AND YET, WE VOTE

WHO PROTECTS THE PEOPLE FROM THE POLICE ?

You may write us off,
dismiss us ,
ignore us in Parliament halls padded with stolen wealth,
but still, we see

We are the country beneath your motorcades,
the hands that build and break,
the voices cracking in the dust
because hope costs too much now.

And yet,
we vote.

We vote for thieves in clean suits

We vote for wolves draped in our flags,

Enough.

We are tired.
Tired of job descriptions reading “Must be connected.”
Tired of degrees gathering dust
while our dreams starve in silence.

We are tired of joblessness turned into weaponry,
young men hired cheap to kill our own voices,
paid to break bones they’ve never healed in their own lives.

Tired of watching peaceful protesters
shot dead,
while those who loot in daylight
are guarded like royalty.

Tired of asking:
“Who protects the people from the police?”

Tired of staged outrage,
press conferences filled with air,
and politicians who only remember their roots
when it’s time to lie again.

You fight for positions, not for people.
You dine with the devil,
then kneel in churches too small for your sins.

You debate your egos on live TV
as our people dig trenches
not for roads,
but for graves.

You die to be seen.
But we die because we’re ignored.

Kenya is choking.
On debt.
On lies.
On the stink of promises unkept.

We are not asking.
We are telling.

This time, we vote with memory.
With pain.
With names.
With tears that learned how to speak.

This time,
you will not scare us with teargas.
You will not buy us with t-shirts.
You will not distract us with empty tribal drums.

We will remember who was silent when we bled.
We will remember who smiled while we starved.
We will remember who disappeared our brothers
and called us TREASONOUS CRIMINALS.

We are not the children you once fooled.
We have grown teeth.
We have grown rage.
And we are coming.

So let the ballot tremble.
Let your seats shake.
Let the ground beneath your stolen homes shift.

Because next time,
we are not just voting.

We are reclaiming.

And if you still don’t listen,
then hear this:

We are not afraid.
We are not asleep.
We are not yours.
Not anymore.

@Okelododdychitchats

#RUTOMUSTGO #ENDPOLICEBRUTALITY #RAGEANDCOURAGE
#JUSTICEFORELIJOSHUA

To You, Tonight

You say you don’t read much.
But somehow, you always read me.
And maybe, without knowing,
You taught me how to bleed through the pen,
To shape silence into syllables,
To hold space for feeling,
Even when the world is loud.

So tonight,
As night settles in a robe of velvet quiet,
I write not to ask, nor to explain,
But to bless you, softly.

When the night folds her arms around the sky,
And the stars murmur lullabies in silver tongues,
May your burdens loosen,
May your spirit stretch.

For even the moon, full in her glow,
Knows the ache of holding light too long.

Rest, love.
Lay down the weight of unspoken things.
Let dreams drift in like gentle winds
Through the windows of your mind.

Don’t dwell,
Not on what didn’t grow,
Not on what wasn’t said.

Just sleep.
And let this be the lull in the poem of your life,
The stanza where you exhale.

Goodnight, beloved.
Goodnight.

@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

What If ?

What If?

What if the sky burned red in the morning,
not from war, not from fire,
but from a love too bright to dim,
a warmth too strong to ignore?

What if the rivers ran gold,
not for pockets, not for greed,
but to remind us we were always rich,
just too blind to see?

What if a child, skin dark as the earth,
walked through this world without fear,
without whispers behind closed doors,
without hands that push instead of pull?

What if we tore down the borders,
the ones built in fear, in hunger, in hate,
and called each other kin,
not stranger, not enemy, but home?

What if the hands that built this world,
weathered, cracked, forgotten,
finally held something more than struggle,
finally rested in the justice they were owed?

What if love was not a trade,
not a bargain, not a game,
but a force so wild and full,
it lifted the broken, the tired, the unseen?

What if?
What if?

Or maybe, just maybe,
we stop asking,
and start making it real.

@okelododdychitchats