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

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

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

Satan in Police Uniform

They move in the shadows, wrapped in authority,
their uniforms a disguise for something darker.
A badge and a gun, symbols of trust twisted into weapons.
On paper, they protect and serve; in reality, they haunt and harm.

Power courses through their veins,
but it’s not the kind that uplifts or safeguards.
It’s a corrosive kind, the kind that feeds on fear,
the kind that turns innocence into prey.

On the streets, they’re hunters,
eyes scanning for someone to corner, to crush.
False evidence is their craft, lies their currency.
They prey on the vulnerable, pushing them into shadows.

The weak, the forgotten, the ones who can’t fight back,
they bear the brunt of this corrupted force.
Bribes line their pockets, alliances with criminals keep them untouchable.
Justice isn’t blind here, it’s gagged and bound.

Protests ignite, voices rise, demanding change.
But the response? Tear gas. Batons. Intimidation.
They smother dissent, silence the brave.
Their version of order is built on control, not fairness.

Yet, amidst the suffocating darkness,
there’s a pulse, a defiance, a refusal to submit.
The people are waking up, shedding their fear,
realizing the strength in their numbers, their voices.

For every tear shed, every injustice endured,
a reckoning grows closer.
Their power is borrowed, fleeting.
The truth is louder. Justice is inevitable.

And to those cloaked in uniforms, wielding corruption,
your time is running out.

@okelododdychitchats