Grace in the Details

I’m at this restaurant along Moi Avenue. Its food looks like an upgraded version of Homabay High School meals (you will understand why). I can hardly pronounce its name, let alone write it. Honestly, why name a restaurant this hard? I thought names were supposed to connect with customers. Has that changed? Marketers, is this strategy now a relic of the past, is it a vestigial structure ?

The place is well-designed. It’s a sanctuary carved out of dreams, and that’s what drew me in! I love good designs, but I’ve just learned the hard way that the prettiness of a place doesn’t guarantee the sweetness of its food. Trust me, you can use this in any context you want !

The receptionist is a light-skinned lady with poorly done makeup and an attitude to match. I choose to ignore her entirely and look for a seat where I won’t have to see her chewing gum carelessly every time I lift my head.

I settle next to a window, where I can take in the scenery. It’s beautiful in its own way-not green, but full of life with people walking in different directions, a flock of matatus, and a road that seems to have missed maintenance since independence.

The waiter here is Grace-at least, that’s what her badge says. She’s beautiful. Her skin is a rich mix of bronze and gold. Her wide, luminous eyes seem to hold a thousand untold stories. She carries a natural beauty that stands out effortlessly, paired with a calm and confident demeanor that speaks volumes about her self-assuredness. Her restaurant uniform is a clean white blouse neatly tucked into a black skirt-looks like it was tailored just for her. The simple outfit hugs her elegant figure perfectly, and the black-and-white contrast gives her a sharp, polished look. She moves with such poise and confidence that something as ordinary as a uniform suddenly seems extraordinary on her. Simplicity has never looked this good.

Grace approaches me, asking what I’d like to have while taking me through the menu. Everything on it seems mlimarish. I settle for ugali with beef. She tells me, “Hiyo mbando hainjaiva,” in a heavy accent. From her voice, I can tell she’s Meru. Her second name is probably Gitonga, Kendi, or something similarly Meru-sounding. There’s something irresistibly beautiful about the Meru accent. I listen, I judge, and I know, I’m not wrong about this one.

I decide to wait because my craving for beef won’t let me pick anything else. It feels like I’m nursing a hangover, but I’m not!

When the food comes, I’m shocked, bana! This is thufu in reality. Tiny chunks of meat are floating in a watery broth, and the ugali is poorly made. To make it worse, they’ve served it with cabbage. My appetite disappears in an instant. I can’t eat this food, it’s beyond poorly done.

But at least Grace is here. I can enjoy listening to her accent. She has a heart of gold, and I feel guilty sending the food back. I pay the bill and even leave her a tip. She smiles and says, “Azante.” I want to laugh, but I hold back. As she walks back toward the reception, I catch myself admiring her “Nyash,” and honestly, it’s worth every shilling I just spent. Bana Nyathini Kado !

I have no more business here, so it’s time to leave.

Will I return for the food? Absolutely not. But I’ll come back for Grace, for her smile, her accent, and her presence. I think she might just be the one. Forget the food, this “Nyash” is unmatched!

@okelododdychitchats

Tukutendereza Yesu

State House Road smells fresh, like the air has been scrubbed clean. The rain came down hard, soaking everything in sight, and now I’m walking past YMCA Central, taking it all in. Two holes sit dangerously by the roadside, barely covered with small tree branches – useless at stopping anything from falling in.

It’s still drizzling, but the world feels different. The water in the trenches flows peacefully, no trash clogging it up. The road is strangely clean, almost surreal, but the traffic toward University Way is as crazy as ever. Amid the noise, I can hear people singing. The voices are gentle, calming, carrying the unmistakable melody of an SDA hymn. “Blessed Assurance, Jesus is Mine” floats around me, a song I know will stay in my head long after it fades-just like “Tukutendereza Yesu” always does.

The drizzle is cool against my skin, I can feel gentle drops of water kissing it. It’s almost refreshing, but I’m freezing. I thought I was smart leaving my jacket at home, it would have ruined my look, but now I’m regretting it. Style is one thing, warmth is another. Today, “freeze and shine” is a reality. Style will kill me !

When I get to the bus stop, what we call Stage here in Kenya, I’m lucky enough to find a matatu right away. I climb in and grab a seat at the back, but there’s a random remote sitting there. For a second, I wonder if that’s why the seat was empty. Maybe it belongs to the woman next to me? Turns out, it’s the matatu’s remote. I pick it up, planning to hand it to the makanga when he comes for the fare.

Finally, I’m warm again, but I’m so tired. My mind feels heavy, and I just want to get home. Looking out the window, I remember it’s Christmas season. But, something feels off. The streets are still crowded, kwani watu hawajaenda ushago hii Christmas! The shops aren’t decorated like they usually are for Christmas, nothing like the usual festive look we’re used to – no green, no gold, no red. The waiters, shop and supermarket attendants aren’t wearing those red and white Santa hats. Has Christmas lost its magic, or is it just me?

We reach my stage (yes, that’s the bus stop again), and I step out. The drizzle hasn’t let up, and it’s still cold. I pull my scarf tighter and rush home, I just want to escape this cold.

That’s all for now. Stay warm out there!

Wait a minute, “makanga” is tout. As I warm up at home, I’m going to play “Tukutendereza Yesu!” It always reminds me of my dad, and I love it just as much as I love my dad.

Adios !

@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

The Burden of Being

They say men drag themselves to hell,
As if each step they take is a burden,
As if the weight of their struggles,
Their pride, their pain,
Should remain hidden,
Silent, unspoken.
And when a man is wronged,
When his dignity is stripped away,
When his worth is questioned,
They turn away,
As if it’s his fight to bear alone.
No one speaks up, no one defends,
He’s left to pick up the pieces,
His bruises ignored.

Have you ever seen
What happens when a man’s life is taken?
How the story shifts,
How the reason for his death is twisted,
Explained away,
As if it’s somehow justifiable,
As if it’s easier to accept
If the pain can be rationalized,
If the wrong can be painted in a different light.
The truth is bent,
The facts contorted,
Until the sharp edges of injustice
Are softened, made palatable.

Why is it only wrong when it doesn’t fit the narrative?
When a man’s struggle doesn’t meet the approval of those who’ve never walked in his shoes?
When the pain doesn’t match their prescription of how things should be,
Why do they bend and twist the story to make it easier to understand?
Why is it that the wrongs done to a man are shrugged off,
Ignored, forgotten,
Until they can no longer be ignored?
Is it because they expect him to endure quietly?
To accept disrespect as part of his place in the world?

Why must we turn a blind eye when a man is dismissed,
When he’s disrespected,
When his value is diminished,
As if he doesn’t deserve the same empathy,
The same respect,
The same justice?
Why do we question his pain,
His frustration,
When he’s left standing alone,
Fighting battles that no one else sees?
Is it because he’s a man,
And somehow, his hurt is less?
Somehow, he’s expected to rise without the help of others?

It’s a sad, painful truth that we live in a world
Where some lives are weighed differently,
Where some struggles are minimized,
Where the wrongs done to men are excused,
Simply because they’re men.
But when will we see that pain is pain,
That disrespect is still wrong,
That when a man’s dignity is stolen,
When he’s pushed down,
When he’s wronged,
It’s just as heavy, just as real
As the wrongs done to anyone else?

I won’t stand for it.
I won’t accept it.
I believe we can do better.
I believe we can rise beyond these broken rules,
Beyond these silent expectations,
And see each other for what we truly are,
Human.
Every one of us, deserving of dignity,
Deserving of respect.
And maybe, just maybe,
When we stop justifying wrongs,
When we stop twisting the truth,
We can heal, together.
Men, women, everyone,
Equal in our worth,
Equal in our struggle,
And equal in our right to be seen,
To be heard, to rise.

@okelododdychitchats

Behind Closed Doors, Break Free

Violence doesn’t always leave bruises you can see.
It hides in words that cut, in silence that smothers,
A shadow waiting, patient, behind closed doors,
Quietly chipping away at who you are,
Until you feel small, afraid, unseen.
But knowing the signs, that’s where it begins.

Do they tear you down with a smile on their face,
Chip away at your confidence with every word?
Do their actions make you shrink in fear,
Walking on eggshells, afraid to breathe?
Their cruelty doesn’t need fists to leave scars,
It traps you behind those same closed doors.

You try to convince yourself it’s not so bad,
Smile, laugh, say “I’m fine,” to anyone who asks.
But when the silence settles and no one’s there,
The words come back, loud and sharp,
Reminding you of their power,
Reminding you of your place-small, broken, alone.

And then you start to question yourself.
Maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re the problem.
But you’re not.
It’s their control, their manipulation,
Their need to keep you afraid,
Hidden, quiet, behind those closed doors.

But you can break free.
You can speak. You can stand.
Your voice is stronger than their silence.
Your courage is bigger than their control.
One step, then another, through the open door,
Toward freedom, toward yourself.

It’s time to name their words for what they are.
Time to break the silence,
To reclaim the you they tried to erase.
Because the scars they leave may not be visible,
But you are still here,
And you are still whole.

@okelododdychitchats

Pieces of Me

I’m not stubborn about most things.
I want to change, I really do, but not everything.
There are pieces of me I just can’t let go of,
Like my accent, which always feels like home.
Or my style, which speaks for me without a word.
And my team, Manchester Red, through the wins, the losses, and the heartbreaks. I stick!
Those are pieces of me I’ll never trade.

But some things? I’ll leave behind.
I’ll swap the bars for church,
Trade the noise for peace,
Let my spirit find rest in quieter places.
I’ll keep my screen time, I’m not ready to fight that battle,
But I’ll change what I’m watching.
No more wanking to strangers’ explicit tapes.
No more moments that leave me feeling emptier than before.
Instead, I’ll open a Bible.
Not promising to be holy,
But I’ll seek meaning in verses rather than fleeting thrills.

And that muscle, that restless, familiar muscle?
It’s time I show it some respect.
But you better behave too.

I sit, thinking about what stays and what goes.
The pieces of me that make me who I am,
my voice, my name, my roots,
those will always be mine.
But I’m ready to grow.
Not all at once, but slowly,
Like a tide reshaping the shoreline,
like a man learning to carry himself differently.

I’m not stubborn,
I’m just figuring it out.
Step by step, choice by choice,
trying to become someone better
without losing the parts of me that matter most.

….. And to you all , this isn’t a series of “we listen but we don’t judge.”

@okelododdychitchats

Wacha Ikae

Don’t look at your phone. The urge is there, gnawing at you, but you resist. You know how it happens always. She hasn’t called. She hasn’t left a message either, not even a one-word reply to that carefully written text you sent. But she’s read it. The double blue ticks glare back at you like tiny daggers, taunting you with their silence.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. Maybe she’s busy. Maybe her phone died. Yet deep down, a faint warning whispers, something is off. The red flags you once ignored are now bold and unrelenting, waving in your face. But no, this isn’t even orange yet, you rationalize. She’ll call later. She always does, and when she does, there will be excuses. So many excuses. Weak and hollow, they tumble out like rehearsed lines in a bad play.

You’ve heard them all before. “I was caught up with something.” “I didn’t see your call.” “You’re overthinking it.” And yet, every excuse chips away at something inside you. Still, you stay. You try to trust, to believe. But the lateness, the nonchalance, the dismissive tone, they sting. When the responses come, they’re lukewarm at best, indifferent at worst. And when they don’t come at all, you’re left to sit with your thoughts, drowning in a pool of “what-ifs.”

And when you dare to question it? The tables turn. She doesn’t apologize or explain. No, she gets angry. She calls it “female empowerment” or “girls in male fields,” her right to do as she pleases. But somehow, your feelings don’t matter. Your concerns are labeled as misogyny, your hurt as bias. Her anger flares, fiery and unrelenting, until you’re forced into silence, swallowing your words like bitter pills.

It’s funny, though, how the rules seem different when the tables turn. When you’re the one who doesn’t pick up, doesn’t reply, doesn’t explain, the world implodes. Her hurt becomes righteous indignation, and your silence, a personal betrayal. Suddenly, you’re the villain in a story you didn’t write. You’re made to feel guilty, selfish, unworthy. And yet, you understand. Or at least, you try to. Because if you don’t, she gets mad.

You’re not stupid. You see the pattern, the game, the manipulation cloaked in pretty words. You know the imbalance is more than unfair, it’s toxic. But you hold on, clutching at the tiny string of hope that maybe this time will be different. Maybe she’ll see you. Maybe she’ll call. Maybe she’ll stop making you feel like an afterthought.

But how long can you hold on? How many excuses can you stomach before the weight of her indifference crushes you? You wonder if love is supposed to feel this way, like walking on eggshells, like a one-sided battle for validation. Deep down, you know the answer. You’re just too afraid to admit it.

And so, you sit there, resisting the pull to check your phone again. You tell yourself this is the last time you’ll let her silence hurt you. But even as you make the promise, you wonder if it’s one you’ll keep. After all, the heart rarely listens to reason. And yours, stubborn and bruised, still beats for her, despite everything.

Ah, Wacha Ikae Bwana ! Don’t wait to confirm the obvious with a great sense of discovery

@okelododdychitchats

Lost in Her Eyes

I sat down beside her, not thinking she’d notice,
But as soon as I settled, her eyes found me,
Piercing and intense, they seemed to see through,
I couldn’t meet her look, my heart didn’t know what to do.

Her eyes were like fire, burning bright and clear,
I felt myself drawn in, overcome with fear.
What did she want from me?
I couldn’t read her expression, I felt so weak.

Minutes passed like hours, I couldn’t look away.
Her stare held me captive, I wanted to stay.
But the pressure was too much, I had to break free,
I finally looked up, into eyes that could see.

They were pools of emotion, deep and sincere,
I felt myself falling, pulled closer, drawn near.
Her eyes spoke volumes without a sound,
I was lost in their depths, nowhere to be found.

I tried to speak, but my voice betrayed me,
Her stare held me frozen, I couldn’t break free.
Was this a dream, or was it real?
I couldn’t tell, how did she feel?

Her eyes carried a story, one untold,
I wanted to understand,
But fear held me back, kept me at a loss,
Her eyes were a mystery, with paths to cross.

As I sat beside her, lost in her eyes,
I knew deep down I was caught in a tide.
But I couldn’t resist, I wanted to know
What secrets her eyes held, where they might go.

The minutes turned to hours, the hours to days,
I was lost in her look, a mesmerizing haze.
But as time went on, I began to see,
Her eyes held a truth, a key to me.

They were windows to her soul, a reflection of light,
I saw myself in them, with newfound sight.
I sat down beside her, not thinking she’d notice,
But in the end, her eyes unlocked my focus.

So I sat beside her, lost in her eyes,
And in that moment, I finally realized,
Her stare was a mirror, reflecting me,
And through her eyes, I could truly see.

As I looked deeper, into her soul,
I found a connection that made me whole.
Her eyes held a power, a pull so strong,
I knew in that moment where I belonged.

I sat down beside her, not thinking she’d notice,
But in the end, her eyes brought me solace.
I found myself there, in her steady look,
And in her look, my own reflection shook.

@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

I can See It

The tunnel feels never-ending
A vast expanse of darkness
Thick and suffocating
But I keep pushing forward
Searching for that distant light
That flicker of hope in the distance

My feet are weary
My heart heavy with doubt
But I press on
For I know that the light
Is my salvation
My guiding star in the abyss

I stumble over rocks
And trip on my own fears
But I pick myself up
Dust off my doubts
And keep moving forward
Towards that glimmer of hope

The wind howls around me
Whipping through my hair
Stinging my cheeks with cold
But I am undeterred
For I know that the light
Is worth every hardship

I close my eyes
And imagine the warmth
Of the sun on my face
The gentle caress of a breeze
And I am filled with renewed determination
To reach the end of this tunnel

I remember the words
Of those who have gone before me
Those who have faced their own darkness
And emerged into the light
Their stories give me strength
And remind me that I am not alone

I cling to their words
Like a lifeline in the storm
And I push through the pain
The doubt, the fear
With every step, I feel closer
To the light at the end of the tunnel

I feel it calling to me
Beckoning me forward
Promising me peace
And I know that I must keep going
No matter how hard it gets
No matter how long it takes

For I will not be defeated
By the darkness that surrounds me
I will emerge victorious
Into the glorious light
At the end of this tunnel
And I will be forever changed

So I press on
With newfound resolve
With a fire in my soul
And a song in my heart
For I know that the light
Is waiting for me
At the end of the tunnel.

@okelododdychitchats