There are days that the heart knows will come, yet it trembles to meet them. Today is that day, the day I feared but always knew would arrive. The day the name Raila Amollo Odinga would no longer echo in the present tense. The day the news would roll across every screen, through every radio wave, and down every Kenyan street: Baba is no more.
It feels unreal, almost like a cruel rumor. But this time, it is not rumor. It is the dirge I never wanted to sing.
For decades, Raila Odinga was more than a politician. He was a force, a storm that refused to calm, a fire that refused to die. To some, he was “Agwambo,” the unpredictable one, a man who lived between legend and mortal. To others, he was “Baba,” the father of Kenya’s second liberation, the voice that roared against tyranny, injustice, and impunity. Whether you loved him or not, you could not ignore him. His name was a song, sometimes sung in praise, sometimes in protest, but always sung.
From the days of his father, Jaramogi Oginga Odinga, Raila inherited not just a name but a burden, the heavy mantle of resistance. He was detained without trial, exiled, betrayed, and yet he rose again, over and over. Like the mythical phoenix, he seemed to gather strength from ashes. The prisons of Kamiti did not silence him. The bullets of maandamano could not break him. Even the many betrayals in the political corridors did not destroy his will.
His life was an endless struggle for a dream he called “Kenya’s true freedom.” The dream of a nation where justice was not a privilege, but a right. Where leadership was not a seat of privilege, but of service. Where ethnicity did not divide, but diversity enriched. For more than four decades, he stood as the face of that dream, paying the price in blood, tears, and solitude.
Now, that voice is silent.
It is hard to speak of him in the past tense. His charisma, his booming laughter, his bold stride, they were the heartbeat of political rallies. His “Hayaaa! Hayaaa! Hayaaa!” was not just a greeting; it was a spark that ignited crowds into song and dance. Raila understood the language of the people, the rhythm of their hopes, their frustrations, their laughter, their pain. He was both leader and legend, a man whose imperfections were as real as his greatness.
To the Luo community, he was not merely a political icon. He was a son of the soil, the descendant of Jaramogi, the living embodiment of Ramogi heritage. His voice carried the cadence of the lake winds, the poetry of the Luo tongue, the pride of generations that refused to bow to oppression. His name, “Amollo,” will forever echo in the chants of “Jowi! Jowi! Jowi!”; the sacred cry of respect reserved for heroes.
Yet, Raila’s legacy goes beyond the Luo borders. He was a continental figure a Pan-Africanist whose politics inspired both admiration and controversy. From his days pushing for multi-party democracy to his later role as African Union envoy for infrastructure, Raila symbolized endurance. He taught Kenyans the art of losing gracefully yet never giving up, that defeat was not failure, but preparation. He showed that the struggle for justice was not a sprint but a relay, each generation carrying the baton further.
Even those who opposed him, who called him names and wished him away, cannot deny the magnitude of his imprint. His life shaped Kenya’s political conscience. He turned ordinary citizens into believers, dreamers, and activists. His rallies were not just political events; they were rituals of awakening. Through him, a generation learned that democracy is messy, but worth fighting for.
Now that he is gone, Kenya stands still, suspended in collective disbelief. The nation mourns, divided yet united in grief. For even those who never voted for him feel the absence of his thunderous presence. His story, the story of defiance, resilience, and sacrifice, is Kenya’s story.
At Kango ka Jaramogi, by the sacred hills of Got Ramogi, the homecoming of the son of the soil will not be quiet. The drums will beat, the horns will sound, and the lake winds will hum softly. But beneath all that, there will be an ache, a silence so deep it can only be filled by the chorus of “Jowi! Jowi! Jowi!”
Sleep now, Baba. The struggle is over. Your walk, your dance, your laughter, your voice, all rest. But your spirit lives on in every Kenyan who still believes in justice, equity, and unity. You may have fallen, but your dream will not.
And so, though I knew this day would come, I was never ready. I still am not. Yet I must sing this dirge, not in despair, but in gratitude, for a life that burned so brightly, so bravely, and so selflessly for the sake of a nation.
Rest at the foot of Got Ramogi, son of Jaramogi. Let the waters of Nam Lolwe whisper you home.
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