She is beautiful, yes,
but beauty grows fangs in the dark.
She tells you she’s out with a friend,
yet her truth is curled on another man’s chest,
his heartbeat pounding, the thud of wanting,
a sound you were never allowed to hear.
His fingers roam through her hair,
slow, sure,
mapping a tenderness she once withheld.
She loves it,
the salt of his sweat,
the wild brush of his chest hair,
the animal warmth that keeps her there.
She is not busy, brother.
She is not home.
She is answering a call
you were never invited to,
the quiet work of sheets and bodies
moving without guilt.
Her phone isn’t dead,
your name is.
Blocked.
So silent you can hear your own hope collapsing.
The things she hoarded from you,
laughter, softness, time,
fall easily into his open hands.
She gives him the light she swore she never had.
Rise from the wreckage,
rebuild the kingdom of yourself.
Leave her ghost behind
and grow into your better name.
There is life beyond this wound.
And love, real love,
will meet you where you stand,
yours to keep.
Tag: relationships
Love, Receipted
You call me lazy,
as if rest were rebellion,
as if the absence of a paycheck meant
I’d married idleness and sworn fidelity to failure.
You think I wake each morning to romance poverty,
to sip on the bitter tea of rejection
and call it breakfast.
You think I don’t hunt for work,
darling, I’ve applied so hard the internet knows my name.
I’ve learned new skills until my mind wheezes from exhaustion,
repackaged my dreams in “professional tone,”
and written cover letters that could melt granite.
Still, the silence from employers breathes louder
than any sermon on hard work.
But go on, roll your eyes like coins in a rich man’s pocket.
You love the performance of pity, don’t you?
The way you sigh,
You wear my struggle like a badge
that says “look what I tolerate.”
You hold my empty wallet against my neck
like a priest offering salvation through mockery.
Your friends, the walking bank accounts,
toast to success with imported laughter.
They look at me the way one studies
a museum exhibit labeled Before Success.
And you,
you shrink beside them,
embarrassed to be seen loving someone
who doesn’t come with receipts.
I know I can’t afford dinner dates,
but baby, I can give you poetry,
written with hunger’s ink,
where every word costs a piece of my pride.
You want steak, I offer metaphors,
you want champagne, I bring conversation.
But apparently, love without a tip is just noise.
You say I make excuses,
as if failure were a choice I make before breakfast.
Man, I’ve tried,
tried until my hope broke its spine
from bending too long under your expectations.
But effort doesn’t trend, does it?
It’s not sexy on Instagram.
You used to look at me like promise,
now you look at me like pity dressed for dinner.
Your eyes audit my worth
like a cashier scanning expired dreams.
You don’t even say it out loud,
but your silence spells liability.
Love, it seems, needs a payslip now.
So go ahead, call me disgusting,
a broke ass night certified by circumstance.
Laugh with your friends,
they’ve earned their arrogance.
I’ll be here, broke but breathing,
scribbling poems on the back of rejection letters,
because even in poverty, darling,
I write better than they ever will live.
@doddyokelo
Stay With Me
I have never known a pain this sharp,
a hurt that stays in every breath,
as if sorrow has built a home inside my chest.
I sit here drowning in my own silence,
tears spilling like tides I cannot command,
wondering how I strayed,
wondering if I’ve lost the best part of me,
you.
I keep replaying my mistakes,
each one cutting deeper than the last,
and I fear that in their shadow,
your love for me might dim.
The thought alone unmakes me.
It is a heaviness I cannot outrun,
a shame that knots itself into my bones.
If only regret could mend,
if only apologies could erase,
I would gather up every fragment of your hurt
and carry it away until you felt light again.
But healing, I know, is not so quick.
It asks for patience. It asks for trust.
“I’m sorry” feels too small,
too fragile for the weight of what I mean.
Yet it is the truth on my tongue,
and I speak it with trembling hope.
Because we have weathered storms before,
you and I,
and somehow we’ve always come through
stronger, side by side.
Still, I know you deserve better
than the hurt I’ve caused.
I hate myself for placing this burden on you.
But if your heart can find space
for one more chance,
I promise I will spend every day
proving love right again,
proving us right again.
@okelododdychitchats
IF YOU LOVE ME, HOLD ME
Hold me,
not just my hand,
but all of me.
Wrap your arms around my body
like you know what it’s been through.
Like you’ve heard the storms it carries
and still want to dance in the rain with me.
Take my hand,
don’t ask where we’re going.
Let’s run,
not to escape,
but to feel free
for the first time in a long time.
Hold my heart,
gently,
like it’s the last soft thing in a hard world.
Place it close to yours,
let them beat together
in a rhythm only we understand.
Touch my waist like it’s sacred.
Pull me into your chest
like you’re pulling me into forever.
And when you kiss me,
don’t make it rushed.
Kiss me like you’re trying to teach time
how to slow down.
If one tear falls—just one,
don’t panic.
Wipe it.
Don’t ask if I’m okay,
just look at me like you see everything
and say,
“It’s going to be alright.”
And mean it.
When I say I’m cold,
don’t go looking for a sweater.
Be the warmth.
Be the safe place I curl into
when the night gets too loud.
And when I say “I love you,”
don’t whisper it back.
Say it like a vow.
Say it like your soul recognizes mine.
Say it like you’re not going anywhere.
Because real love
isn’t made of grand gestures.
It’s in how you stay,
how you see me,
how you reach for me in silence.
So if you love me,
hold me,
not just in your arms,
but in your everyday.
@Okelododdychitchats
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
Everything Here Smells of You
Everything here smells of you.
And it’s driving me insane in the sweetest, slowest way.
The caution seat still wears your scent ,
like it misses you too,
like it knows something passed through it that doesn’t come around often.
The fleece blanket is basically you in thread and warmth.
I cover myself with it and swear I can hear your laugh if I’m quiet enough.
Even my chest,
my own damn skin,
smells like you stayed.
Like you pressed yourself into me and said, “Don’t forget.”
And I won’t.
Not with lips like yours, warm, like you know the secret to sunrise.
I imagine a kiss and it doesn’t even feel imaginary,
it feels like a memory I’m about to make again.
I love the way your waist fits in my hands,
like my fingers were carved with your shape in mind.
There’s something wild about that kind of symmetry.
You’re beautiful.
You’re art that didn’t ask to be admired,
but was anyway,
because how could the world not notice you?
@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
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
okelododdychitchats 