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

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

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

People Still Wear Safari Boots

I’m in a Latema Travels bus, heading to the village, not Kikuyu or Dumboini. It’s a new bus, charging Ksh. 1,600. At least I’m not paying Ksh. 2,500 to board those cramped 10-seater minivans driven with reckless abandon! There are hardly any vehicles heading to Nyanza or Western, they’re either full or charging outrageously high fares. This Latema bus, playing bongo is a hot cake!

The bus is almost full, and the fare collector, a broker called Ongeri, is everywhere, moving up and down the aisle. He’s wearing an old orange Transline reflector jacket, paired with faded navy-blue trousers and a collared t-shirt with frayed edges. His safari boots have seen better days. Ongeri, though loud, isn’t annoying, his humor keeps things light.

In less than an hour, the bus fills up, but not without drama. We’re parked at Oilibya along Moi Avenue, just past Afya Center and opposite Picasso Restaurant. The commotion is between touts and Kanjo (County Council officers, the Zakayos of our time). Like the police, they extort money from struggling citizens. There’s an argument about unpaid dues, but before I can figure out the details, we finally leave the bus stop.

As we head toward KPCU (I don’t know what that stands for, but it’s Ena Coach’s home ground), Ongeri and the official bus tout are at odds. Ongeri notices an empty seat and insists the tout go back to fetch another passenger. Oddly enough, the tout complies, leaving us waiting at the Total petrol station near Pastor Nga’nga’s Neno Evangelism Center. The driver and Ongeri engage in a loud, heated math session, calculating their profits while the rest of us grumble about the delay-it’s already 2 PM, and a seven-hour journey awaits.

Eventually, the tout returns with a lady passenger, and we’re finally on our way. Ongeri heads back to Oilibya or whatever.

Now, we’re past Suswa, somewhere between wheat plantations. The bus is playing Arbantone, Sean MMG, Lil Maina, Danski, and YBW Smith’s “Now You Know.” My mood would be better if the legroom weren’t so tight- my long legs are cramping in this confined space.

Next to me is my cousin Jack. On the other side, there’s a UON student, he’s taking biochemistry. I didn’t catch his name, but he mentioned he’s from Sori, Karungu. He’s with his cousin, Eddy Moses, a structural engineer who went to Ringa High School and TUK. Eddy is one of those guys who make sure you know they’re engineers. Cocky but still decent company.

The vaibu in this bus is something else. There’s a guy called Kasongo (yes, that’s his actual ID name). He’s from Nyamarambe, near Riosiri Market, the border between Rongo and Kisii Highlands. Kasongo is Gen X, infact he studied during the colonial period, but he’s cool enough to keep up with the younger crowd. He’s referring to us as Gen Si. He has an accent and his “Z” falls in the place of “S.”

At 4:22 p.m., we stop for food. Kasongo and the Sori cousins go straight to the egg vendor, get kugongewa mbili, and then melt away into a liquor store. When we get back on the bus, it’s proper mavaibu, it’s now a full-on party. People are talking, laughing, and doing whatever. Vybz Kartel’s “Don’t Follow Me Like Jesus,” is playing, and I think, did he curse himself with that line? He still has fans, yes, but not as many people are following him like Jesus.

The party energy carries us all the way to Kisii. By the time we get there, the rain has started, and the bus quietens down. The journey is over, and everyone’s mood sobers.

We walk through the drizzle and I think back on the trip, It was a crazy one, in the best way. Kasongo, Eddy, and his cousin made the ride memorable, like free entertainment you didn’t ask for but enjoyed anyway. Then I spot Pastor Ezekiel’s billboard and think to myself, How much does this guy spend on these things? PLO Lumumba was right, Jesus is a money making Industry.

And Ongeri’s safari boots? Kwani people still wear safari boots these days?

@okelododdychitchats

Behind Closed Doors, Break Free

Violence doesn’t always leave bruises you can see.
It hides in words that cut, in silence that smothers,
A shadow waiting, patient, behind closed doors,
Quietly chipping away at who you are,
Until you feel small, afraid, unseen.
But knowing the signs, that’s where it begins.

Do they tear you down with a smile on their face,
Chip away at your confidence with every word?
Do their actions make you shrink in fear,
Walking on eggshells, afraid to breathe?
Their cruelty doesn’t need fists to leave scars,
It traps you behind those same closed doors.

You try to convince yourself it’s not so bad,
Smile, laugh, say “I’m fine,” to anyone who asks.
But when the silence settles and no one’s there,
The words come back, loud and sharp,
Reminding you of their power,
Reminding you of your place-small, broken, alone.

And then you start to question yourself.
Maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re the problem.
But you’re not.
It’s their control, their manipulation,
Their need to keep you afraid,
Hidden, quiet, behind those closed doors.

But you can break free.
You can speak. You can stand.
Your voice is stronger than their silence.
Your courage is bigger than their control.
One step, then another, through the open door,
Toward freedom, toward yourself.

It’s time to name their words for what they are.
Time to break the silence,
To reclaim the you they tried to erase.
Because the scars they leave may not be visible,
But you are still here,
And you are still whole.

@okelododdychitchats