After

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 the us,
leaving only this heavy, crippled silence
where my heart used to beat.

@doddyokelo

Rivers of My Own Making

There is no universe in which I am sitting down to read how someone built a whole cereal shop from a single grain of rice. Never. I respect the effort it took to type all that optimism, but no. Your road doesn’t bend like mine, and I refuse to be shamed into feeling inadequate simply because my idea of joy moves to a different sun. If you want to pray, pray. I pray too, my brother. We are all sinners anyway. The only difference is how we manage our sins. Mine are personal. I enjoy them quietly and carry the consequences alone. Yours arrive with collateral damage, cloaked in lies, dipped in theft, and sanctified from the pulpit. A pastor from hell, if we’re being honest. Cut me some slack, man.

2025 has been incredible. Financially, the fireworks stayed away, but the lessons arrived on time. Lessons that stay. I learned how to take care of myself by leaning into what I love. I learned that some opinions bloom like flowers but are made of dust, pretty to see, hollow to hold. I learned the strength that lives in subtle sighs, the subtle mastery in watching without interference, the rare discipline of letting words fall around me without reaching for a reply. And perhaps the hardest lesson of all. When the lights dim, the applause fades, and the crowd vanishes into the night, only your own shadow remains. That truth seeps in like a silent river, carrying its weight with quiet insistence, tracing the contours of the soul, unseen yet unstoppable, leaving freedom in its wake.

I carry no resolutions scribbled on paper for 2026. Free of banners of ambition and untouched by public drumbeats, I carry instead intentions. I plan to be better. To build myself financially. To chase what I want without hesitation or apology. And yes, I plan to cut people off, gently but firmly, when their presence drains more than it gains. Whether I leave or stay, your life will continue uninterrupted. I’ve made peace with that long ago. I plan to do more business, take bolder risks, and travel wider, seeing places for their stories, feeling the streets beneath my feet, tasting lives outside my own. Unfettered by heralded plans, letting the quiet flowering of my journey reveal its own story.

Still, gratitude stays. Deeply. For the hands that steadied me when my footing slipped. For those who pulled me out of trenches without demanding explanations. For those who trusted my strength enough to place opportunity in my hands. For that, a special medal goes to Sheila Chepkirui Yegon. Some people are mere passing notes in your life, others are chords that resonate. Sheila is a river of melodies, a living network that carries you forward, flowing steady, connecting what was, what is, and what could be. May God widen her path and multiply her grace.

And always, my brother Stephen Ochieng (Soo Ochieng), take your flowers, bana. Always. We remain stubborn believers in the impossible, still dreaming with the audacity of people who refuse to shrink their visions too early.

This isn’t a storm, it’s alignment,
It’s growth,
It’s choosing your lane, and driving without explaining the route.

Solo Drive

I’ve marked no map with ink or public pride,
To show the woods where I intend to go.
The things I seek have nowhere left to hide,
And what I reap is what I choose to sow.
I take the path where fewer shadows bide,
And leave the crowds to talk of what they know.
The fence I mend is built of quiet stone,
To keep the peace and part the draining guest.
A man can walk a standard mile alone,
And find in silence all he needs of rest.
For every seed of will that I have grown,
I ask no leave to put it to the test.
So let the wheels engage their rhythmic song,
Across the hills and through the turning lane.
I owe no word to prove where I belong,
Or why I chose the sun above the rain.
The drive is short, the inner light is strong,
I go my way, and need not explain.

@doddyokelo

IF YOU LOVE ME, HOLD ME

Hold me,
not just my hand,
but all of me.
Wrap your arms around my body
like you know what it’s been through.
Like you’ve heard the storms it carries
and still want to dance in the rain with me.

Take my hand,
don’t ask where we’re going.
Let’s run,
not to escape,
but to feel free
for the first time in a long time.

Hold my heart,
gently,
like it’s the last soft thing in a hard world.
Place it close to yours,
let them beat together
in a rhythm only we understand.

Touch my waist like it’s sacred.
Pull me into your chest
like you’re pulling me into forever.
And when you kiss me,
don’t make it rushed.
Kiss me like you’re trying to teach time
how to slow down.

If one tear falls—just one,
don’t panic.
Wipe it.
Don’t ask if I’m okay,
just look at me like you see everything
and say,
“It’s going to be alright.”
And mean it.

When I say I’m cold,
don’t go looking for a sweater.
Be the warmth.
Be the safe place I curl into
when the night gets too loud.

And when I say “I love you,”
don’t whisper it back.
Say it like a vow.
Say it like your soul recognizes mine.
Say it like you’re not going anywhere.

Because real love
isn’t made of grand gestures.
It’s in how you stay,
how you see me,
how you reach for me in silence.

So if you love me,
hold me,
not just in your arms,
but in your everyday.

@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

Everything Here Smells of You

Everything here smells of you.
And it’s driving me insane in the sweetest, slowest way.

The caution seat still wears your scent ,
like it misses you too,
like it knows something passed through it that doesn’t come around often.

The fleece blanket is basically you in thread and warmth.
I cover myself with it and swear I can hear your laugh if I’m quiet enough.

Even my chest,
my own damn skin,
smells like you stayed.
Like you pressed yourself into me and said, “Don’t forget.”

And I won’t.
Not with lips like yours, warm, like you know the secret to sunrise.
I imagine a kiss and it doesn’t even feel imaginary,
it feels like a memory I’m about to make again.

I love the way your waist fits in my hands,
like my fingers were carved with your shape in mind.
There’s something wild about that kind of symmetry.

You’re beautiful.
You’re art that didn’t ask to be admired,
but was anyway,
because how could the world not notice you?

@okelododdychitchats

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

If I Speak, I May Dissapear

The sun scorches the ground and the wind stirs restless among trees,
There are whispers no one speaks aloud.
This is a land of open skies and heavy silences,
Where fear lives close to the tongue.
If I speak, I may disappear.

There was a time when voices rose like a morning tide,
Songs of freedom swept through the hills,
Children dreamed of megaphones,
Their words carried far and wide,
But now, whispers turn into silence,
Muted colors fading into gray.

That’s Kenya for you,
A country of open skies and closed mouths,
Where history’s murmurs still ring
“Nchi ya Kwanza” sang of land, of sovereignty,
Yet here we are,
Gathered beneath fragile roofs,
Afraid to shake the walls of comfort.

Freedom of speech ?
A dandelion crushed under heavy boots.
“Speak up,” they say,
But the claws of consequence lurk close,
Each word a risk, each sentence a threat,
A storm brewing on the horizon,
Every raindrop a truth
That floods the streets,
Only to vanish into silence.

In the market square,
Eyes flicker with stories not told,
Lips press tight as fingers point
At faces of power,
But silence costs less
Than the price of speaking truth.

At dinner tables,
Ideas clash like spoons in a bowl,
A family walks the line
Between safety and outrage.
One wrong word,
And the room holds its breath.

Beneath it all,
The weight of freedom lies,
Written deep in scars,
Buried in graves of those who dared.
And what of the poets,
The dreamers who once danced with danger?
Now they tread softly,
Pens hovering above paper,
Caught between courage and caution.

On the shores of Lake Victoria,
The fishermen watch the waters,
Their mouths sealed tighter
Than the nets they cast.
For even here,
The law grips tighter than any tide.

Still,
Hope refuses to die.
It grows like grass and fern between cracks in the pavement,
It rises in laughter, in hands held high.
It blooms in the smallest corners,
In murals painted on concrete walls,
In songs hummed beneath breath.

If I speak, I may disappear.
But even silence carries a rhythm,
A beat that cannot be stilled.
For every voice quieted,
Ten more rise.
For every dream crushed,
A thousand seeds scatter.

We are the embers,
We are the sparks,
And no storm can put us out.
If I speak, I may disappear.
But if I stay silent,
Who will tell our story?

@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

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