There are many names for a woman,
but none that speak your fullness,
you are dawn in its first whisper of gold,
a soft psalm wrapped in morning light,
a cathedral of calm where my heart kneels,
finding faith again in the sound of your voice.
You walk as if the earth remembers your kindness;
flowers lift their faces in your passing.
Your laughter, a river that knows its way home,
sculpts joy across the landscape of our days.
Even silence becomes sacred when shared with you,
for you breathe poetry into the air itself.
Once, you were a girl with suns in her eyes,
and the world crowned you mother,
not with jewels, but with gentle burdens,
and you bore them like grace itself.
Your hands stitched comfort into chaos,
turning hunger into hope, noise into hymn.
In your eyes, I have seen God’s tender art,
the patience of oceans, the courage of storms.
You are the soft peace that follows heartbreak,
the reason broken wings learn to fly again.
Your love has been both shelter and sword,
cutting fear from the edges of my name.
Every word I’ve ever spoken carries your echo,
each dream is scented faintly with your prayers.
You are the unseen flow in my becoming,
the quiet architect of my strength.
When I stumbled, you became the ground beneath me,
steady, forgiving, endlessly near.
What language could ever hold your worth?
What poet could bind your light in ink?
You are not to be described, but felt,
like rain, or grace, or home after exile.
And so, I do not thank you with words,
but with the life you helped me build.
Here’s to you, Mum,
keeper of warmth, bearer of mornings,
woman of endless tomorrows.
May joy drape you like silk at sunrise,
and time bow gently before your smile.
You are every beautiful thing I know.
Happy Birthday,
for the world grew softer the day you were born,
and I have been blessed to call its miracle Mother.
@doddyokelo
Tag: journey
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
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
I Know She’s Interested
There is a woman, and I know she is interested.
She does not say it, but I hear it in the way she says my name, soft, unhurried, like it belongs to her mouth. She watches, not in passing, but as if memorizing, as if tracing the edges of something she does not yet have words for.
She leans in slightly when I speak, the smallest movement, but I notice. She laughs, not loud, not demanding, but enough to let me know she is listening. Enough to make me want to be funnier, just to hear it again.
I watch her watching me, and I wonder if she knows that interest, when unspoken, is still a language. That a glance held a second too long is as heavy as a confession. That I am reading between the lines, filling in the spaces where her words should be.
She says “good night,” but I read it as “stay a little longer.”
She says “see you later,” but I hear “think of me when I’m gone.”
She says nothing at all, and still, I understand.
There is a woman, and I know she is interested.
@okelododdychitchats
Tomorrow is Friday Guys!
People used to smell like One Million and 212, those who had stretched their pockets just enough to afford a whiff of something slightly premium. Not premium-premium, just one million with a funny logo and a scent of 212, sometimes rebranded as 242. But at least they tried. At least they smelled nice. That was the point.
Now everyone smells of Yara. Including the lady seated next to me in a maroon cardigan, white top, and black pants and sneakers—coincidentally, just like me. Someone might think we are together, or worse, on some synchronized promo for maroon, black, and white outfits. But no. We are not together. I just know she has done her hair well, and she smells of Yara. I am actually even too shy to look at her face again but I know she’s wearing pink nails. I mean I can see her nails…
I don’t know which Yara she’s wearing, but I’ll assume it’s the good one because she looks expensive. Expensive like an iPhone 15.
And yes, she has an iPhone 15. A whole Pro Max. And you know, owning an iPhone is already rich (So we think). A whole 15 Pro Max? That’s generational wealth. That’s “my uncle works at UN” money. That’s “I don’t ask for prices before ordering” kind of money.
Now, unless the SI unit for expensive and richness changed overnight (It used to be or still is an Iphone), I am confused. I mean, is she rich-rich, or is this the “niongeze ten bob ya Kutoa “ type of babe? You know, the one where someone casually flexes their iPhone but deep down, their Fuliza is gasping for air, their M-Shwari is in ICU, and their branch loan officer knows them by name? Because here she is, sitting in a Kasarani-bound bus, scrolling like she’s never been in a financial group chat discussing “nani alishikwa na Tala?”
She keeps smiling, and I keep wondering, has she ever walked through the sardine-packed chaos of Mfangano Street? Has she ever set foot in that mall-that-is-not-really-a-mall called Cianda and tried to pronounce it? But then I dismiss the thought. We are all in the same loud bus to Kasarani. I convince myself she lives in Sunton. And I’m not saying Sunton isn’t classy. I’m just saying it’s affordable class. But forget that ! – Just know, she’s pleasing to look at. The kind of person you’d instinctively place in Kilimani, yet here we are, and Sunton is the reality. At least she smells nice.
I have just left three government offices, and for the first time in my twenty-guess what years of living, I have not been served with attitude. I’m beginning to think the only ones who throw attitude are the Sub-County office folks because these ministry guys? They have mastered the art of hospitality. If only their bosses were the ones delivering services to us daily, ningefurahia!
But for now, I am just a happy man. Happy to sit next to someone who smells nice. Happy that, for once, I have not inhaled the unfortunate concoction of refilled Invictus mixed with a random scent that dares to bear Beyoncé’s name. Happy that three government offices served me without the signature “rudi after two weeks” response. Happy that I have finally cleared a backlog of work.
I haven’t slept since Saturday. Today is Thursday.
Tomorrow is Friday, guys.
@okelododdychitchats
She Still Wears Dirty Shoes
She was beautiful.
Not the loud kind of beautiful,
not the kind that demands attention,
but the kind that catches you off guard,
soft, steady,
like the warmth of the sun on your skin when you didn’t realize you were cold.
I admired everything about her.
The way she walked,
like she wasn’t just passing through the world,
the world was lucky she chose to walk on it.
The way she spoke,
words rolling off her tongue like they’d been waiting for her to find them,
gentle but firm,
like truth dressed in silk.
Her skin-flawless.
Not flawless like makeup ads promise,
but flawless like rivers cutting through stone,
like history written softly across her face.
Her body?
Not perfect by anyone’s rules but her own,
a shape that felt like poetry,
not the kind you study,
the kind you feel.
Her style was effortless.
Not curated,
just honest.
Clothes didn’t wear her;
she wore them,
with a grace that made simplicity look like art.
But her shoes were always dirty.
It didn’t matter if they were brand new,
straight from the box,
or worn down from years of walking,
somehow,
they were always stained with something.
Dust, mud,
Just something
And I hated that.
Not because it mattered, really,
but because I thought it should.
Maybe it was the part of me that needed order,
needed neatness,
the part that saw beauty in straight lines
and clean edges.
Her shoes didn’t fit that picture.
They kicked at the corners of my mind,
scuffed up the idea of what “perfect” should look like.
So I let her go.
Not because she wasn’t enough,
but because her shoes weren’t clean.
It sounds ridiculous now,
but at the time,
it felt like reason.
Five years passed.
Life happened,
the kind of life that leaves its own dirt behind.
Mistakes, lessons,
love gained, love lost,
all of it piling up like dust in places you forget to clean.
Then I saw her again.
Last week.
Standing there,
the same light in her eyes,
like the years hadn’t dimmed a thing.
She smiled,
the kind of smile that could stretch across oceans,
the kind that makes you feel like you’ve been missed,
even if you haven’t.
She still looked good.
Better, actually.
Like life had layered her with more stories,
more depth,
and none of it weighed her down.
Her teeth were bright,
her scent was warm,
her presence still undeniable.
And her shoes?
Still dirty.
But this time,
I didn’t care.
Because now I know,
life isn’t about spotless shoes.
It’s not about keeping clean what’s meant to get messy.
It’s about walking,
about moving,
about showing up,
even if the road leaves its mark on you.
Her shoes weren’t a flaw.
They were proof.
Proof that she’d lived,
that she’d walked through things and kept going,
that beauty isn’t about what stays clean,
it’s about what survives the dirt.
She still wears dirty shoes.
And now,
I think that’s the most beautiful thing about her.
@okelododdychitchats
It must Be a Beautiful Death
It Must Be a Beautiful Death
Let it come like a sigh,
like the silence between waves,
like the slow separation of a ribbon,
loosened by the hands of time.
No violence. No suddenness.
Just the peaceful folding of the day into night,
a quiet hand-over to the pull of the tide.
Let it not be an end,
but an opening,
a door swinging wide to something big and golden,
a breath released, not stolen.
Let it feel like stepping into warm water,
like sinking into silk,
like the weight of the world slipping from tired shoulders.
Something will rise from the silence.
It always does.
A blade of green through frost-bitten earth,
a flame that flickers but never dies,
a heart that stops only to be remembered
in the sound of another’s breath.
Life does not go. It stays.
It clings to the air, to the hands that once held it,
to the laughter built into the walls of an old house.
It must be a beautiful death,
the kind that smiles instead of weeps,
that glows instead of dims,
that steps lightly into the unknown,
leaving warmth where it once stood.
Not a Disapearance, but a soft dissolve,
like sugar in tea,
like smoke curling into the sky.
Something sweet will remain.
A voice Singing in the quiet of morning,
a scent-faint yet familiar-caught on the wind.
The way their name still tastes on your tongue.
Love is stubborn.
It does not bow to time.
It finds itself into the cracks of your bones,
into the spaces between dreams.
And something great will rise from the silence
A light in the dark,
a constellation drawn from the ashes,
a name that refuses to be forgotten.
No one is ever truly gone
if their love still stains the walls of the world.
It must be a beautiful death,
not because it does not pain,
but because it matters,
because it leaves fingerprints on the soul,
because it whispers through the wind,
I was here. I loved. I lived.
And somewhere, somehow, I still do.
@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
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
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
okelododdychitchats 