You teach me how to love,
like a tutor with a chalk of affection,
sketching rules on my heart’s blackboard,
telling me where to pause, where to ache,
how to sing your name.
And I, the willing fool, take notes,
hoping to pass your exam of devotion.
You say, be the best person you can be,
but only when that person pleases you.
How noble, how godly, how perfectly human
to mold me into a version of you,
and call it growth.
Love, you say, is sacrifice,
but it’s always my neck on the altar.
A romance tailor-made, you claimed,
stitched with precision and care,
fitted to the edges of your comfort zone,
hemmed with your insecurities,
fastened with silent rules I never signed.
Sorry, my love, correction,
fitted not for love, but your ego’s parade.
Still, I tried.
God knows, I tried.
And in the trying, I learned,
how love can shape a man into a shadow,
how tenderness can bruise if held too tight,
how devotion, when one-sided,
becomes self-destruction in silk.
You ask what I’ve learned in return?
That your affection has terms and conditions,
your heart is a subscription service
that renews only when I bow enough,
laugh enough, obey enough.
You call me names when I forget,
darling, I’ve never seen such poetry in cruelty.
You say you can’t do this anymore,
compare me to your gallery of ghosts,
men built in marble, flawless in memory.
And still, I stand there,
a living, breathing imperfection,
learning that your love speaks fluent disappointment.
So walk, my sweet torment.
Take your lessons, your mirrors, your masks.
You’ve taught me what love is not,
and that’s worth a diploma in heartbreak.
Go, darling devil,
your absence will be my peace,
and my freedom, finally tailored to me.
Tag: depression
The Hour of Resignation
Is not the deep, dark rest a better plea,
When every single waking breath is war?
What am I fighting for, and what’s in store
But the same old tide that washes over me?
I searched the sunrise for a silver coin,
A simple piece of joy I could rejoin,
But found the coffer empty, shut, and cold,
The story of my striving left untold.
They promise gain, a comfort to be won,
If I just keep my shoulder to the stone.
But I have carried burdens all alone
From the first shadow cast beneath the sun.
I’ve seen no profit, felt no easing touch,
Just giving everything and getting much
Less than the peace the simple stones enjoy,
A hollow effort that I can’t employ.
Look on the record, read the final count,
There is no happiness beneath this sky.
The truth is written in the tear-wet eye,
The only offering from a spent account.
Every hard-won moment just a trade
For a new hurt, a deeper struggle made,
The only harvest that my hands can claim
Is the slow, bitter knowledge of the flame.
I tell you plainly, I can take no more.
The line is drawn, the final cord is cut.
My stubborn spirit, now locked in a rut,
Cannot hold past the breaking of the core.
This weight is not a thing you lift and clear,
It is the atmosphere of sorrow here.
The mind gives way, the tired will descends,
And all the forced endurance finally ends.
The anchors slip, the vessel has no guide,
The heart’s great drum beat only low and faint.
I won’t pretend, nor make myself a saint,
I only know I can no longer hide.
I am too fractured to be fixed again,
Too soaked in the relentless, icy rain,
The scaffolding of hope has bowed and split,
And I am done with all the grit and wit.
So let this truth be clear when I am gone,
My failing was not weakness of the soul.
I did not stumble short of any goal,
But fell beneath the weight of every dawn.
It was not sickness, foe, or sudden blast,
Life Itself came for me, and overcame at last.
The battle’s over. Hear the final word,
I lay my weary head down, like a bird.
@@okelododdychitchats
A Rose for You, My Love
The red rose sings of wild fire,
The white one breathes like the sea,
One burns with untamed longing,
One rests in serenity.
But I bring you a soft blush petal,
Not white, not crimson bright,
It holds the warmth of sunrise
And the still of falling night.
For love is not just quiet,
Nor only made to burn,
It’s the tender pull of yearning
And the joy when you return.
So here, my love, this rosebud,
It’s not bold, but it is true.
It blooms with gentle longing,
Like the way I bloom for you.
@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
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
The Sound of Love (In Three Words)
There is a river in my chest,
its current stirred by longing.
I have wrestled with syllables,
wrestled them like Jacob with the angel,
and still, they slipped from me.
I’ve summoned sonnets like old friends,
dressed up my ache in velvet metaphors,
cradled my truth in gilded rhyme,
but still, the soul was unclothed.
Words, those proud and peacock things,
marched across parchment
but none bore the weight
of my trembling heart.
Then came silence.
And out of silence,
three humble drumbeats:
I. Love. You.
They stood,
not as grand orators,
but as gospel.
Simple.
Sacred.
Enough.
@okelododdychitchats
It’s Colonial, I Swear
What happened before the roses came ?
1. Cold Showers and Pink Suits
There’s a special place in hell for cold showers and it’s probably somewhere next to the queue at the passport office. And now you want me to willfully take one, shave, powder my neck, and wear that pink suit that makes me look like a soft loan? Just to go out on a date? Bruh. That’s not love; that’s martyrdom. I did not survive Nairobi water bills to be out here moisturizing for cold balconies and cappuccino dust.
2. Love in the Time of Third Parties
Who even decided that love needs to come with an invoice and VAT? Dating in this economy feels like trying to start a business on a chama budget. You spend thousands to sit across someone in a place where both of you are silently trying to gauge who is more emotionally unavailable, while the waitress thinks you’re about to propose.
3. The Whitewashing of Romance
Let’s talk about it: is the modern date a colonial export? Imported like jazz music and instant noodles? Because, really, how did our grandfathers do it? They didn’t need a date. They needed a strong back, a hoe, and a keen eye for dowry negotiation. Now we’re out here buying roses that die in 48 hours, basically love-shaped perishables and calling it romance.
4. Introverts Anonymous
I’m not antisocial. I’m pro-solitude. There’s a difference. Why must love always be on display, like it’s a talent show and we’re all auditioning for the role of “Emotionally Available Partner ”? Me, I prefer my affection with a side of silence. Just Netflix algorithms that understand me better than most people.
5. The Psychology of Smashing vs Smiling
Some dates feel more like interrogations with ambience. You’re sitting there, trying to chew tasteless pasta gracefully while wondering if she thinks your smile means “I like you” or “I’m just horny.” You’re sweating from trying to remember if you mentioned you were raised Christian or spiritual but not religious.
6. Date Inflation & Emotional Capitalism
Who decided that love must be shown through receipts? That emotional availability must be measured by how many brunches you’ve paid for? I’ve dated women who thought the absence of fine dining was the absence of love. Hey, the pepper in my githeri is a form of affection. Don’t let capitalism gaslight your heart.
7. Domestic Love, Anyone?
Let’s stay home. I can cook, I can serve, and I can even throw in bad jokes for seasoning. No need for that performative laughter at Java. I want us barefoot in the house, arguing about how much salt I put in the food. That, my friends, is real bonding. And I can pause to pee during the movie without missing the plot or the bill.
8. Public Displays of Affection Fatigue
What’s so romantic about someone interrupting your moment to ask “would you like sparkling or still?” Let me love you in sweatpants. Let’s laugh over burnt ugali. Let’s fall asleep on opposite ends of the couch and meet halfway in a dream. That’s the kind of love that doesn’t make it to Instagram, but lasts.
9. Love Without Logistics
The planning of dates stresses me more than the dating itself. Reservations, rides, fitting into attires from 2021, it’s a full-time job. Why can’t we date like we used to play kalongo in childhood? Spontaneous, anarchic, and mostly in someone’s house with limited adult supervision.
10. Let’s Redefine Romance
So no, I’m not taking cold showers for a warm table. That doesn’t mean I love less. I just love differently. Quietly. Deeply. With less garnish and more substance. If love is a language, I speak it fluently in slippers and home-cooked meals. The balcony is cold, the city is expensive, and my pink suit is for weddings only. Choose your battles wisely. Choose your love even wiser.
@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
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
okelododdychitchats 