To You, Tonight

You say you don’t read much.
But somehow, you always read me.
And maybe, without knowing,
You taught me how to bleed through the pen,
To shape silence into syllables,
To hold space for feeling,
Even when the world is loud.

So tonight,
As night settles in a robe of velvet quiet,
I write not to ask, nor to explain,
But to bless you, softly.

When the night folds her arms around the sky,
And the stars murmur lullabies in silver tongues,
May your burdens loosen,
May your spirit stretch.

For even the moon, full in her glow,
Knows the ache of holding light too long.

Rest, love.
Lay down the weight of unspoken things.
Let dreams drift in like gentle winds
Through the windows of your mind.

Don’t dwell,
Not on what didn’t grow,
Not on what wasn’t said.

Just sleep.
And let this be the lull in the poem of your life,
The stanza where you exhale.

Goodnight, beloved.
Goodnight.

@okelododdychitchats

Have You Met Anyone from Togo ?

Steve is the kind of person who makes the world feel both vast and familiar.

He’s met people from Togo, Benin, and Chad. He knows their faces, their stories, even the unique cadence of the Togolese accent. Honestly, who really knows how people from Togo look or sound? I can barely get to know my own neighbours. But Steve listens, connects, remembers names, and builds bridges. His work has taken him across borders, and with every journey, he collects memories and adds a new layer to who he is.

By the way, he collects fridge magnets from the most interesting places he’s visited. You may just want to see his fridge, it tells a story of its own.

Recently, he was in Los Angeles for rugby with the Kenya National Team. He loves rugby. Football too, but I think he quietly dropped European football. He’s an Arsenal fan, one of those who’ve never seen Arsenal lift a trophy. Still, loyalty runs deep. That’s Steve.

He travels and is fully committed. He doesn’t just report on sports, he understands them. He’s a sharp, thoughtful sports journalist, and his creativity shows in everything he touches.

He’s won three awards. They’re neatly arranged on his cotton-white TV stand, with hints of age or intentional colour, maybe yellow, maybe orange. I don’t know much about colours, but I know that setup speaks of someone who takes pride in his space. Some may say it’s décor.

Steve is the best at what he does, at least to me. Everyone who knows me probably knows about him. I talk about him a lot. I admire him. He’s mentored me in ways he may not even realize. We were in the same class once. Now, I just learn by watching how he works.

He lives along Thika Road, in a nice place. Fourth floor, door thirty-something. From his balcony, you can see Nyeri on a clear day. From another angle, well… you might catch a glimpse of what’s happening in the next apartment, life happening, unfiltered.

Yesterday, Steve called. I answered, of course. He told me about an event SportPesa hosted with Nairobi Street Kitchen, Little Africa, and other great partners. You already know I’m a Littler, once a Littler, always a Littler. Charley Andrews will back me up on that.

I attended the event with my brothers, Ian and Allan. They’re twins, identical in looks, but different in hairstyle and relationship status. It had been a while since the four of us hung out, and that day brought back something we’d been missing.

I also met the SportPesa team. Great energy. I didn’t get everyone’s names, but I remember Felo, we’ve met a few times. There was CJ, and a lady called Chep. They were all warm, welcoming, and clearly part of something special. They’ve been good to my brother, and that makes them feel like family.

So here’s to Steve.
To old friends doing big things.
To chasing dreams and making them real.

Bache, we keep dreaming the impossible, bro.
Thanks for reminding us that it can be done.

@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

Hash Grill

Jojo loves Christmas the way Nairobi loves traffic, deeply, obsessively, and without an ounce of shame. While most people are nursing hangovers on Boxing Day, Jojo’s already counting down, “Only 363 and a quarter days to CHRISTMAS.”

Her real name is Joyce Muturi, but don’t call her that. To Jojo, “Joyce” belongs to women who wear stockings with open shoes and say things like, “Young people these days.” Jojo stands just over four feet something, she’s a Gen Z soul with the wisdom of someone much older. And yes, she wears a size three shoe.

She’s the last born, and you can tell. That effortless, carefree energy of someone who never had to serve tea to guests or fight over the remote. People call her Jojo or sometimes Joy, depending on how close they are. Mostly, though, she’s known as sunshine draped in sarcasm.

It’s Jojo’s birthday. We’re meeting at Hash Grill, a little hideaway stitched into the soft hemline between Pangani and Muthaiga. If you blink too fast, you might miss it. If you smell meat, you’re probably there.

It’s just past 4PM, and I’m riding in an Uber Baridi. The sky is cloudy but hasn’t opened up yet, like it’s holding back to keep things calm.

We’re slowly passing KCA University when I spot Jojo and Spiky waiting by the roadside. I call them, and they tell me their cab is running late, but it’s no big deal. They’re just happy to be together.

Spiky isn’t her real name. It’s the name the world gave her and she wears it well. Her government name is Winfred Wangui Mwangi. But please, don’t call her Winfred. Just don’t. And definitely steer clear of Mwangi, that’s her dad’s name. And her younger brother’s too.

Kikuyu naming traditions are a beautiful constellation of meaning and memory, stitched with ancestry and whispers from generations past.

As a Luo, things are simpler. My children will carry Okelo with pride, stamped bold as their surname. Their first names will be chosen by nature or circumstance. Born at night? She’ll be Atieno. Born in the evening? He’ll be Odhiambo. We name like we’re telling stories of time, of place and of arrival.

Spiky is in a blue denim dress that hugs her like good karma. Her makeup is a masterpiece. Her perfume is Something Arabic and complicated, Mist-ika-tul-Mystique or something like that. She smells like a desert breeze married to soft rebellion. She’s in a pink cap, stolen from my wardrobe with no intention of return. On her feet is a pair of adidas samba. She looks amazing !

Jojo is in brown khaki pants, a dark green sweatshirt, and her well-worn pair of Converse, her outfit speaks in quiet confidence, like a soft song only the soul can hear. Effortlessly her. Spiky is holding up her phone, laughter bubbling between them as they record a video. Jojo ducks her head, smiling that quiet smile she wears when the lens turns her way, shy, but glowing all the same.

We find our way through the laughter and clinking cutlery like ink curling across parchment, slow and sure, until we land at a corner table with a view of the world, well, at least a sliver of it. Down below, there’s a bare apartment, save for a single Turkish rug stretched across the floor like it was laid there with purpose. A woman stands quietly at the door, wrapped in a flowing hijab. I can tell she’s Muslim, not just from the hijab, but from the calm, grounded stillness she carries. I’ve always found Muslim homes to be beautifully minimal—like the space itself is pausing to listen.

Earlier, a waitress called Faith had welcomed me. I saw her name on the badge. I’d asked for a dawa (Hot water infused with lemon and ginger, sweetened with a touch of honey) because my throat was acting up. She was warm, the way you wish all waiters were. Now another one, Lucy, comes by to take our order but she seems impatient. We ask for five minutes, and she walks off looking half-convinced. I see her whisper to another waitress, Josephine, who comes over with a much softer approach. She takes her time with us. Helps us through the menu.

We settle on a platter for four because we’re hungry and also because meat. We also order hot drinks. When the food comes, it doesn’t just come. It arrives with flair. One guy has a camera, two others carry the tray like it’s the crown jewels, and Josephine follows with cutlery and serviettes.

I swear my appetite tripled in that moment.

The food is an edible sermon. It reminds me that life, even on its worst days, can be made bearable with well-grilled nyama choma.

But not everything is delicious. There’s a table in front of us with nine girls. Nine. All from the same office, you can tell. They keep side-eyeing me like I’m their tea break agenda. I try not to notice but I do. They whisper, they giggle, they chew me with their glances. I feel like a paragraph in a WhatsApp group I didn’t consent to.

Still, we eat. We laugh. We exist loudly. Hash Grill is an experience. The waiters here don’t have M-Pesa lady attitude. They don’t look like you owe them child support. The rooftop is chilled. The air has attitude. The ambiance sings, “You deserve this.”

As we leave, I tell myself, I will come back. With friends. Or alone. Or maybe with Pie (Pie is Spiky), my sweetheart. But I will return. Because some places are not about the food, or the music, or even the people.

Some places are about how they make you feel seen.

@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

The Sound of Love (In Three Words)

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

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

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

She Still Wears Dirty Shoes

She was beautiful.
Not the loud kind of beautiful,
not the kind that demands attention,
but the kind that catches you off guard,
soft, steady,
like the warmth of the sun on your skin when you didn’t realize you were cold.

I admired everything about her.
The way she walked,
like she wasn’t just passing through the world,
the world was lucky she chose to walk on it.
The way she spoke,
words rolling off her tongue like they’d been waiting for her to find them,
gentle but firm,
like truth dressed in silk.

Her skin-flawless.
Not flawless like makeup ads promise,
but flawless like rivers cutting through stone,
like history written softly across her face.
Her body?
Not perfect by anyone’s rules but her own,
a shape that felt like poetry,
not the kind you study,
the kind you feel.

Her style was effortless.
Not curated,
just honest.
Clothes didn’t wear her;
she wore them,
with a grace that made simplicity look like art.

But her shoes were always dirty.

It didn’t matter if they were brand new,
straight from the box,
or worn down from years of walking,
somehow,
they were always stained with something.
Dust, mud,
Just something

And I hated that.
Not because it mattered, really,
but because I thought it should.
Maybe it was the part of me that needed order,
needed neatness,
the part that saw beauty in straight lines
and clean edges.

Her shoes didn’t fit that picture.
They kicked at the corners of my mind,
scuffed up the idea of what “perfect” should look like.

So I let her go.
Not because she wasn’t enough,
but because her shoes weren’t clean.
It sounds ridiculous now,
but at the time,
it felt like reason.

Five years passed.
Life happened,
the kind of life that leaves its own dirt behind.
Mistakes, lessons,
love gained, love lost,
all of it piling up like dust in places you forget to clean.

Then I saw her again.
Last week.
Standing there,
the same light in her eyes,
like the years hadn’t dimmed a thing.

She smiled,
the kind of smile that could stretch across oceans,
the kind that makes you feel like you’ve been missed,
even if you haven’t.

She still looked good.
Better, actually.
Like life had layered her with more stories,
more depth,
and none of it weighed her down.

Her teeth were bright,
her scent was warm,
her presence still undeniable.

And her shoes?
Still dirty.

But this time,
I didn’t care.

Because now I know,
life isn’t about spotless shoes.
It’s not about keeping clean what’s meant to get messy.
It’s about walking,
about moving,
about showing up,
even if the road leaves its mark on you.

Her shoes weren’t a flaw.
They were proof.
Proof that she’d lived,
that she’d walked through things and kept going,
that beauty isn’t about what stays clean,
it’s about what survives the dirt.

She still wears dirty shoes.
And now,
I think that’s the most beautiful thing about her.

@okelododdychitchats