SILENCE IS THE DEATH OF US

Dear Corporate,

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.

@okelododdychitchats

Silenceisthedeathofus #Speak #PoeticJustice #Justice #Justice4AlbertOjwang #SpeakUp #Corruption #EndCorruption

When I fall in Love

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.

@okelododdychitchats

Tomorrow is Friday Guys!

People used to smell like One Million and 212, those who had stretched their pockets just enough to afford a whiff of something slightly premium. Not premium-premium, just one million with a funny logo and a scent of 212, sometimes rebranded as 242. But at least they tried. At least they smelled nice. That was the point.

Now everyone smells of Yara. Including the lady seated next to me in a maroon cardigan, white top, and black pants and sneakers—coincidentally, just like me. Someone might think we are together, or worse, on some synchronized promo for maroon, black, and white outfits. But no. We are not together. I just know she has done her hair well, and she smells of Yara. I am actually even too shy to look at her face again but I know she’s wearing pink nails. I mean I can see her nails…

I don’t know which Yara she’s wearing, but I’ll assume it’s the good one because she looks expensive. Expensive like an iPhone 15.

And yes, she has an iPhone 15. A whole Pro Max. And you know, owning an iPhone is already rich (So we think). A whole 15 Pro Max? That’s generational wealth. That’s “my uncle works at UN” money. That’s “I don’t ask for prices before ordering” kind of money.

Now, unless the SI unit for expensive and richness changed overnight (It used to be or still is an Iphone), I am confused. I mean, is she rich-rich, or is this the “niongeze ten bob ya Kutoa “ type of babe? You know, the one where someone casually flexes their iPhone but deep down, their Fuliza is gasping for air, their M-Shwari is in ICU, and their branch loan officer knows them by name? Because here she is, sitting in a Kasarani-bound bus, scrolling like she’s never been in a financial group chat discussing “nani alishikwa na Tala?”

She keeps smiling, and I keep wondering, has she ever walked through the sardine-packed chaos of Mfangano Street? Has she ever set foot in that mall-that-is-not-really-a-mall called Cianda and tried to pronounce it? But then I dismiss the thought. We are all in the same loud bus to Kasarani. I convince myself she lives in Sunton. And I’m not saying Sunton isn’t classy. I’m just saying it’s affordable class. But forget that ! – Just know, she’s pleasing to look at. The kind of person you’d instinctively place in Kilimani, yet here we are, and Sunton is the reality. At least she smells nice.

I have just left three government offices, and for the first time in my twenty-guess what years of living, I have not been served with attitude. I’m beginning to think the only ones who throw attitude are the Sub-County office folks because these ministry guys? They have mastered the art of hospitality. If only their bosses were the ones delivering services to us daily, ningefurahia!

But for now, I am just a happy man. Happy to sit next to someone who smells nice. Happy that, for once, I have not inhaled the unfortunate concoction of refilled Invictus mixed with a random scent that dares to bear Beyoncé’s name. Happy that three government offices served me without the signature “rudi after two weeks” response. Happy that I have finally cleared a backlog of work.

I haven’t slept since Saturday. Today is Thursday.

Tomorrow is Friday, guys.

@doddyokelo

@okelododdychitchats

She Still Wears Dirty Shoes

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.

@okelododdychitchats

When Death Speaks

Let’s talk about death.
Yes, death.
I know,
you’re probably wondering, “who talks about death?”
I do.
I do it courageously,
yet timidly,
like a child with a secret too heavy for his pockets,
but too delicate for his lips.

I speak of death because I know,
one day,
I will lie beneath the soil of my ancestors,
soaking in the dust of my father’s land,
a homecoming where no one sings.
Six feet under, I will be,
like my father before me,
and the fathers of fathers
whose names were lost
long before my tongue learned
the language of grief.

I haven’t made peace with death,
just like you haven’t.
It presses its weight on my chest,
a shadow I can’t shake,
a sorrow buried in silence,
the kind of silence that resounds
in places where laughter used to be.

The thought of losing someone
you’re used to seeing
is a gap
no bridge can span.
It’s a limb ripped from the body of your soul,
a phantom pain
that keeps reaching
for what isn’t there anymore.
And sure,
you can build prosthetics out of memories,
fashion artificial limbs
from old conversations,
but they will never function
like the real thing.

I hate death.
I hate its finality,
its audacity to steal
what we are not ready to lose.
I hate its silence,
how it robs us of voices
we still hear in dreams.

But hate or not,
death is a truth
we cannot escape,
a reality we cannot undo.

And when it speaks,
there’s always that quiet sorrow,
the truth we’re unwilling to face,
the call we’re afraid to answer,
knowing it’s a summon
we can never ignore.

So, I carry it with me,
not in defeat,
but in defiance.
I lace my words with its gravity,
so that every breath,
every heartbeat,
becomes a rebellion
against the quiet
waiting at the end.

@okelododdychitchats

How Busy Can Someone Be?

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.

@okelododdychitchats

A Letter to You, Men

Dear man,
I write to you in the quiet of dawn,
When the world stirs with whispers of promise,
And shadows yield to the birth of light.
This is a letter, not a sermon, not a scolding,
But a soft wind stirring your soul,
A call from one heart to another,
A pause to remember who you are
And who you could be.

Wake up,
Wake up from the numbing slumber of conformity,
From the comfortable tomb of inertia.
Shake off the chains of apathy
That bind your dreams to the ground.
The world is waiting,
Rise with the sun, let its warmth fill your chest,
And carve your place into the marrow of this earth.

Build your own self,
A man not sculpted from the molds of expectation,
But one built with integrity’s fierce hands.
Lay your foundation with truth,
Brick by brick of courage and humility,
Mortared with the lessons of failure.
Let self-love be your cornerstone,
For how can you lead others
If your own heart is a wilderness of doubt?

Build your family
Make it a refuge where love spills like morning light,
Where tears are cups of truth,
And laughter rings like unbroken bells.
Be the architect of sanctuary,
Not with walls of pride,
But with open doors of kindness.
Do not let regret cloud your vision,
Chart the way with faith and tenderness.
Homes are not houses,
They are hearts tied together by love’s hands.

Play your roles with love
Father, son, brother, partner…
Wear these names like a crown of stars.
Not with dominance,
But with the strength of gentle hands,
With the quiet force of a shoulder that bears,
A heart that listens.
Vulnerability is not a weakness,
It is the marrow of connection,
The place where love lives and breathes.

Oh, dear man,
Don’t be a ghost of a father,
A name whispered in longing,
A shadow in a child’s dreams.
Children need roots to hold them firm,
And wings to lift them high.
Be the guidance in their storms,
The steady light on a darkened shore.
In your arms, they learn to trust,
To dream, to become.
Be their hero, not perfect,
But present.

Do not lose yourself to anger,
That wildfire that devours forests of peace.
Let it pass through like the storm it is,
Rage, then rest, then rise again,
But never let it take your soul.
Meet it with understanding,
For the world is a fragile thing,
And love is always the better sword.

Don’t chase applause,
For it is the fleeting chorus of hollowed hands.
Seek truth instead,
Sing your own song,
Unapologetically yours.
There is no peace in pretense,
There is only weariness.
Live authentically,
Raw, flawed, radiant.

Choose your battles,
Do not draw your sword for every slight.
Wisdom is knowing when to fight
And when to let silence be your answer.
Restraint is not weakness,
It is the quiet power of kings.

Give, dear man,
Give with open hands,
But know when to rest.
Life is not a scorecard,
It is a dance of give and take,
A river that drys and flows.
In generosity, there is beauty,
But let balance be your guide,
For even oceans need shores.

And if love is not returned,
Do not wither, do not fall.
Some chapters are meant for growth,
Not permanence.
Let them go with grace,
And walk unburdened by what was.
Detachment is a kind of freedom,
A breath of peace when the weight is too much.

Do not linger where the air is poison.
When toxicity suffocates,
Leave with your spirit intact.
Boundaries are not walls,
They are gardens,
Places where your soul can bloom.
Seek light, seek life.
Don’t stay where your laughter dies.

Life, dear man,
Is a song waiting to be sung,
Art waiting for your hands.
Be the artist of your existence,
The poet of your days.
You are more than breath and bone,
You are a force, a dream, a maker of worlds.

Wake up.
Step into your becoming.
This life is yours,
A Limitless and glorious scene.
Write your truth,
Shape your legacy with love,
And dance boldly into tomorrow.

This, dear man,
Is your story.

@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

Behind Closed Doors, Break Free

Violence doesn’t always leave bruises you can see.
It hides in words that cut, in silence that smothers,
A shadow waiting, patient, behind closed doors,
Quietly chipping away at who you are,
Until you feel small, afraid, unseen.
But knowing the signs, that’s where it begins.

Do they tear you down with a smile on their face,
Chip away at your confidence with every word?
Do their actions make you shrink in fear,
Walking on eggshells, afraid to breathe?
Their cruelty doesn’t need fists to leave scars,
It traps you behind those same closed doors.

You try to convince yourself it’s not so bad,
Smile, laugh, say “I’m fine,” to anyone who asks.
But when the silence settles and no one’s there,
The words come back, loud and sharp,
Reminding you of their power,
Reminding you of your place-small, broken, alone.

And then you start to question yourself.
Maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re the problem.
But you’re not.
It’s their control, their manipulation,
Their need to keep you afraid,
Hidden, quiet, behind those closed doors.

But you can break free.
You can speak. You can stand.
Your voice is stronger than their silence.
Your courage is bigger than their control.
One step, then another, through the open door,
Toward freedom, toward yourself.

It’s time to name their words for what they are.
Time to break the silence,
To reclaim the you they tried to erase.
Because the scars they leave may not be visible,
But you are still here,
And you are still whole.

@okelododdychitchats