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
Tag: peace
It’s Colonial, I Swear
What happened before the roses came ?
1. Cold Showers and Pink Suits
There’s a special place in hell for cold showers and it’s probably somewhere next to the queue at the passport office. And now you want me to willfully take one, shave, powder my neck, and wear that pink suit that makes me look like a soft loan? Just to go out on a date? Bruh. That’s not love; that’s martyrdom. I did not survive Nairobi water bills to be out here moisturizing for cold balconies and cappuccino dust.
2. Love in the Time of Third Parties
Who even decided that love needs to come with an invoice and VAT? Dating in this economy feels like trying to start a business on a chama budget. You spend thousands to sit across someone in a place where both of you are silently trying to gauge who is more emotionally unavailable, while the waitress thinks you’re about to propose.
3. The Whitewashing of Romance
Let’s talk about it: is the modern date a colonial export? Imported like jazz music and instant noodles? Because, really, how did our grandfathers do it? They didn’t need a date. They needed a strong back, a hoe, and a keen eye for dowry negotiation. Now we’re out here buying roses that die in 48 hours, basically love-shaped perishables and calling it romance.
4. Introverts Anonymous
I’m not antisocial. I’m pro-solitude. There’s a difference. Why must love always be on display, like it’s a talent show and we’re all auditioning for the role of “Emotionally Available Partner ”? Me, I prefer my affection with a side of silence. Just Netflix algorithms that understand me better than most people.
5. The Psychology of Smashing vs Smiling
Some dates feel more like interrogations with ambience. You’re sitting there, trying to chew tasteless pasta gracefully while wondering if she thinks your smile means “I like you” or “I’m just horny.” You’re sweating from trying to remember if you mentioned you were raised Christian or spiritual but not religious.
6. Date Inflation & Emotional Capitalism
Who decided that love must be shown through receipts? That emotional availability must be measured by how many brunches you’ve paid for? I’ve dated women who thought the absence of fine dining was the absence of love. Hey, the pepper in my githeri is a form of affection. Don’t let capitalism gaslight your heart.
7. Domestic Love, Anyone?
Let’s stay home. I can cook, I can serve, and I can even throw in bad jokes for seasoning. No need for that performative laughter at Java. I want us barefoot in the house, arguing about how much salt I put in the food. That, my friends, is real bonding. And I can pause to pee during the movie without missing the plot or the bill.
8. Public Displays of Affection Fatigue
What’s so romantic about someone interrupting your moment to ask “would you like sparkling or still?” Let me love you in sweatpants. Let’s laugh over burnt ugali. Let’s fall asleep on opposite ends of the couch and meet halfway in a dream. That’s the kind of love that doesn’t make it to Instagram, but lasts.
9. Love Without Logistics
The planning of dates stresses me more than the dating itself. Reservations, rides, fitting into attires from 2021, it’s a full-time job. Why can’t we date like we used to play kalongo in childhood? Spontaneous, anarchic, and mostly in someone’s house with limited adult supervision.
10. Let’s Redefine Romance
So no, I’m not taking cold showers for a warm table. That doesn’t mean I love less. I just love differently. Quietly. Deeply. With less garnish and more substance. If love is a language, I speak it fluently in slippers and home-cooked meals. The balcony is cold, the city is expensive, and my pink suit is for weddings only. Choose your battles wisely. Choose your love even wiser.
@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
Still, I Write
I hate words.
They slip in when I don’t want them to,
curl around me like smoke,
sharp at the edges, soft in the middle,
always taking more than they give.
They crash like waves, loud and relentless,
dig into places I thought were safe,
fill up the quiet until it isn’t quiet anymore.
And when they cut, they cut deep.
But I use them anyway.
I shape them, mold them, send them out into the world,
let them dance across pages, spill from my lips,
like I trust them, like they’ve never left scars.
And yeah, I’m good at it.
Words are how I find my way,
how I turn the mess into meaning,
how I make sense of the silence.
But not all words are gentle.
Some hit like fists, sharp and sudden,
slice through moments that should’ve been soft.
They linger in the air long after they’re spoken,
turning into ghosts that refuse to leave.
So if I ever throw the wrong ones your way,
don’t let them fester.
Call me out. Make me see.
Because I know words can wound,
can twist, can take more than they were meant to.
Still, I write.
Even when my hands shake.
Even when the words don’t feel safe.
Because somewhere beneath it all,
where kindness still breathes,
I know there’s light waiting to be found.
Words can build or break.
They can hold you together or tear you apart.
And maybe, if I get them right,
they’ll be enough to bring me home.
@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
okelododdychitchats 