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

SILENCE IS THE DEATH OF US

Dear Corporate,

I know you like your linen white.
White as milk.
With no stains, no creases,
And no voices too loud or opinions too strong.
You want clean reputations,
Clean photos, clean silence.

You like me better
When I just show up, smile, hit targets,
Say “yes sir” to everything and go home.
You like me better
When I keep the fire in my belly out of your boardroom.
When I don’t question, when I don’t care too much.

But here’s what you forget,

I was me before I became your employee.
I had a voice before I had your email signature.
I had convictions before I had a clock-in code.
And I’m not about to trade all that in
For job security and polite applause.

I love justice.
The same way you love KPIs.
I care about this country,
The same way you care about brand image.

So when you see me at a protest,
Don’t flinch.
I’m not unstable.
I’m not rebellious.
I’m just awake.

When I call out corruption,
I’m not ruining your name,
I’m protecting it.
Because if systems rot,
Your success does too.

When I tweet in anger,
It’s not because I’m angry all the time.
It’s because I still believe that things can change.
That voices matter. That silence is too heavy to carry anymore.

I’m not asking for much.

Just this,
Don’t punish me for caring.
Don’t blacklist me for believing.
Don’t put me in a corner
Because I refuse to play blind.

I want to work.
I want to grow.
But I also want to live in a country where truth doesn’t cost you your job.

Let me speak.
Let me stand.
Let me protest, cry out, and still walk into your office on Monday morning with purpose.
Because fighting for what’s right
And showing up for work
Aren’t enemies.
They’re both signs I give a DAMN.

So no,
I’m not mad.
I’m not disloyal.
I’m just patriotic.
And I won’t whisper that.

Sincerely,
Still the right person for the job. Just louder.

@okelododdychitchats

Silenceisthedeathofus #Speak #PoeticJustice #Justice #Justice4AlbertOjwang #SpeakUp #Corruption #EndCorruption

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

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

Tomorrow is Friday Guys!

People used to smell like One Million and 212, those who had stretched their pockets just enough to afford a whiff of something slightly premium. Not premium-premium, just one million with a funny logo and a scent of 212, sometimes rebranded as 242. But at least they tried. At least they smelled nice. That was the point.

Now everyone smells of Yara. Including the lady seated next to me in a maroon cardigan, white top, and black pants and sneakers—coincidentally, just like me. Someone might think we are together, or worse, on some synchronized promo for maroon, black, and white outfits. But no. We are not together. I just know she has done her hair well, and she smells of Yara. I am actually even too shy to look at her face again but I know she’s wearing pink nails. I mean I can see her nails…

I don’t know which Yara she’s wearing, but I’ll assume it’s the good one because she looks expensive. Expensive like an iPhone 15.

And yes, she has an iPhone 15. A whole Pro Max. And you know, owning an iPhone is already rich (So we think). A whole 15 Pro Max? That’s generational wealth. That’s “my uncle works at UN” money. That’s “I don’t ask for prices before ordering” kind of money.

Now, unless the SI unit for expensive and richness changed overnight (It used to be or still is an Iphone), I am confused. I mean, is she rich-rich, or is this the “niongeze ten bob ya Kutoa “ type of babe? You know, the one where someone casually flexes their iPhone but deep down, their Fuliza is gasping for air, their M-Shwari is in ICU, and their branch loan officer knows them by name? Because here she is, sitting in a Kasarani-bound bus, scrolling like she’s never been in a financial group chat discussing “nani alishikwa na Tala?”

She keeps smiling, and I keep wondering, has she ever walked through the sardine-packed chaos of Mfangano Street? Has she ever set foot in that mall-that-is-not-really-a-mall called Cianda and tried to pronounce it? But then I dismiss the thought. We are all in the same loud bus to Kasarani. I convince myself she lives in Sunton. And I’m not saying Sunton isn’t classy. I’m just saying it’s affordable class. But forget that ! – Just know, she’s pleasing to look at. The kind of person you’d instinctively place in Kilimani, yet here we are, and Sunton is the reality. At least she smells nice.

I have just left three government offices, and for the first time in my twenty-guess what years of living, I have not been served with attitude. I’m beginning to think the only ones who throw attitude are the Sub-County office folks because these ministry guys? They have mastered the art of hospitality. If only their bosses were the ones delivering services to us daily, ningefurahia!

But for now, I am just a happy man. Happy to sit next to someone who smells nice. Happy that, for once, I have not inhaled the unfortunate concoction of refilled Invictus mixed with a random scent that dares to bear Beyoncé’s name. Happy that three government offices served me without the signature “rudi after two weeks” response. Happy that I have finally cleared a backlog of work.

I haven’t slept since Saturday. Today is Thursday.

Tomorrow is Friday, guys.

@doddyokelo

@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

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

How Busy Can Someone Be?

The clock swallows minutes whole,
Gulping down greetings, gnawing on goodbyes.
Excuses stack like bricks against a door,
While silence hums between us,
thick as stone,
thin as breath.

A phone vibrates, a message waits,
Unanswered.
I see you read it.
A thousand reasons grow in that space,
But not one blooms into a simple,
“I’m thinking of you.”

How important must a life be
To lose the weight of one small word?
How far must a soul stroll
To forget the way home is paved
with pause,
and presence,
and tender replies?

What do we build with our busyness?
A monument of meetings,
A kingdom of calendars.
We count every second,
but never the heartbeats missed
between deadlines.

We are architects of absence.
Masters of the unsaid.
Too proud, perhaps,
to admit that we let love sit idle
while we sharpened schedules into swords
and called it survival.

Wahenga na wahenguzi said,
Akufukuzaye hakuambii toka.
The one chasing you never says leave.

What are you still waiting for?
What more do you need to realize you’re not wanted?
Respect yourself!…

Somewhere, there is a hand
reaching for yours,
A voice waiting at the edge
of a message unsent.
Kindness grows fragile
when left in the dark,
but it never dies.

So, how busy can someone be?
Busy enough to forget,
but not enough
to stop remembering.

@okelododdychitchats