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

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 Stuck with Me

It’s Monday morning, cold, grey, and raining heavily. The kind of rain that makes you question all your life choices, especially the one about leaving a warm bed. My body is screaming for one more hour of sleep, but duty calls. I’m exhausted from traveling, and honestly, stepping outside feels like a bad idea. But I have an appointment at the Ministry of Lands at 9 AM, so I have no choice. I convince myself to get up, though I leave the house shingo upande-reluctantly, dragging my feet like it’s a punishment. It’s the kind of feeling that’s like being forced to eat sukuma wiki, something my nephew Azel treats like the ultimate betrayal when it shows up on his plate.

The Ministry of Lands is somewhere around Upper Hill. If you’re ever headed there, just say you’re going to Ardhi House. That’s the magic word. Without it, you might find yourself wandering around aimlessly. Directions aren’t exactly my strong suit, bu that’s the best advice I can give. Though, if you check Google Maps, you’ll see it’s somewhere around 1st Ngong Avenue. But that’s not Ngong, it’s still Upper Hill. Upper Hill has these Ngong Avenues running from 1st to around 5th, and it’s confusing, that’s just the city’s way of messing with you.

I get there, take a seat at the waiting area, and brace myself for what I suspect will be a long wait. Two hours in, I’m still sitting there. The counters are open, but the employees are busy beating stories, laughing, sipping tea, and chewing gum carelessly like it’s part of their job description. There’s a crowd of us waiting, but it’s like we’re invisible. I guess that’s just how government offices work-people paid to show up with an attitude, sip tea, and tell you, “Rudi after 2 to 3 weeks.” Absolute nonsense.

Eventually, after what feels like forever, I finally get sorted. I leave the building feeling drained but slightly relieved. My next stop is Kasarani, so I head towards Imenti House to catch a Metro Trans. When I get there, the bus is almost full, just one seat left at the back. My seat.

I head straight to it, ready to sit down and disappear into my thoughts. But just as I’m about to sit, the guy next to me looks up and says,
“I like your style in particular.”

I smile, say “Thanks,” and settle in. The bus starts moving. A few minutes later, he turns to me again,
“What’s your take on love? Do you think it exists?”

I pause, not sure how to respond to such a deep question from someone I’ve known for less than ten minutes. But before I can even open my mouth, he starts talking.

Grab a seat. If you can, get some popcorn. This is where things take a sad and confusing turn.

He’s been in a relationship for three years, the only woman he’s ever truly loved. He helped her out with school fees and rent, even though he was still a student himself. She was studying in Mombasa, and he was in Nairobi. Long-distance is tough, but they made it work, meeting whenever they could.

She wasn’t just his girlfriend; she was his person. She shaped his character, helped him grow spiritually, and made him a better man. He told me he used to be the life of the party, always out drinking and living recklessly. But she introduced him to faith, and before he knew it, he’d swapped club nights for Church Keshas. Friday nights that were once filled with the buzz of whiskey and loud music became quiet thoughts and bible studies. Life had flipped on him, but in a good way.

They had a good thing going, late-night calls that stretched until dawn, surprise visits that felt like scenes from a rom-com, and inside jokes only they understood. Their love was the kind that made the future feel certain, like they were slowly piecing together the blueprint of a family. It was rosy, the kind of relationship that makes you believe love really can conquer all. But then, life threw a twist.

His dad was diagnosed with stage four cancer (I didn’t ask for his name or the lady’s name, that’s why I’m just going with he, she, and whatever fits. Boys don’t really bother with names, they just get along and let the conversation flow). Everything changed. He had to step up, juggling school, work at his dad’s law firm, and caring for his father. His relationship took a hit. Calls became less frequent, meet-ups rare, and slowly, the distance grew, not just physically but emotionally.

Then came the heartbreak. She got pregnant after a one-night stand with someone she can barely remember, a random guy from a party she didn’t even want to attend. It wasn’t her scene, but she showed up anyway, maybe out of boredom, maybe just to get her mind off things. One reckless decision, in the middle of loud music and blurred conversations, flipped her world upside down. Now she’s expecting a beautiful child, innocent and unaware of any of this, while she drowns in regret, reaching out, asking for forgiveness, hoping somehow to fix what feels too broken to mend.

He’s on his way to see her, somewhere around Mwiki Phase 3. He doesn’t know what will come of it, whether they’ll find closure, reconciliation, or just more heartbreak.

The bus slows down, it’s my stop. I stand up, unsure of what to say to someone who’s just poured out their soul. So I keep it simple,

“I hope you find the answers you’re looking for.”

I step off the bus and find myself thinking about how random encounters with strangers can really stick with you. It’s funny how a brief conversation with someone you’ll likely never see again can stick in your mind long after the moment has passed. Life’s like that, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s the unexpected, the small interactions, that leave the biggest mark.

That conversation stuck with me, and now I can’t stop thinking about what happened after.

@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

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