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

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

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

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