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

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

Satan in Police Uniform

They move in the shadows, wrapped in authority,
their uniforms a disguise for something darker.
A badge and a gun, symbols of trust twisted into weapons.
On paper, they protect and serve; in reality, they haunt and harm.

Power courses through their veins,
but it’s not the kind that uplifts or safeguards.
It’s a corrosive kind, the kind that feeds on fear,
the kind that turns innocence into prey.

On the streets, they’re hunters,
eyes scanning for someone to corner, to crush.
False evidence is their craft, lies their currency.
They prey on the vulnerable, pushing them into shadows.

The weak, the forgotten, the ones who can’t fight back,
they bear the brunt of this corrupted force.
Bribes line their pockets, alliances with criminals keep them untouchable.
Justice isn’t blind here, it’s gagged and bound.

Protests ignite, voices rise, demanding change.
But the response? Tear gas. Batons. Intimidation.
They smother dissent, silence the brave.
Their version of order is built on control, not fairness.

Yet, amidst the suffocating darkness,
there’s a pulse, a defiance, a refusal to submit.
The people are waking up, shedding their fear,
realizing the strength in their numbers, their voices.

For every tear shed, every injustice endured,
a reckoning grows closer.
Their power is borrowed, fleeting.
The truth is louder. Justice is inevitable.

And to those cloaked in uniforms, wielding corruption,
your time is running out.

@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

Fading Notes of The Heart

For the first time in my once-bright life,
I feel love slip away,
draining quietly from a heart
that once brimmed with warmth and fire.

Because of her,
passion now feels like a distant memory,
her eyes, once alive like sapphire stars,
now hold no light for me.
The smile that once lifted my world
has faded into something I barely remember.

I knew love once,
I felt it in her touch,
in the way she made life seem full of wonder.
But now, that wonder feels hollow,
a shadow of something I can no longer reach.

The beauty I once saw everywhere
seems to have vanished.
Dreams feel brittle;
hope feels like a foolish story I once believed.

Her absence is a quiet void,
and love, once a tender, living thing,
is now just a ghost
I can’t hold on to.

And so I go on,
not with the joy I once knew,
but with a quiet acceptance
that the song of my heart
will now play softly,
alone.

@okelododdychitchats

We are no longer Babies

It’s 1:58 AM, and Azel is crying. Blood is oozing from my nose, it’s a lot. We’re in the middle of wheat bushes and dry, soft sand along the Bomet-Narok road. Azel has never seen this much blood come from someone’s nose before. A neighbour from the seat beside us heads up to the driver and asks him to help somehow, and he honors the call. A group of ladies and gentlemen from the bus volunteer to offer first aid. I don’t know any of them, except for my five-year-old nephew. But for what you’ve all done, thank you, I truly appreciate each of you and I love you all.

Azel has stopped crying now, though he still looks worried. We’re on our way to Nairobi, and I’m anxious about the second half of this journey. We’re traveling at night ! Kumbavu zangu, mbwa mimi, what was I thinking? I made a mistake.

I had been in the village for Azel. I love this kid, people think he is a rock of my sling. He was graduating from PP2 to Grade One on October 22^nd, two months after his birthday. The number 22 seems to be a blessing for him, so I’ll get him a Gor Mahia jersey with that number on the back. I would’ve initiated him into Manchester United fandom, but I don’t want him stressing over his blood pressure every game!

We’re moving down the hill toward the isolated polytechnic outside Narok Town, near Ntulele, where there’s little but a footbridge, well-made tarmac, and an animal crossing. The place is rich with all kinds of trees, baboons, monkeys, and possibly other wild animals hidden in the bushes. At this hour, it even smells of charcoal. Are they teaching students to make charcoal at night? There are no homes here, just bushes. Multimedia University has got nothing on this polytechnic for natural surroundings!

Wait, I was telling you about Azel’s graduation… He got to school early for practice, and we followed a bit later. I can see him in the crowd, my young, handsome guy with his friend, he is scanning around to find us. He looks tired and weak, probably still worn out from that malaria he’s been fighting. All I want in that moment is to knock that malaria out myself. When he loses hope and starts heading back to the training area, I quickly send a friend to bring him over to where we’re sitting, me, Mum, and my “sisters,” Millie and Mercy.

When he gets to us, I can tell he’s hungry just by the look on his face, so I hand him his favourite combo, tomato crisps and vanilla yogurt. But he gives me a polite, “No, thank you,” which hits me right in the heart. I ask him what he actually wants as he tugs on my arm, pulling me up. Turns out he needs money for his graduation badge, so I cover it and get him some ice cream too, he’d asked for it.

Parents watch the “Holistic Space Academy” pupils perform. “Holistic Space” is Azel’s school, and these kids are talented! The music club is fantastic, truly entertaining… Soon, Azel’s class, PP2, is welcomed by the music band, led by their teacher, Teacher Rose, who organizes them into two neat lines, girls in front, boys at the back, all by height. Brave little souls, each of them, dressed in black and yellow gowns with badges neatly fastened on the left. They perform songs and poems, with one that stands out, “We Are No Longer Babies.” They say goodbye to kindergarten. The school really lives up to its name, they’ve created such a well-rounded environment here. The event is beautiful. Azel is back to his happy, playful self, he gets his certificate, they cut the cake, and then we head home.

Everything’s good at home, Azel’s happy, schools are closed, and he’s officially no longer a baby. Next year, he’ll be in Grade One, and he’ll be traveling to Nairobi soon!

Finally, it’s the big day. Azel’s up just after 5 AM, barely slept, ready to go, even though we’re technically not leaving until 8:45. You’ll understand why I say technically.I get up around 7, and I can already hear him by the front door, singing, “Ninaenda Nairobi.” It’s the little things that make kids happy. We finish preparing, and before we leave, Mum gathers us for a prayer, she prays for the things made with the hand of man to allow us arrive safe. After that moment, we say our goodbyes and leave for the booking office.

But when we arrive, I realize I’ve booked us on the night bus instead of the morning one. Frustration bubbles up, especially with Azel along for the ride, so I call my mum and my sister Stella, Azel’s mum. They both seem okay with us traveling at night, which eases my mind. I call my Okada man, Babgy, and we head back home to wait for the night.

At this point, Azel can’t afford to lose sight of me, he thinks I might pull a fast one and leave him in the village. What keeps his hopes high is the fact that we left his bag at the booking office. My little guy, who’s no longer a baby, is happy, and when he’s in a good mood, he praises everyone around him. He calls me “Ado,” calls Millie “Amillo,” and the best moment comes when he sees our neighbor Ada. He moves closer to her, saying, “Eiii Ada, Jaberrrr,” in his best Luo accent. Hearing this from a kid is just wonderfully fantastic.

The time comes to say goodbye and Azel’s dream of travelling to Nairobi is finally a reality!

@okelododdychitchats

Holy Hypocrisy

Why did I stop going to church? One of the funniest reasons I’ve heard is, “My pastor was crippled and healing cripples. Like, why not heal yourself?” It’s a dark statement, but I get where they’re coming from. Let’s be honest, are these people God’s messengers or money makers in Poverty Pulpits ?

I believe in God, but I have a million questions. My friend and colleague, Evans Asudi challenges me every time we have a discussion about religion and the existence of God, he argues that the design of the universe, nature, and everything in it must have an origin. My question is, is that origin the God of the Christian Bible, Allah of the Muslim Quran, or the supernatural forces in Buddhist texts like the Tripitaka? I’m not saying these religions worship entirely different gods. They argue as if they do, but interestingly, they all seem to agree on the same devil. Crazy, right? Anyway, I believe in God and identify as Christian, but I rarely go to church. I have my reasons !

As a kid, I always questioned my existence, and while that hasn’t changed, I now find myself questioning the origins of religion. Who created it, and what was it really meant to achieve? History shows how religion has been used to create divisions, often for political gain, and it still happens today. Different religions hold varying beliefs, and even within Christianity, denominations clash. Paul even addressed this in Corinthians, questioning why Christians were divided when they were all baptized in Christ’s name. These divisions are often exploited for political purposes, given the strong influence religion has on society and politics.

I was raised in a strict Christian background where questioning the church or its leaders was off-limits. It was considered disrespectful and even thought to bring curses. Looking back, I laugh at how much I used to fear that. But, even as a kid, I could see pastors giving in to “earthly” temptations, sins they were never held accountable for. They seemed untouchable, immune to any form of criticism. Over time, this made me start questioning things more deeply, and now it’s part of why I find it difficult to step inside just any church today.

To make sense of where we are, let’s start with the history of Christianity. It began in the 1st century after Jesus’ death as a Judaic sect with some Hellenistic influences. The Catholic Church claims to be the original, with the first church said to be in Jerusalem. Over time, Christianity branched into several groups like the Church of the East, Oriental Orthodoxy, Eastern Orthodoxy, Roman Catholicism, Protestantism, and Restorationism.

In its early days, the traditional churches built schools, hospitals, and provided services that genuinely benefited the community. They did this without exploiting their congregants. But as time went on, evangelical churches started popping up what one of my great of all time writer, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie calls “mushroom churches” in her book “Purple Hibiscus”. I’m not generalizing all evangelical churches, but many sprouted after the colonial period, often without any regulation, and some have become quite problematic.

These churches often target vulnerable people, especially our mothers. With this, sometimes, I tend to believe that the colonialists had a plan, schools for the children, prisons for the fathers, and churches for the mothers. Anyway, that’s just a detour, let’s get back on track…A lot of these churches manipulate their followers, brainwashing them into accepting whatever the pastor says without question while reasoning that questioning will lead to the unthinkable,absurd! When pastors claim that questioning them will lead to whatever, it’s really just a way to manipulate their followers. You don’t fail or fall by speaking up or seeking answers for God’s sake !

Times without number, I’ve also heard pastors glorify poverty, insisting that wealth distances you from God, they say that having money makes you less inclined to pray. These same pastors live in luxury, strikingly paradoxical ! Some even discourage their followers from seeking medical help, claiming that doing so demonstrates a lack of faith in God, despite the Bible stating, “faith without action is dead.” Are they referring to something who’s content they do not understand or did it change overnight ?

It’s ironic how these extreme churches often have the largest followings. And what really frustrates me is the constant fundraising, with no transparency on where the money goes. I’m tired of seeing congregants grow poorer while pastors grow wealthier. Churches should be shaping and speaking up for the community, but many stay silent when it doesn’t affect them…I am just sick and tired of this top tier deception, emotional control, psychological tactics, coercion, gas lighting, name it all! let me take a break! One day, we’ll go deeper into this, especially on how pastors are now called “Daddy” and their wives “Mummy.”

@okelododdychitchats

Bad Man Bache

“Larry Madowo fascinates me! Someday, I’ll be like him-maybe even better! I adore him, I love watching him, let’s go watch The Trend.” These were Steve’s words. Back then, Larry was still just a journalist working for Nation Television (NTV) and hadn’t yet risen to the heights of his career. Steve admired him deeply and loved how he did his journalism. The first time I watched “The Trend” by Larry Madowo was because of Steve. I loved it, except for the time slot-10:00 PM on a Friday! Despite that, it became a weekly routine. Steve influenced a lot in my life, he rekindled my love for football, got me into PlayStation, and would even walk me through the ladies’ hostel just to do nothing! (This is unnecessary information for sure) Steve is a good man, he’s going to heaven for sure.”

Steve, drop that! Let’s call him Bache. Bache is now a three-time award-winning journalist. He began his journey right after campus in 2021, starting with the BetKing Premier League (The Kenyan Premier League (KPL) was rebranded as the BetKing Premier League due to a sponsorship deal with BetKing, a sports betting company), then moving to Mozzart, and now he’s at Sportpesa making history. He loves sports. He has become my favorite journalist, so natural and creative! He writes and hosts the “Match-Xperience” segments. What I’ve learned from his journey is that it’s all about passion, sticking to the plan, and being focused. It’s less about being a jack of all trades and a master of none! Bache is amazing. I love his minimalist nature, how he goes about things, how carefree he is, and his sense of humour. Honestly, I love how he manages to do it all, from work to managing his finances-he’s quick at thinking and solving problems. The only thing he might struggle with, though not badly, is style and fashion. He’s a bit basic in that department. And oh, I almost forgot, he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Or Bache, do you have one now? If you do, I’ll gladly accept her, just make sure she doesn’t drop the name Bache! And to any ladies reading this, Steve is a good man!

Bache was the first one to attend class, it wasn’t his problem! He was just doing the right thing by showing up, kwani nini ilitupeleka shule ? But for the Logic and Critical Thinking lecturer, Ochieng Jaffas (I hope I’m spelling that right), having only one student for the first class was a big deal, infact a sacrilege. His comments afterward really set the tone and filled us with dread. We were first-years, after all, we had to fear! Jaffas was a Cold-hearted atheist who didn’t believe in God or Thomas Aquinas’ theories on God’s existence, despite having once wanted to become a priest. His way of teaching tickled the funny bone. But I’m getting off-topic. Jaffas instilled fear in us, making us believe we would all fail-except Bache, who attended class. That fear changed a lot of people’s views on higher education. Eventually, Bache joined us in our antics, and despite being jokers, we all passed our exams. We mastered the content in class and watched UEFA Champions League matches during the exam period. You could say we were geniuses!

Oh, and there’s something else, Bache is actually my cousin. I didn’t even know until a coincidental, and somewhat unfortunate moment. It’s one of those stories I’ll tell someday, but for now, let’s just say it’s a part of what makes our bond special. Life has a funny way of connecting the dots, doesn’t it?

I could say a lot more about Bache, but I’ll stop here for now. We’ll continue this conversation once I master the art of speaking confidently in front of a crowd!

@okelododdychitchats