Tag: self-care

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

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

I Remember

I Remember This 

I remember that day like it was yesterday,
When time just… stopped. 
Everything felt heavy, like carrying sacks of maize on my back,
And your words, they hit me,  
Soft but sharp, cutting through the quiet. 
It was the 31st. 
That date? It stayed with me,
Stuck in my chest like a thorn. 
It made me thirsty, not for water,
But for answers, for understanding,
For some kind of meaning that never came. 

We walked, remember? 
Under those jacaranda trees,
Purple petals falling like tiny blessings
Or maybe tears we couldn’t cry. 
The wind? It whispered secrets,   
Or maybe I imagined that too. 
Everything about that moment was a blur,
But your voice? 
Your voice was clear,
Soft, steady,
Like a song from long ago. 

You told me about her,
And I felt it. 
Every. Single. Word. 
Like the weight of rain-soaked clothes
Clinging to my skin. 
I whispered a prayer that day,
Not because I knew what to say,
But because silence felt heavier than speaking. 
“God, please… please guide her home. 
Hold her close. Let her rest.” 

Ooh, Yesu Kristo! 
My heart,
It broke wide open,
And your name slipped from my lips
Along with tears I didn’t even realize were falling. 
Grief, they say, is the price of love,
And we,
We paid in full that day. 
Every tear,
Every ache,
Every silent scream. 

Loss sits in your chest,
Heavy like a stone you can’t put down. 
But even stones wear smooth over time. 
Grace,
That’s what you taught me,
Grace shapes us, 
Even when we’re broken. 

May her soul find peace,
That kind of deep, deep peace 
That feels like warm sun on tired shoulders, 
Like a calm lake at dusk. 
And I’ll carry her, 
Her memory, 
Her laughter, 
Her love,
Because love doesn’t die. 
It just… changes. 
It becomes wind, 
And light, 
And breath. 

Osiepa, 
You’re still here,  In the stories we tell,  In the way we laugh even when it hurts,  In the quiet moments  When memories sit with us
Like a fire we gather around for warmth.

I remember. 
And I always will. 

@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

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

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