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

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

Wacha Ikae

Don’t look at your phone. The urge is there, gnawing at you, but you resist. You know how it happens always. She hasn’t called. She hasn’t left a message either, not even a one-word reply to that carefully written text you sent. But she’s read it. The double blue ticks glare back at you like tiny daggers, taunting you with their silence.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. Maybe she’s busy. Maybe her phone died. Yet deep down, a faint warning whispers, something is off. The red flags you once ignored are now bold and unrelenting, waving in your face. But no, this isn’t even orange yet, you rationalize. She’ll call later. She always does, and when she does, there will be excuses. So many excuses. Weak and hollow, they tumble out like rehearsed lines in a bad play.

You’ve heard them all before. “I was caught up with something.” “I didn’t see your call.” “You’re overthinking it.” And yet, every excuse chips away at something inside you. Still, you stay. You try to trust, to believe. But the lateness, the nonchalance, the dismissive tone, they sting. When the responses come, they’re lukewarm at best, indifferent at worst. And when they don’t come at all, you’re left to sit with your thoughts, drowning in a pool of “what-ifs.”

And when you dare to question it? The tables turn. She doesn’t apologize or explain. No, she gets angry. She calls it “female empowerment” or “girls in male fields,” her right to do as she pleases. But somehow, your feelings don’t matter. Your concerns are labeled as misogyny, your hurt as bias. Her anger flares, fiery and unrelenting, until you’re forced into silence, swallowing your words like bitter pills.

It’s funny, though, how the rules seem different when the tables turn. When you’re the one who doesn’t pick up, doesn’t reply, doesn’t explain, the world implodes. Her hurt becomes righteous indignation, and your silence, a personal betrayal. Suddenly, you’re the villain in a story you didn’t write. You’re made to feel guilty, selfish, unworthy. And yet, you understand. Or at least, you try to. Because if you don’t, she gets mad.

You’re not stupid. You see the pattern, the game, the manipulation cloaked in pretty words. You know the imbalance is more than unfair, it’s toxic. But you hold on, clutching at the tiny string of hope that maybe this time will be different. Maybe she’ll see you. Maybe she’ll call. Maybe she’ll stop making you feel like an afterthought.

But how long can you hold on? How many excuses can you stomach before the weight of her indifference crushes you? You wonder if love is supposed to feel this way, like walking on eggshells, like a one-sided battle for validation. Deep down, you know the answer. You’re just too afraid to admit it.

And so, you sit there, resisting the pull to check your phone again. You tell yourself this is the last time you’ll let her silence hurt you. But even as you make the promise, you wonder if it’s one you’ll keep. After all, the heart rarely listens to reason. And yours, stubborn and bruised, still beats for her, despite everything.

Ah, Wacha Ikae Bwana ! Don’t wait to confirm the obvious with a great sense of discovery

@okelododdychitchats

Fading Notes of The Heart

For the first time in my once-bright life,
I feel love slip away,
draining quietly from a heart
that once brimmed with warmth and fire.

Because of her,
passion now feels like a distant memory,
her eyes, once alive like sapphire stars,
now hold no light for me.
The smile that once lifted my world
has faded into something I barely remember.

I knew love once,
I felt it in her touch,
in the way she made life seem full of wonder.
But now, that wonder feels hollow,
a shadow of something I can no longer reach.

The beauty I once saw everywhere
seems to have vanished.
Dreams feel brittle;
hope feels like a foolish story I once believed.

Her absence is a quiet void,
and love, once a tender, living thing,
is now just a ghost
I can’t hold on to.

And so I go on,
not with the joy I once knew,
but with a quiet acceptance
that the song of my heart
will now play softly,
alone.

@okelododdychitchats

Judge Me If You Must !

As I walk through the valley and the shadows of poverty,
I feel the weight of judgment and expectation,
From those who cannot understand the struggle,
Of trying to survive in a world that seems to offer no salvation.

I fear not death, but the harsh words and stares,
Of those who see only weakness in my plight,
Who do not know the battles fought within,
To simply make it through each day and night.

Their understanding is as shallow as a thief’s eulogy,
Their empathy as scarce as a drop in the sea,
For they cannot comprehend the depth of despair,
That grips my soul and refuses to set me free.

They speak of my weaknesses, my failures,
As if they were born from choice,
But they do not see the tears I shed,
Or hear the silent cries of my voice.

They do not know the sleepless nights,
The hunger that gnaws at my gut,
The loneliness that haunts my days,
The pain that refuses to be cut.

They judge me for my lack of success,
For my inability to rise above,
But they do not see the barriers in my way,
The obstacles that push me down and shove.

They say “mara he is weak, mara he went to school passed but now he is failing in life, mara what”,
But they do not see the struggles I face,
The constant battle just to survive,
In a world that offers me no grace.

I try to explain, to make them see,
The darkness that surrounds me,
But their eyes are blind, their ears deaf,
To the cries of a soul longing to be free.

So I walk alone, through the valley of despair,
Through shadows that cling to my every step,
Knowing that in this world of judgment and expectation,
I can find no refuge, no solace, no reprieve.

But still I walk, with head held high,
Knowing that I am stronger than they can see,
For I have faced the worst that life can offer,
And I am still here, still standing, still me.

So judge me if you must, with your eyes of scorn,
But know that I am resilient, I am strong,
And though the valley may be dark and long,
I will walk through it, fearless, proud, and headstrong.

@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

You Don’t Care !

Wrong is only wrong
When it doesn’t work for you.
Walk with me,
Remember Gabriel Oguda?
Where did he go?
He doesn’t speak against the government anymore.
No more clever words, no more truth on X.
What happened?

I hear they want to sell our airport,
They’ve just transitioned NHIF into SHIF, I got that depressing message!
They Pass bills quietly, now they’re law.
And suddenly, they distract us with Gachagua’s impeachment.
But we aren’t fools, we see the game.

Where was public participation on the finance bill?
On the Adani deal, SHIF, housing levy?
The things that actually affect us!
Gachagua is tribal, yes,
But he’s just like the rest of you !
A puppet, a decoration.
Send him home, but don’t stop there, take Ruto with him.

I wish you, in the National Assembly,
Cared about the people, not just your wallets.
Now you’re playing games,
Asking for public participation on things that don’t matter to us.
Pretending to care.

Just like tissue paper, you use us, then throw us away.
We have Mastered your game !
We know when Gachagua falls,
You’ll say, “It was your choice, your voice!”
But we know, you don’t really care.

And even if Sifuna claims politicians are different,
I tend to think you’re all the same !
Because why did you all go silent when Raila joined hands with Ruto?
The once “bad” Ruto, the one you called corrupt,
Suddenly turned good overnight !
Because now it works for you! Huh ?

But none of you actually care.

@okelododdychitchats

Me, Not Them

Why blame a group for one’s mistake?
Why talk of fairness, then defend the flip side?
We need to see each person’s truth,
Not punish many for the fault of one.

When will we learn we’re not the same?
Don’t make others carry the blame.
We’re all unique, with paths we choose,
It’s unfair when innocent people lose.

Stop seeing groups, start seeing hearts,
That’s where understanding truly starts.
No one deserves another’s shame,
Each person should answer for their own slip-up.

If someone’s wrong, they should pay,
But don’t let others stand in the way.
We’re not a crowd, just many souls,
With different dreams and different goals.

Let’s be kind, let’s be fair,
Look at each person as an individual.
Don’t group us all with one mistake,
We’re not the same !

We’re all more than what others do,
So treat each person as someone new.
When we do, we’ll start to see,
A world that’s fair and truly free.

*********

Why do people blame entire groups for what one person does? It’s unfair to speak of double standards while defending or justifying a behaviour (My take). We need to stop grouping people by gender, culture, or appearance and start seeing them as individuals. If I’ve done something wrong or if I keep making mistakes, brand me and blame me all you want, but don’t blame all men/women, my community, or my friends. It’s me, not them.

Painting everyone with the same brush denies the unique truth of each person. We shouldn’t be defined by someone else’s mistakes just because we have something in common…When will we learn that everyone walks their own path? No one deserves to be judged based on what others have done.

Holding oneself accountable is a vital piece. It’s unjust to make an entire group suffer for what one person did. True justice means looking at each individual, seeing them for who they are, and holding them responsible for their choices, not blaming everyone who looks or lives like them.

We should all strive to treat each other with fairness, kindness, and understanding. There is no “them” and “us, “only people, each with their own story. If we can learn to see individuals clearly, we can make the world a better, more peaceful place.

In the end, treating others with empathy and reason is how we grow as a society. When we stop blaming groups and start focusing on individuals, we create room for understanding and change. Only then can we truly move toward peace and fairness for all.

@okelododdychitchats