I want You Bad

Girl, I want you bad,
The way the night craves the moon,
Like a song that stays long after the music fades,
Like a fire that never dies.

I want to feel your breath on my skin,
To hold you close, our hearts in sync,
To lose myself in the way you look at me,
Like I’m the only thing that matters.

I want to gently hold your neck,
As I kiss your lips, taste your tongue,
My left hand sliding between your thighs,
Reaching for that sweet, dripping warmth.

I want to hear your soft sighs,
Feel your fingers tangled in my hair,
Trace every curve of you like a love letter,
Written in the language of touch.

Let’s get lost in this moment,
Forget the world, just you and me,
Wrapped up in heat, in whispers, in need,
In something that feels like forever.

@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 Stuck with Me

It’s Monday morning, cold, grey, and raining heavily. The kind of rain that makes you question all your life choices, especially the one about leaving a warm bed. My body is screaming for one more hour of sleep, but duty calls. I’m exhausted from traveling, and honestly, stepping outside feels like a bad idea. But I have an appointment at the Ministry of Lands at 9 AM, so I have no choice. I convince myself to get up, though I leave the house shingo upande-reluctantly, dragging my feet like it’s a punishment. It’s the kind of feeling that’s like being forced to eat sukuma wiki, something my nephew Azel treats like the ultimate betrayal when it shows up on his plate.

The Ministry of Lands is somewhere around Upper Hill. If you’re ever headed there, just say you’re going to Ardhi House. That’s the magic word. Without it, you might find yourself wandering around aimlessly. Directions aren’t exactly my strong suit, bu that’s the best advice I can give. Though, if you check Google Maps, you’ll see it’s somewhere around 1st Ngong Avenue. But that’s not Ngong, it’s still Upper Hill. Upper Hill has these Ngong Avenues running from 1st to around 5th, and it’s confusing, that’s just the city’s way of messing with you.

I get there, take a seat at the waiting area, and brace myself for what I suspect will be a long wait. Two hours in, I’m still sitting there. The counters are open, but the employees are busy beating stories, laughing, sipping tea, and chewing gum carelessly like it’s part of their job description. There’s a crowd of us waiting, but it’s like we’re invisible. I guess that’s just how government offices work-people paid to show up with an attitude, sip tea, and tell you, “Rudi after 2 to 3 weeks.” Absolute nonsense.

Eventually, after what feels like forever, I finally get sorted. I leave the building feeling drained but slightly relieved. My next stop is Kasarani, so I head towards Imenti House to catch a Metro Trans. When I get there, the bus is almost full, just one seat left at the back. My seat.

I head straight to it, ready to sit down and disappear into my thoughts. But just as I’m about to sit, the guy next to me looks up and says,
“I like your style in particular.”

I smile, say “Thanks,” and settle in. The bus starts moving. A few minutes later, he turns to me again,
“What’s your take on love? Do you think it exists?”

I pause, not sure how to respond to such a deep question from someone I’ve known for less than ten minutes. But before I can even open my mouth, he starts talking.

Grab a seat. If you can, get some popcorn. This is where things take a sad and confusing turn.

He’s been in a relationship for three years, the only woman he’s ever truly loved. He helped her out with school fees and rent, even though he was still a student himself. She was studying in Mombasa, and he was in Nairobi. Long-distance is tough, but they made it work, meeting whenever they could.

She wasn’t just his girlfriend; she was his person. She shaped his character, helped him grow spiritually, and made him a better man. He told me he used to be the life of the party, always out drinking and living recklessly. But she introduced him to faith, and before he knew it, he’d swapped club nights for Church Keshas. Friday nights that were once filled with the buzz of whiskey and loud music became quiet thoughts and bible studies. Life had flipped on him, but in a good way.

They had a good thing going, late-night calls that stretched until dawn, surprise visits that felt like scenes from a rom-com, and inside jokes only they understood. Their love was the kind that made the future feel certain, like they were slowly piecing together the blueprint of a family. It was rosy, the kind of relationship that makes you believe love really can conquer all. But then, life threw a twist.

His dad was diagnosed with stage four cancer (I didn’t ask for his name or the lady’s name, that’s why I’m just going with he, she, and whatever fits. Boys don’t really bother with names, they just get along and let the conversation flow). Everything changed. He had to step up, juggling school, work at his dad’s law firm, and caring for his father. His relationship took a hit. Calls became less frequent, meet-ups rare, and slowly, the distance grew, not just physically but emotionally.

Then came the heartbreak. She got pregnant after a one-night stand with someone she can barely remember, a random guy from a party she didn’t even want to attend. It wasn’t her scene, but she showed up anyway, maybe out of boredom, maybe just to get her mind off things. One reckless decision, in the middle of loud music and blurred conversations, flipped her world upside down. Now she’s expecting a beautiful child, innocent and unaware of any of this, while she drowns in regret, reaching out, asking for forgiveness, hoping somehow to fix what feels too broken to mend.

He’s on his way to see her, somewhere around Mwiki Phase 3. He doesn’t know what will come of it, whether they’ll find closure, reconciliation, or just more heartbreak.

The bus slows down, it’s my stop. I stand up, unsure of what to say to someone who’s just poured out their soul. So I keep it simple,

“I hope you find the answers you’re looking for.”

I step off the bus and find myself thinking about how random encounters with strangers can really stick with you. It’s funny how a brief conversation with someone you’ll likely never see again can stick in your mind long after the moment has passed. Life’s like that, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s the unexpected, the small interactions, that leave the biggest mark.

That conversation stuck with me, and now I can’t stop thinking about what happened after.

@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

Death Didn’t Do Us Apart

We stood there, below the soft glow of candlelight,
breathing in the scent of fresh roses,
draped in the hearth like glow of promises
we thought would last forever.
“For richer or poorer,” we said,
holding hands with our hearts open,
two souls tied in something bigger than ourselves.

Love felt easy then
like laughter in the spring,
like whispered dreams in the dark.
“In sickness and in health,”
we swore, certain of our strength,
believing love was enough
to keep the storms at bay.

But love doesn’t stop the seasons from changing.
Leaves still fall.
The air still grows cold.
And somewhere between yesterday’s kisses
and today’s silence,
we lost ourselves.

It wasn’t death that parted us.
No tragic ending, no final breath.
Just the slow erosion of trust,
The burden of unspoken words.,
the sting of knowing
I was no longer enough.

You slipped away in pieces
a late reply, a distant stare,
a touch that felt like a ghost of what it used to be.
And when the truth came,
it wasn’t a sudden crash,
but a quiet breaking,
like the final glow dying out.

“Good guys finish last,” they say,
as if kindness is a weakness,
as if loving fully means losing completely.
I should have been harder,
colder,
but love, real love, doesn’t wear armor.
It stands bare, hoping,
even when hope feels like a foolish thing.

I still remember the mornings
the way your laughter filled the room,
how breakfast in bed felt like a love language,
how silence between us was once soft,
not sharp.

I thought love was something you built,
something you watered and nurtured,
but I didn’t see the weeds creeping in,
the slow suffocation of something beautiful.
Every I love you became an afterthought,
every kiss felt borrowed,
and suddenly, love was just a memory
we were trying too hard to relive.

What is love, if not a choice?
Every day, again and again.
But choices change.
And somewhere along the way,
you stopped choosing me.

I read books about love,
but they don’t talk about this part,
the quiet ache,
the way rooms feel bigger when someone leaves,
the way time moves on
even when you beg it to stay still.

“Good guys suffer,” they call them simps,
as if love is a game where only the ruthless win.
But I don’t believe that.
Not really.
Because love, real love, doesn’t die.
It bends, it breaks,
but it finds a way through the cracks.

I see you in dreams sometimes,
smiling like you used to,
before love became something
we had to fight for.
And maybe that’s all we were,
a beautiful thing that wasn’t meant to last.

But love will come again.
Maybe softer this time.
Maybe stronger.
And when it does,
I’ll be ready.

Because love isn’t a weakness.
It’s a lesson.
A story.
A promise we make to ourselves,
that no matter how many times we break,
we’ll find a way to be whole again.

@okelododdychitchats

What’s Love Anyway

There was a time, wasn’t there?
A time when love felt like everything.
When we didn’t need to ask permission for it to stay.
It just showed up, uninvited, and we welcomed it like an old friend.

We thought it would stay forever, didn’t we?
We thought we’d always walk side by side,
Two hearts beating in unison,
Believing that nothing could tear us apart.

But somewhere, somewhere in the silence,
Love changed.
It changed, almost without notice.
One day, we were laughing, and the next, silence.

It’s strange, how love can be so gentle and so harsh,
All at once.
How it can bloom and fade,
In a breath, in a glance.

The hand that once held yours, so tenderly,
Now feels distant, cold.
And the words that once lifted you,
Now fall heavy, like stones.

It’s not always the big gestures that tear us apart.
Sometimes, it’s the things left unsaid,
The silence in between.
The small fractures that no one sees,
Until they break wide open.

And you stand there, staring at the pieces,
Wondering when it all fell apart.
Wondering when you lost yourself,
And when love became a stranger.

But here’s the truth I’ve come to know,
Love doesn’t disappear.
It doesn’t vanish like smoke.
It leaves a mark.

It leaves a scar,
Not one that makes you weaker,
But one that makes you stronger.
Because, after all, we survived it.

We carry love with us,
Even when it’s gone.
We carry the warmth,
The joy, the sorrow.

Love may not last forever,
But it teaches us more than we ever thought we could learn.
And when the pieces finally settle,
We realize we’re still here, still standing.

So, yeah, love hurts.
It breaks you down.
But it also builds you up.
And that’s something we can carry with us, always.

But then, we pause,
And we wonder,
What is love, really?
Is it the promises we make and break?
A fire that flickers, then fades?
Or is it just the quiet moments,
When we finally learn to love ourselves,
Without needing anyone else to show us how?

@okelododdychitchats

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

How Busy Can Someone Be?

The clock swallows minutes whole,
Gulping down greetings, gnawing on goodbyes.
Excuses stack like bricks against a door,
While silence hums between us,
thick as stone,
thin as breath.

A phone vibrates, a message waits,
Unanswered.
I see you read it.
A thousand reasons grow in that space,
But not one blooms into a simple,
“I’m thinking of you.”

How important must a life be
To lose the weight of one small word?
How far must a soul stroll
To forget the way home is paved
with pause,
and presence,
and tender replies?

What do we build with our busyness?
A monument of meetings,
A kingdom of calendars.
We count every second,
but never the heartbeats missed
between deadlines.

We are architects of absence.
Masters of the unsaid.
Too proud, perhaps,
to admit that we let love sit idle
while we sharpened schedules into swords
and called it survival.

Wahenga na wahenguzi said,
Akufukuzaye hakuambii toka.
The one chasing you never says leave.

What are you still waiting for?
What more do you need to realize you’re not wanted?
Respect yourself!…

Somewhere, there is a hand
reaching for yours,
A voice waiting at the edge
of a message unsent.
Kindness grows fragile
when left in the dark,
but it never dies.

So, how busy can someone be?
Busy enough to forget,
but not enough
to stop remembering.

@okelododdychitchats

I Don’t Care

I Don’t Care

I sit.
And I watch you.
You dance in colors that aren’t yours,
A queen in paper armor,
A prophet of mirrors who fears reflection.

You laugh loud.
Louder than truth.
You wear pride like a coat with the sleeves too short,
Talking about wisdom you never heard,
Pointing at horizons you’ve never chased.
The ground shifts beneath your feet,
But you don’t feel it.

And I,
I don’t care.

You build kingdoms with sand,
Palaces of opinions stacked like cards.
The wind speaks warnings in whispers,
But you never learned to listen to silence.
So go ahead,
Stack your stones,
Yell into the wind.
I’m not holding the wall when it falls.

You ask for counsel,
But only to hear your own thoughts.
You want change,
As long as it looks just like you.
There are cracks in the glass you refuse to see,
A compass that spins and never lands north.
You follow it anyway.
I watch.
I stay still.
I don’t care.

What kind of human walks without leaving footprints,
Shouting justice but stumbling over truth?
You brandish swords forged from hollow words,
Slicing wounds in places no one else sees.
You call it bravery.
I call it noise.

Let me be clear,
I don’t care.
Your storm is yours to drown in,
Your sea to sink or swim.
I have my own shores to walk,
My own sun to chase.
I’ll breathe air that’s free of your thunder,
And find my calm beneath skies you can’t reach.

You tell me to climb your glass mountain,
But I see through it,
Thin as pride,
Fragile as ego.
I’ll stand at the bottom and watch it shatter.
You’ll bleed.
I won’t.

This is not lethargy,
It’s freedom.
I won’t wear your chains of validation,
Won’t dance to the beats of your demands.
Let the tide rise,
Let your words fall like rain on someone else’s skin.

I’ll walk.
I’ll breathe.
I’ll write my own name into the wind,
And let the song belong to me.

So live your truth,
Call it gospel,
Call it fire.
Build your temples,
Shout your sermons.
But don’t ask me to kneel.

The world is vast,
Full of roads I haven’t walked,
Of songs I haven’t sung.
And I will walk them,
I will sing.
Unbound.
Unmoved.
Unapologetically free.

I don’t care.
Not out of spite,
Not out of scorn,
But because I refuse,
To be a prisoner of someone else’s storm.

This is where I leave you.
Keep your crown.
I’ll keep my soul.

@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