I want You Bad

Girl, I want you bad,
The way the night craves the moon,
Like a song that stays long after the music fades,
Like a fire that never dies.

I want to feel your breath on my skin,
To hold you close, our hearts in sync,
To lose myself in the way you look at me,
Like I’m the only thing that matters.

I want to gently hold your neck,
As I kiss your lips, taste your tongue,
My left hand sliding between your thighs,
Reaching for that sweet, dripping warmth.

I want to hear your soft sighs,
Feel your fingers tangled in my hair,
Trace every curve of you like a love letter,
Written in the language of touch.

Let’s get lost in this moment,
Forget the world, just you and me,
Wrapped up in heat, in whispers, in need,
In something that feels like forever.

@okelododdychitchats

It must Be a Beautiful Death

It Must Be a Beautiful Death

Let it come like a sigh,
like the silence between waves,
like the slow separation of a ribbon,
loosened by the hands of time.
No violence. No suddenness.
Just the peaceful folding of the day into night,
a quiet hand-over to the pull of the tide.

Let it not be an end,
but an opening,
a door swinging wide to something big and golden,
a breath released, not stolen.
Let it feel like stepping into warm water,
like sinking into silk,
like the weight of the world slipping from tired shoulders.

Something will rise from the silence.
It always does.
A blade of green through frost-bitten earth,
a flame that flickers but never dies,
a heart that stops only to be remembered
in the sound of another’s breath.
Life does not go. It stays.
It clings to the air, to the hands that once held it,
to the laughter built into the walls of an old house.

It must be a beautiful death,
the kind that smiles instead of weeps,
that glows instead of dims,
that steps lightly into the unknown,
leaving warmth where it once stood.
Not a Disapearance, but a soft dissolve,
like sugar in tea,
like smoke curling into the sky.

Something sweet will remain.
A voice Singing in the quiet of morning,
a scent-faint yet familiar-caught on the wind.
The way their name still tastes on your tongue.
Love is stubborn.
It does not bow to time.
It finds itself into the cracks of your bones,
into the spaces between dreams.

And something great will rise from the silence
A light in the dark,
a constellation drawn from the ashes,
a name that refuses to be forgotten.
No one is ever truly gone
if their love still stains the walls of the world.

It must be a beautiful death,
not because it does not pain,
but because it matters,
because it leaves fingerprints on the soul,
because it whispers through the wind,

I was here. I loved. I lived.
And somewhere, somehow, I still do.

@okelododdychitchats

Death Didn’t Do Us Apart

We stood there, below the soft glow of candlelight,
breathing in the scent of fresh roses,
draped in the hearth like glow of promises
we thought would last forever.
“For richer or poorer,” we said,
holding hands with our hearts open,
two souls tied in something bigger than ourselves.

Love felt easy then
like laughter in the spring,
like whispered dreams in the dark.
“In sickness and in health,”
we swore, certain of our strength,
believing love was enough
to keep the storms at bay.

But love doesn’t stop the seasons from changing.
Leaves still fall.
The air still grows cold.
And somewhere between yesterday’s kisses
and today’s silence,
we lost ourselves.

It wasn’t death that parted us.
No tragic ending, no final breath.
Just the slow erosion of trust,
The burden of unspoken words.,
the sting of knowing
I was no longer enough.

You slipped away in pieces
a late reply, a distant stare,
a touch that felt like a ghost of what it used to be.
And when the truth came,
it wasn’t a sudden crash,
but a quiet breaking,
like the final glow dying out.

“Good guys finish last,” they say,
as if kindness is a weakness,
as if loving fully means losing completely.
I should have been harder,
colder,
but love, real love, doesn’t wear armor.
It stands bare, hoping,
even when hope feels like a foolish thing.

I still remember the mornings
the way your laughter filled the room,
how breakfast in bed felt like a love language,
how silence between us was once soft,
not sharp.

I thought love was something you built,
something you watered and nurtured,
but I didn’t see the weeds creeping in,
the slow suffocation of something beautiful.
Every I love you became an afterthought,
every kiss felt borrowed,
and suddenly, love was just a memory
we were trying too hard to relive.

What is love, if not a choice?
Every day, again and again.
But choices change.
And somewhere along the way,
you stopped choosing me.

I read books about love,
but they don’t talk about this part,
the quiet ache,
the way rooms feel bigger when someone leaves,
the way time moves on
even when you beg it to stay still.

“Good guys suffer,” they call them simps,
as if love is a game where only the ruthless win.
But I don’t believe that.
Not really.
Because love, real love, doesn’t die.
It bends, it breaks,
but it finds a way through the cracks.

I see you in dreams sometimes,
smiling like you used to,
before love became something
we had to fight for.
And maybe that’s all we were,
a beautiful thing that wasn’t meant to last.

But love will come again.
Maybe softer this time.
Maybe stronger.
And when it does,
I’ll be ready.

Because love isn’t a weakness.
It’s a lesson.
A story.
A promise we make to ourselves,
that no matter how many times we break,
we’ll find a way to be whole again.

@okelododdychitchats

What’s Love Anyway

There was a time, wasn’t there?
A time when love felt like everything.
When we didn’t need to ask permission for it to stay.
It just showed up, uninvited, and we welcomed it like an old friend.

We thought it would stay forever, didn’t we?
We thought we’d always walk side by side,
Two hearts beating in unison,
Believing that nothing could tear us apart.

But somewhere, somewhere in the silence,
Love changed.
It changed, almost without notice.
One day, we were laughing, and the next, silence.

It’s strange, how love can be so gentle and so harsh,
All at once.
How it can bloom and fade,
In a breath, in a glance.

The hand that once held yours, so tenderly,
Now feels distant, cold.
And the words that once lifted you,
Now fall heavy, like stones.

It’s not always the big gestures that tear us apart.
Sometimes, it’s the things left unsaid,
The silence in between.
The small fractures that no one sees,
Until they break wide open.

And you stand there, staring at the pieces,
Wondering when it all fell apart.
Wondering when you lost yourself,
And when love became a stranger.

But here’s the truth I’ve come to know,
Love doesn’t disappear.
It doesn’t vanish like smoke.
It leaves a mark.

It leaves a scar,
Not one that makes you weaker,
But one that makes you stronger.
Because, after all, we survived it.

We carry love with us,
Even when it’s gone.
We carry the warmth,
The joy, the sorrow.

Love may not last forever,
But it teaches us more than we ever thought we could learn.
And when the pieces finally settle,
We realize we’re still here, still standing.

So, yeah, love hurts.
It breaks you down.
But it also builds you up.
And that’s something we can carry with us, always.

But then, we pause,
And we wonder,
What is love, really?
Is it the promises we make and break?
A fire that flickers, then fades?
Or is it just the quiet moments,
When we finally learn to love ourselves,
Without needing anyone else to show us how?

@okelododdychitchats

I Remember

I Remember This

I remember that day like it was yesterday,
When time just… stopped.
Everything felt heavy, like carrying sacks of maize on my back,
And your words, they hit me,
Soft but sharp, cutting through the quiet.
It was the 31st.
That date? It stayed with me,
Stuck in my chest like a thorn.
It made me thirsty, not for water,
But for answers, for understanding,
For some kind of meaning that never came.

We walked, remember?
Under those jacaranda trees,
Purple petals falling like tiny blessings
Or maybe tears we couldn’t cry.
The wind? It whispered secrets,
Or maybe I imagined that too.
Everything about that moment was a blur,
But your voice?
Your voice was clear,
Soft, steady,
Like a song from long ago.

You told me about her,
And I felt it.
Every. Single. Word.
Like the weight of rain-soaked clothes
Clinging to my skin.
I whispered a prayer that day,
Not because I knew what to say,
But because silence felt heavier than speaking.
“God, please… please guide her home.
Hold her close. Let her rest.”

Ooh, Yesu Kristo!
My heart,
It broke wide open,
And your name slipped from my lips
Along with tears I didn’t even realize were falling.
Grief, they say, is the price of love,
And we,
We paid in full that day.
Every tear,
Every ache,
Every silent scream.

Loss sits in your chest,
Heavy like a stone you can’t put down.
But even stones wear smooth over time.
Grace,
That’s what you taught me,
Grace shapes us,
Even when we’re broken.

May her soul find peace,
That kind of deep, deep peace
That feels like warm sun on tired shoulders,
Like a calm lake at dusk.
And I’ll carry her,
Her memory,
Her laughter,
Her love,
Because love doesn’t die.
It just… changes.
It becomes wind,
And light,
And breath.

Osiepa,
You’re still here, In the stories we tell, In the way we laugh even when it hurts, In the quiet moments When memories sit with us
Like a fire we gather around for warmth.

I remember.
And I always will.

@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

Golden Hue

My skin drips cocoa butter,
rich and unparalleled,
like the earth holding stories of rain and sun,
like a promise whispered by the night.
It’s dark and beautiful,
mysterious as a velvet sky laced with stars,
It tells a story of history.

It doesn’t glare or dull,
it balances like a seashell
cupped by moonlight,
a perfection gleaming in the sun,
catching light like a secret revealed.
This is my skin,
a story of generations,
a mark of resilience passed down with pride.

Its scent is Yara cologne,
layered and lingering,
a melody made tangible,
a fragrance infused with culture,
with memory, with home.
Every breath of it recalls
the places, the hands, the voices
that shaped me.

Above it rests a crown,
soft coils and curls that stretch toward the sky.
Hair that defies gravity yet welcomes touch,
a crown sculpted by no one but me,
alive in its strength, its freedom,
a hymn of self-love in every strand.

This essence of me,
is seen and felt
it’s carried,
it’s lived.
Every inch speaks
in a language only I can translate,
a declaration of identity,
a love letter to the self.

So let my skin drip cocoa butter,
let it shine unapologetically.
Let it sing of power and joy,
of beauty that doesn’t ask for permission.
This darkness isn’t a void, it’s fullness,
it’s richness, it’s light wrapped in shadow.

Let it carry the rhythm of culture,
the heartbeat of diversity.
In its depth is strength,
in its texture, truth.
It doesn’t hide,
it never will.
My skin drips cocoa butter,
and in it lies the whole world.

@okelododdychitchats

The Burden of Being

They say men drag themselves to hell,
As if each step they take is a burden,
As if the weight of their struggles,
Their pride, their pain,
Should remain hidden,
Silent, unspoken.
And when a man is wronged,
When his dignity is stripped away,
When his worth is questioned,
They turn away,
As if it’s his fight to bear alone.
No one speaks up, no one defends,
He’s left to pick up the pieces,
His bruises ignored.

Have you ever seen
What happens when a man’s life is taken?
How the story shifts,
How the reason for his death is twisted,
Explained away,
As if it’s somehow justifiable,
As if it’s easier to accept
If the pain can be rationalized,
If the wrong can be painted in a different light.
The truth is bent,
The facts contorted,
Until the sharp edges of injustice
Are softened, made palatable.

Why is it only wrong when it doesn’t fit the narrative?
When a man’s struggle doesn’t meet the approval of those who’ve never walked in his shoes?
When the pain doesn’t match their prescription of how things should be,
Why do they bend and twist the story to make it easier to understand?
Why is it that the wrongs done to a man are shrugged off,
Ignored, forgotten,
Until they can no longer be ignored?
Is it because they expect him to endure quietly?
To accept disrespect as part of his place in the world?

Why must we turn a blind eye when a man is dismissed,
When he’s disrespected,
When his value is diminished,
As if he doesn’t deserve the same empathy,
The same respect,
The same justice?
Why do we question his pain,
His frustration,
When he’s left standing alone,
Fighting battles that no one else sees?
Is it because he’s a man,
And somehow, his hurt is less?
Somehow, he’s expected to rise without the help of others?

It’s a sad, painful truth that we live in a world
Where some lives are weighed differently,
Where some struggles are minimized,
Where the wrongs done to men are excused,
Simply because they’re men.
But when will we see that pain is pain,
That disrespect is still wrong,
That when a man’s dignity is stolen,
When he’s pushed down,
When he’s wronged,
It’s just as heavy, just as real
As the wrongs done to anyone else?

I won’t stand for it.
I won’t accept it.
I believe we can do better.
I believe we can rise beyond these broken rules,
Beyond these silent expectations,
And see each other for what we truly are,
Human.
Every one of us, deserving of dignity,
Deserving of respect.
And maybe, just maybe,
When we stop justifying wrongs,
When we stop twisting the truth,
We can heal, together.
Men, women, everyone,
Equal in our worth,
Equal in our struggle,
And equal in our right to be seen,
To be heard, to rise.

@okelododdychitchats

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

I am Tired

I am tired

That type of tired that you aren’t convinced of anything
Anything like love or just the normal satisfaction
I know fairness is just but a human concept, not a universal law
I know life is inherently chaotic, and demanding order in chaos is futile
But again, what about me?

Let it be unfair to someone else
Let them carry the weight of the world on their shoulders
While I struggle to even lift my own
It’s exhausting, this constant battle within myself
Trying to find meaning in a world that seems bent on stripping it away

I am tired

Tired of pretending that I have it all together
When inside, I am crumbling like a fragile house of cards
Tired of putting on a brave face when all I want to do is cry
Tired of chasing after something that always seems just out of reach

I am tired

Tired of the empty promises of tomorrow
Tired of the endless cycle of work, sleep, repeat
Tired of feeling like I’m never doing enough
Tired of feeling like I’m never going to be enough

I am tired

Tired of the constant noise and chaos that surrounds me
Tired of the endless stream of bad news and tragedy
Tired of the never-ending demands placed upon me
Tired of feeling like I’m drowning in a sea of expectations

I am tired

Tired of feeling like I can never catch a break
Tired of the weight of the world pressing down on me
Tired of feeling like I’m the only one struggling
Tired of feeling like no one truly understands

I am tired

Tired of trying to keep up with a world that never stops moving
Tired of feeling like I can never measure up
Tired of feeling like I’m always falling short
Tired of feeling like I’m always on the brink of collapse

I am tired

Tired of the endless battle raging within me
Tired of feeling like I’m fighting a losing war
Tired of feeling like I’m never going to find peace
Tired of feeling like I’m never going to find my place in this world

I am tired

Tired of the constant struggle to hold it all together
Tired of the relentless pressure to be something I’m not
Tired of feeling like I’m always one step behind
Tired of feeling like I’m always running on empty

I am tired

Tired of feeling like I’m carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders
Tired of feeling like I’m carrying the weight of my own expectations
Tired of feeling like I’m carrying the weight of my own doubts and fears
Tired of feeling like I’m carrying the weight of my own insecurities

I am tired

Tired of feeling like I’m alone in this endless battle
Tired of feeling like I’m the only one struggling to keep it together
Tired of feeling like I’m the only one who can’t seem to find their way
Tired of feeling like I’m the only one who feels this way

I am tired

Tired of feeling like I’m always on the edge of breaking
Tired of feeling like I’m always on the brink of falling apart
Tired of feeling like I’m always on the verge of losing myself
Tired of feeling like I’m always on the edge of giving up

I am tired

Tired of feeling like I’m never going to find my way out of this darkness
Tired of feeling like I’m never going to find my way back to the light
Tired of feeling like I’m never going to find my way back to myself
Tired of feeling like I’m never going to find my way back to peace

I am tired

But despite it all, I will keep on fighting
I will keep on pushing forward
I will keep on searching for that elusive peace
I will keep on believing that one day, I will find it

I may be tired, but I am not defeated
I may be tired, but I am not broken
I may be tired, but I am not lost
I may be tired, but I am still here

And as long as there is even the smallest glimmer of hope
I will keep on going
I will keep on fighting
I will keep on believing

For I am tired, but I am not done.

@okelododdychitchats