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
Tag: stress
Why Would Another Man Reach for Another Man’s Crotch?
Saturday morning wears a coat of reluctant sun and wind-whipped dust. The cold has teeth. It doesn’t bite; it nibbles slowly, like a rat on wood, until it finds your bones. Dust hangs restless in the air, stirred by invisible hands, rising in small whirlwinds, then falling, settling on windowsills, eyelashes, and forgotten dreams.
My tap is dry. Hopeless Nairobi dry. It yawns and spits a dry cough as if mocking you. There’s a little water left in the blue bucket outside, barely enough for a quick shower. It won’t be the glorious Saturday morning cold shower I like, the one that sends tiny soldiers running on my skin, but water is water. I strip, splash, shiver, and step out.
I have thirty minutes to leave. Thirty minutes to catch up with Pie, Spiky, as I call her. My Pie. We’re catching up after a long time. 3 months, I guess.
I pull on black pants, last season’s Manchester United home jersey, Puma slides, sling my bag, and head to town.
It’s been three months since I walked these streets. Nairobi always changes when you’re gone. Shops sprout, pavements glow with new cabros, and faces you don’t know walk like they own the city. The streets are sardine-packed, humanity rubbing against humanity, yet in all that chaos, the pavements look…beautiful. Like they are trying too hard for a city that never slows down.
Spiky is on the other side of town, at Iconic Plaza, ground floor. She’s picking out perfume. She chooses something that smells like her alone, misty, woody, quiet but unforgettable. I smell it from those tiny folded scent papers, the ones that look like blue litmus strips, and I know this is a good one.
I’m here inquiring about a phone cover, but I can’t get one because my phone isn’t in the Kenyan market. To appreciate the attendant’s effort, Spiky decides to get a screen protector for her phone.
Next stop is EastWest Fashion for a jersey. EastWest is full. Weekend full. Bodies like migrating wildebeest. We do not find the specific jersey we are looking for, so we move on to downtown, Bus Station. We’re waiting for a vendor at Quickmart Mfangano, Spiky found them on TikTok. They sell good pants. She tries on five pairs and looks super good in all of them. I tell her so, because I am a man of honesty and survival instincts.
We then move to RNG Plaza for phone accessories. RNG is chaos. Shops full of indifferent attendants scrolling on their phones like they’re paid to ignore customers. We move from one shop to another, frustration swelling like a balloon. Just as we’re about to leave, we find one shop, a small, humble spot, where the attendant smiles like they’ve been waiting for us all their life. They listen, understand, do not rush. There is a patience to them, like still water under a hot sun. We get everything we need. We leave lighter, happier.
By now, it’s almost five. We’re hungry, and there is no time to sit and eat. Hotdogs and sodas from Naivas will do. And that’s when the world shifts.
We’re crossing the road when I feel it, a hand. Moving towards my thigh, no, my… flight deck. For a second, my brain refuses to register. Then it does. A touch. A graze. A violation. I turn sharply. An old man wearing a red beanie, black jacket, and ugly khaki pants that hang on him like shame.
My first instinct is to slap him. Call the mob. Let Nairobi justice, swift and merciless, have him. But I freeze. My feet are rooted, and my heart is pounding. He walks past, unbothered, as if reaching for another man’s crotch is a daily errand.
Spiky saves me. She grips my hand, pulls me forward. “Leave it,” she says. Her voice is firm, like a rope pulling me out of quicksand. Thank you, Jaber.
Inside, I’m binding everything by the blood of Jesus. Out loud too. Because, honestly, what else do you do when a strange man molests you on Ronald Ngala Street at 4:57 PM? I bind demons. I bind principalities. I bind ancestral spirits of confusion. Why? Because why would a man reach for another man’s crotch?
As we walk away, my mind churns. Was he trying to pickpocket me? Was he… that way inclined? Or was this some evil spirit manifestation? I’m angry, humiliated, confused. More than eighteen hours later, I’m still here, writing this, still asking the same question:
Why?
Why would another man reach for another man’s crotch?
@okelododdychitchats
okelododdychitchats 