burden on you. But if your heart can find space for one more chance, I promise I will spend every day proving love right again, proving us right again.
I saw her again, the girl I once loved. Time had touched her kindly. She wore a white dress, soft as a prayer, and it clung to her form like the wind belongs to the sea.
She was lovelier than I remembered, not just in face, but in the quiet grace she carried. Clean. Still. Like a page I might’ve turned too soon.
The dress, white as chapel vows, did justice to every curve, each one a line in the poem I once left unfinished. She smiled, not bitter, not bold, just enough to stir something old in me.
She said I looked different too, more like the man she always pictured beside her. Stronger, quieter, maybe even kinder.
And for a moment, in the gentle silence between us, I think we both wondered, not with regret, but with a wistful sort of hope, if the pages we wrote apart could still make sense together.
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.
I know you like your linen white. White as milk. With no stains, no creases, And no voices too loud or opinions too strong. You want clean reputations, Clean photos, clean silence.
You like me better When I just show up, smile, hit targets, Say “yes sir” to everything and go home. You like me better When I keep the fire in my belly out of your boardroom. When I don’t question, when I don’t care too much.
But here’s what you forget,
I was me before I became your employee. I had a voice before I had your email signature. I had convictions before I had a clock-in code. And I’m not about to trade all that in For job security and polite applause.
I love justice. The same way you love KPIs. I care about this country, The same way you care about brand image.
So when you see me at a protest, Don’t flinch. I’m not unstable. I’m not rebellious. I’m just awake.
When I call out corruption, I’m not ruining your name, I’m protecting it. Because if systems rot, Your success does too.
When I tweet in anger, It’s not because I’m angry all the time. It’s because I still believe that things can change. That voices matter. That silence is too heavy to carry anymore.
I’m not asking for much.
Just this, Don’t punish me for caring. Don’t blacklist me for believing. Don’t put me in a corner Because I refuse to play blind.
I want to work. I want to grow. But I also want to live in a country where truth doesn’t cost you your job.
Let me speak. Let me stand. Let me protest, cry out, and still walk into your office on Monday morning with purpose. Because fighting for what’s right And showing up for work Aren’t enemies. They’re both signs I give a DAMN.
So no, I’m not mad. I’m not disloyal. I’m just patriotic. And I won’t whisper that.
Sincerely, Still the right person for the job. Just louder.
When I fall in love, there will be no trumpet, no choir of angels rehearsing hallelujah, just the quiet breaking of bread between two hands that have known hunger.
I will not ask the sun to shine, it will. I will not beg the wind to be still it will not. But you, you will laugh like sugar spilling from a jar and I will remember how joy can be messy and still be beautiful.
When I fall in love, I will not be the half of a whole, I will be the whole of a whole meeting another who does not need completing, only witnessing.
There will be no ticking clock, no red thread prophecy, no trembling knees (unless from laughter). I will not call it fate. I will call it choice. I will choose you. And choose you again. Even when your smile falters, even when your breath carries thunder.
I will not write sonnets. I will write grocery lists with your name at the bottom underlined twice. We will argue about soup. And make up in whispers like old songs that only the two of us remember.
When I fall in love, I will not promise forever. But I will give you every now I can carry. I will plant soft yeses in the soil of every day. I will hold space for your shadow and your shine.
And when I say goodbye, (if goodbye must come) it will be with the ache of one who has lived and not regretted a single soft, unspoken I love you.
When I fall in love, it will not be a fairy tale. It will be a revolution of two sacred, flawed, magnificent souls saying, yes, still.
And you, you will not be worshipped. You will be seen. And that, my love, is holy enough.
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.
The clock swallows minutes whole, Gulping down greetings, gnawing on goodbyes. Excuses stack like bricks against a door, While silence hums between us, thick as stone, thin as breath.
A phone vibrates, a message waits, Unanswered. I see you read it. A thousand reasons grow in that space, But not one blooms into a simple, “I’m thinking of you.”
How important must a life be To lose the weight of one small word? How far must a soul stroll To forget the way home is paved with pause, and presence, and tender replies?
What do we build with our busyness? A monument of meetings, A kingdom of calendars. We count every second, but never the heartbeats missed between deadlines.
We are architects of absence. Masters of the unsaid. Too proud, perhaps, to admit that we let love sit idle while we sharpened schedules into swords and called it survival.
Wahenga na wahenguzi said, Akufukuzaye hakuambii toka. The one chasing you never says leave.
What are you still waiting for? What more do you need to realize you’re not wanted? Respect yourself!…
Somewhere, there is a hand reaching for yours, A voice waiting at the edge of a message unsent. Kindness grows fragile when left in the dark, but it never dies.
So, how busy can someone be? Busy enough to forget, but not enough to stop remembering.
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 