It didn’t fall so much as it unfolded. One minute, the sky was a familiar ceiling, and the next, a bruise began to spread from the center out, smothering the sun until the light felt thin, brittle enough to snap between my fingers.
You don’t realize how much the light holds you up until it’s gone.
Now, the air is thick with the soot of burned-out stars. The iron draft of a closing door has changed everything, it’s a predatory thing. It’s in my bones now, pulling my shoulders toward the dirt, turning my footsteps into heavy prayers that no one hears. My knees have forgotten the habit of standing.
There is a cold, dense knot where my chest used to be, a collapsed star, a private black hole feeding on the scraps of my better days. It doesn’t just take, it erases. It has swallowed the before, the maybe, and theus, leaving only this heavy, crippled silence where my heart used to beat.
Your mind is a cathedral of locked doors, where I walk the perimeter, tracing the cold stone, listening for the silver resonance of a breath that sounds like my name. I am an expert in the art of the unspoken, gathering the crumbs of your glances like a hungry bird, content to wait in the shadow of your mystery until the daylight finally learns how to break through.
Expose the map of your pulse, the hidden place where your armor thins and the genuine heart beats. I do not ask for a tour, I ask for the keys to the foundation, to be the protagonist in the story you tell yourself at midnight. Let me inhabit the space of your firsts, as the very oxygen that fills your lungs before the world taught you how to hesitate.
I can feel your love like a subterranean river, heavy and gold, moving where the marrow dreams of light. But I am drowning in the shallows of your caution, wondering if you will ever let that river break the banks. I love you with the violence of a sun that never sets, I am waiting to see if you will finally surrender to the same beautiful, terrifying gravity that holds me to you.
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.
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.
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.
The sun scorches the ground and the wind stirs restless among trees, There are whispers no one speaks aloud. This is a land of open skies and heavy silences, Where fear lives close to the tongue. If I speak, I may disappear.
There was a time when voices rose like a morning tide, Songs of freedom swept through the hills, Children dreamed of megaphones, Their words carried far and wide, But now, whispers turn into silence, Muted colors fading into gray.
That’s Kenya for you, A country of open skies and closed mouths, Where history’s murmurs still ring “Nchi ya Kwanza” sang of land, of sovereignty, Yet here we are, Gathered beneath fragile roofs, Afraid to shake the walls of comfort.
Freedom of speech ? A dandelion crushed under heavy boots. “Speak up,” they say, But the claws of consequence lurk close, Each word a risk, each sentence a threat, A storm brewing on the horizon, Every raindrop a truth That floods the streets, Only to vanish into silence.
In the market square, Eyes flicker with stories not told, Lips press tight as fingers point At faces of power, But silence costs less Than the price of speaking truth.
At dinner tables, Ideas clash like spoons in a bowl, A family walks the line Between safety and outrage. One wrong word, And the room holds its breath.
Beneath it all, The weight of freedom lies, Written deep in scars, Buried in graves of those who dared. And what of the poets, The dreamers who once danced with danger? Now they tread softly, Pens hovering above paper, Caught between courage and caution.
On the shores of Lake Victoria, The fishermen watch the waters, Their mouths sealed tighter Than the nets they cast. For even here, The law grips tighter than any tide.
Still, Hope refuses to die. It grows like grass and fern between cracks in the pavement, It rises in laughter, in hands held high. It blooms in the smallest corners, In murals painted on concrete walls, In songs hummed beneath breath.
If I speak, I may disappear. But even silence carries a rhythm, A beat that cannot be stilled. For every voice quieted, Ten more rise. For every dream crushed, A thousand seeds scatter.
We are the embers, We are the sparks, And no storm can put us out. If I speak, I may disappear. But if I stay silent, Who will tell our story?
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 