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: romance
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
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
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
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
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
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
okelododdychitchats 