Have You Met Anyone from Togo ?

Steve is the kind of person who makes the world feel both vast and familiar.

He’s met people from Togo, Benin, and Chad. He knows their faces, their stories, even the unique cadence of the Togolese accent. Honestly, who really knows how people from Togo look or sound? I can barely get to know my own neighbours. But Steve listens, connects, remembers names, and builds bridges. His work has taken him across borders, and with every journey, he collects memories and adds a new layer to who he is.

By the way, he collects fridge magnets from the most interesting places he’s visited. You may just want to see his fridge, it tells a story of its own.

Recently, he was in Los Angeles for rugby with the Kenya National Team. He loves rugby. Football too, but I think he quietly dropped European football. He’s an Arsenal fan, one of those who’ve never seen Arsenal lift a trophy. Still, loyalty runs deep. That’s Steve.

He travels and is fully committed. He doesn’t just report on sports, he understands them. He’s a sharp, thoughtful sports journalist, and his creativity shows in everything he touches.

He’s won three awards. They’re neatly arranged on his cotton-white TV stand, with hints of age or intentional colour, maybe yellow, maybe orange. I don’t know much about colours, but I know that setup speaks of someone who takes pride in his space. Some may say it’s décor.

Steve is the best at what he does, at least to me. Everyone who knows me probably knows about him. I talk about him a lot. I admire him. He’s mentored me in ways he may not even realize. We were in the same class once. Now, I just learn by watching how he works.

He lives along Thika Road, in a nice place. Fourth floor, door thirty-something. From his balcony, you can see Nyeri on a clear day. From another angle, well… you might catch a glimpse of what’s happening in the next apartment, life happening, unfiltered.

Yesterday, Steve called. I answered, of course. He told me about an event SportPesa hosted with Nairobi Street Kitchen, Little Africa, and other great partners. You already know I’m a Littler, once a Littler, always a Littler. Charley Andrews will back me up on that.

I attended the event with my brothers, Ian and Allan. They’re twins, identical in looks, but different in hairstyle and relationship status. It had been a while since the four of us hung out, and that day brought back something we’d been missing.

I also met the SportPesa team. Great energy. I didn’t get everyone’s names, but I remember Felo, we’ve met a few times. There was CJ, and a lady called Chep. They were all warm, welcoming, and clearly part of something special. They’ve been good to my brother, and that makes them feel like family.

So here’s to Steve.
To old friends doing big things.
To chasing dreams and making them real.

Bache, we keep dreaming the impossible, bro.
Thanks for reminding us that it can be done.

@okelododdychitchats

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

Hash Grill

Jojo loves Christmas the way Nairobi loves traffic, deeply, obsessively, and without an ounce of shame. While most people are nursing hangovers on Boxing Day, Jojo’s already counting down, “Only 363 and a quarter days to CHRISTMAS.”

Her real name is Joyce Muturi, but don’t call her that. To Jojo, “Joyce” belongs to women who wear stockings with open shoes and say things like, “Young people these days.” Jojo stands just over four feet something, she’s a Gen Z soul with the wisdom of someone much older. And yes, she wears a size three shoe.

She’s the last born, and you can tell. That effortless, carefree energy of someone who never had to serve tea to guests or fight over the remote. People call her Jojo or sometimes Joy, depending on how close they are. Mostly, though, she’s known as sunshine draped in sarcasm.

It’s Jojo’s birthday. We’re meeting at Hash Grill, a little hideaway stitched into the soft hemline between Pangani and Muthaiga. If you blink too fast, you might miss it. If you smell meat, you’re probably there.

It’s just past 4PM, and I’m riding in an Uber Baridi. The sky is cloudy but hasn’t opened up yet, like it’s holding back to keep things calm.

We’re slowly passing KCA University when I spot Jojo and Spiky waiting by the roadside. I call them, and they tell me their cab is running late, but it’s no big deal. They’re just happy to be together.

Spiky isn’t her real name. It’s the name the world gave her and she wears it well. Her government name is Winfred Wangui Mwangi. But please, don’t call her Winfred. Just don’t. And definitely steer clear of Mwangi, that’s her dad’s name. And her younger brother’s too.

Kikuyu naming traditions are a beautiful constellation of meaning and memory, stitched with ancestry and whispers from generations past.

As a Luo, things are simpler. My children will carry Okelo with pride, stamped bold as their surname. Their first names will be chosen by nature or circumstance. Born at night? She’ll be Atieno. Born in the evening? He’ll be Odhiambo. We name like we’re telling stories of time, of place and of arrival.

Spiky is in a blue denim dress that hugs her like good karma. Her makeup is a masterpiece. Her perfume is Something Arabic and complicated, Mist-ika-tul-Mystique or something like that. She smells like a desert breeze married to soft rebellion. She’s in a pink cap, stolen from my wardrobe with no intention of return. On her feet is a pair of adidas samba. She looks amazing !

Jojo is in brown khaki pants, a dark green sweatshirt, and her well-worn pair of Converse, her outfit speaks in quiet confidence, like a soft song only the soul can hear. Effortlessly her. Spiky is holding up her phone, laughter bubbling between them as they record a video. Jojo ducks her head, smiling that quiet smile she wears when the lens turns her way, shy, but glowing all the same.

We find our way through the laughter and clinking cutlery like ink curling across parchment, slow and sure, until we land at a corner table with a view of the world, well, at least a sliver of it. Down below, there’s a bare apartment, save for a single Turkish rug stretched across the floor like it was laid there with purpose. A woman stands quietly at the door, wrapped in a flowing hijab. I can tell she’s Muslim, not just from the hijab, but from the calm, grounded stillness she carries. I’ve always found Muslim homes to be beautifully minimal—like the space itself is pausing to listen.

Earlier, a waitress called Faith had welcomed me. I saw her name on the badge. I’d asked for a dawa (Hot water infused with lemon and ginger, sweetened with a touch of honey) because my throat was acting up. She was warm, the way you wish all waiters were. Now another one, Lucy, comes by to take our order but she seems impatient. We ask for five minutes, and she walks off looking half-convinced. I see her whisper to another waitress, Josephine, who comes over with a much softer approach. She takes her time with us. Helps us through the menu.

We settle on a platter for four because we’re hungry and also because meat. We also order hot drinks. When the food comes, it doesn’t just come. It arrives with flair. One guy has a camera, two others carry the tray like it’s the crown jewels, and Josephine follows with cutlery and serviettes.

I swear my appetite tripled in that moment.

The food is an edible sermon. It reminds me that life, even on its worst days, can be made bearable with well-grilled nyama choma.

But not everything is delicious. There’s a table in front of us with nine girls. Nine. All from the same office, you can tell. They keep side-eyeing me like I’m their tea break agenda. I try not to notice but I do. They whisper, they giggle, they chew me with their glances. I feel like a paragraph in a WhatsApp group I didn’t consent to.

Still, we eat. We laugh. We exist loudly. Hash Grill is an experience. The waiters here don’t have M-Pesa lady attitude. They don’t look like you owe them child support. The rooftop is chilled. The air has attitude. The ambiance sings, “You deserve this.”

As we leave, I tell myself, I will come back. With friends. Or alone. Or maybe with Pie (Pie is Spiky), my sweetheart. But I will return. Because some places are not about the food, or the music, or even the people.

Some places are about how they make you feel seen.

@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

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

Lady in Black

“Mimi ni wa kucum, oh, scrap that, my bad, I meant Mimi ni wa kucome.’”
I was raised in the village. Well, not really a village because Rongo qualifies as a town, but Nairobians will still call it Moshadha, or ushago, or something else altogether. Forget it.
I grew up in Rongo for most of my childhood and only moved to Nairobi for campus. That’s right, I went to Multimedia University of Kenya in Karen, Nairobi County. Before anyone comes at me with, “Multimedia iko Rongai, bro,” before we argue, check your maps! The lower fence of Multimedia separates Nairobi from Rongai in Kajiado County. So yes, I schooled in Karen and stayed in Karen for four years. Si ni Mimi nawashow.

I bring up this whole kukucome thingie because when I first got into the Nairobi scene, matatu touts kept shouting “Tao Amboseli,” I didn’t catch it right, so I genuinely thought every estate in Nairobi had an Amboseli, just like almost every hood has a Kwa Chief in it. Turns out, they were saying “Tao hamusini,” as in, fare to town was 50 bob from wherever the pickup point was. Today, I’m in one of the moderately pimped Mapepe mats of Utimo Sacco. It’s carrying Tao Hamusini from Umoja Jeska stage. It’s Almost full. People love it because the driver here, knows how to dodge traffic….I’m sitting in the back, on the left window seat, giving me a clear view of everyone getting in, and, of course, judging them. Before I’m done profiling my fellow passengers, a lady slides in beside me. She’s today’s topic. This is udaku for free, feel free to share it with your crew. I hear y’all love udaku, so buckle up.

She’s in a sleek black dress, paired with not-so-new maroon Nike TNs, probably Kamukunji stock, judging by the soles, which haven’t been worn down by exposure to air (yes, I noticed the shoes when she stepped in, don’t ask). Her makeup is flawless, compensating for her questionable style. Thick lenses with frames hugging her round face sit perfectly on her.
Her eyes? Twin pools of wonder and mystery, they speak in whispers, framed by lashes as soft as a lover’s caress.
Her lips? Succulent and juicy.
Her nose? Perfectly symmetrical.
Her face is a masterpiece on a perfectly sculpted body.
Her hips don’t lie. When she sits, our hips meet, and I feel something, a desire mixed with comfort and curiosity mingling with hunger. Unsettling and oddly familiar.

I don’t know her name, but I know she smells nice, her dreadlocks are freshly done, clean, and not a hint of dusty brown in sight.
The bus starts moving, and she turns to me.
“You look good,” she says.
So do you, I think.
“You smell nice,” she adds.
So do you, I think again.
Match made in heaven, I convince myself, until she starts talking. And talking. And talking. A relentless stream of words. This river has no banks. Suddenly, I’m not so sure. I reconsider my initial instincts about asking for her name or number.

She pulls out a Juicy Fruit from her Gussii bag (yes, that’s what it says, probably meant to say Gucci). The way she chews it… carefree, wild, tasting life with abandon. It’s unbothered. It’s maddening….

We are in Town now,

When we reach past Mfangano Street, she turns.
“What’s your name?”
I tell her.
She smiles and walks away, heading toward Luthuli Avenue.

I watch her walk. That dhudha (that’s ass in some local sheng language.) That graceful stride. That hypnotic sway.
And for a fleeting moment, I wonder if I could’ve traded all that talking and careless chewing for the simple joy of watching her disappear into the crowd…

I almost get knocked down by a bike. As I snap back to reality, I realize it’s partly my fault. This part of town is always packed with people and matatus. When you mix those two, it feels like the sum of mchanga wa bahari, a bit of an exaggeration, but downtown Nairobi CBD is always a madhouse. I apologize to the boda guy and keep walking toward Nyayo House, with the lady in black still on my mind… I’ll tell you this, if you meet someone in a matatu or anywhere else who catches your interest, don’t wait around. Go for it. Take the risk! The guilt of not trying is way worse than whatever the outcome might be. I wish I’d gotten her number, even if it ended up on that list of contacts I don’t talk to. At least I’d have it, and what I choose to do with it is on me.

All day, I can’t stop thinking about the lady in black. She’s in my thoughts, even in the words I’m about to say. I try to dodge the usual chaos of the crowded streets, so I take a detour towards Kencom, then City Hall. It’s quieter here, with less hustle, and the buildings are lined up neatly, giving off this calm vibe. It’s the kind of peace that lets me think about the lady in black without anything pulling my attention away.

As I get closer to Nyayo House, I notice the street next to Cardinal Otunga and Holy Basilica is lined with Kienyeji ladies, each with an eye on the crowd. They’re advertising cyber services, not with signs, but with their words “bro, cyber, printing…” They’re looking for people who might need a printout or scan before heading into Nyayo House. Their smiles say they’ve seen it all, and they walk with the kind of confidence only Nairobi’s hustle can teach.

I don’t need any cyber services today, so I head straight to the NEMA offices to meet the Nairobi County Coordinator. Her office is warm and welcoming, and one day, I’ll ask her for an interview. But today, I’m here for something else.

Catch you later, guys!

@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

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

Journey of The Heart

The morning sun casts its light over River Kuja, the water glinting like shards of glass as it flows steadily past. I stand at its edge, the familiar sound of the stream filling the silence around me. My feet sink slightly into the warm soil as I cross the narrow road leading to it, pausing to watch the ripples dance. Somewhere in this vast world, I believe, lies the love I seek, though it feels as elusive as the current beneath the surface.

Jodongo always said love is like the treasures hidden deep within Lake Victoria, hard to find, harder to keep.”hera tek tweta.” So, I search. From the shores of Usenge to the busy aswekra market in Kendu Bay, I walk, I watch, I hope. Faces pass by, some kind, some indifferent, but none answer the silent question that sits in my heart. The days stretch long, and the nights longer still.

At night, I sit under the strange sky, tracing the patterns of stars scattered above. Their soft, silvery light reminds me of the cowrie shells my grandmother, Min Ombewa used to wear, clinking softly as she told us stories of long-lost love. The stars seem to mock me now, offering no guidance, only their cold brilliance. My body grows weary, but my heart refuses to give up.

I look to the clouds that drift lazily over Got Asego. Their rough shapes hold no answers, only shifting shadows that point to nowhere. There’s a pull within me, though, urging me toward the quiet Homa Hills in the distance. When I finally arrive, I find nothing but empty spaces, my footsteps speaking in the silence. Even the wind feels indifferent.

I wander farther, beyond the lands I know. I cross into places where the language stumbles on my tongue and the songs of the people feel strange. Still, I go on, driven by the stubborn hope that the next turn, the next road, will lead me to what I seek. But each step feels heavier, each path more uncertain, until I find myself completely lost.

At the market, the women shake their heads as I pass. “hera tek,” they say with laughter, their voices laced with pity. Love is hard, they remind me, and harder still for those who chase it blindly. Their words sting, but they don’t stop me. Despite everything, a quiet ember of hope burns within me, refusing to die.

One evening, as the sun dips low over Lake Simbi Nyaima, I sit on its shore. The stillness of the place feels different, comforting even. The water is calm, reflecting the fiery colors of the sunset like a mirror. For the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself pause. The sound of the lake, the warmth of the fading sun, and the stillness around me all seem to urge me to look inward.

It’s there, in that moment of quiet, that I begin to understand. Perhaps love isn’t a treasure to be found but a truth to be uncovered. Maybe it doesn’t live in the stars, the hills, or even in another person. It begins here, within me. My heart, though tired and bruised, isn’t done searching, it just needs to start looking in a new way.

As I rise to leave, a strange calm settles over me. The journey isn’t over, but it feels less like a race and more like a path I’m meant to walk. I think of my grandmother’s words, her voice steady and wise, “hera en kama rach, kendo en kama ber.” Love is both a good and a bad thing at the same time.

The scent of “kuon bel”and fresh tilapia greets me as I walk back home, the familiar sound of children playing ajuala filling the air. I smile to myself. Maybe love isn’t just in the finding, it’s in the moments along the way, in the laughter of family, the warmth of community, and the quiet lessons life teaches.

As the stars come out once more, I glance up at them, no longer searching. For now, I am content to walk this journey, guided by hope and the gentle rhythm of a heart that still believes.

@okelododdychitchats

If I Fail to Wake Up Tomorrow

If I fail to wake up tomorrow,
Know that I fought with all my might
Against the demons that plagued my mind
I battled through the darkness
But in the end, I couldn’t find the light
My soul was weary, my heart was tired
And I found solace in stepping into eternity,

If I don’t wake up tomorrow,
Tell my friends I’ll miss them dearly
The laughter, the memories, the tears we shared
Will forever be carved in my silent whispers lost in time
I hope they find peace in knowing
That I am finally free from the pain
That haunted me every waking moment
I’ll be watching over them from above

If I fail to wake up tomorrow,
Promise me you’ll take care of yourself
Don’t dwell on what could have been
Live your life to the fullest, cling to the warmth of joy
That I could never fully appreciate
Treasure like gold every sunrise, every sunset
And know that I am always with you
In spirit, in memory, in love

If I don’t wake up tomorrow,
Tell the world my story
Let my struggles be a lesson
That mental health is not a joke
That a smile can hide a world of hurt
And that reaching out for help
Is not a sign of weakness, but of strength
Break the stigma, break the silence

If I fail to wake up tomorrow,
Know that I am at peace
No longer shackled by my fears
No longer drowning in my tears
I am free to soar amongst the stars
To dance in the moonlight, to bask in the sun
I am finally whole, finally content
In the arms of endless rest.

Let my legacy be one of love
Of kindness, of compassion
And may my journey to the beyond bring awareness
To the struggles we all face
So if I fail to wake up tomorrow
Know that I am at peace
And that I will always be watching over you
From the heavens above.

@okelododdychitchats