Where now are the dreamers of freedom? where are the voices that defied empires, that rose from the dungeons of detention to thunder in the open fields of hope? Where is Raila, son of Jaramogi, the steadfast rider in Kenya’s long twilight?
The fire that once danced in the hearts of the weary now flickers like an evening lamp before the storm. The song of justice has grown faint, its echo lost among the hills of deceit. For in Kochi, Kerala, in India, on the fifteenth day of October, he rode away beyond the mists and the mortal shore, and the land fell silent.
Once, his words marched like legions through the valleys, each syllable a flame, each breath a battle cry. He walked through betrayals unnumbered and still lifted his staff towards the dawn. The people gathered, barefoot and believing, around the echo of his name, Baba.
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He spoke not of thrones, but of roads where every child could walk with dignity. He dreamed of a Kenya that could look itself in the mirror and not turn away. The greedy sowed thorns along his path, the cowardly sold their souls for silver and safety, but he kept walking, steady, certain, forgiving.
He lived for Kenya, and with us, for eighty years. He endured detention to widen our democratic space. He breathed teargas in the fight for justice and fairness. He bore the cruelty of batons and the loneliness of prison walls. For more than forty years he stood, activist, statesman, teacher of endurance. The State Funeral is but a fitting honour for a man whose name will outlive marble and monument.
He was quick to forgive, for he loved the country more than self. He kept our nation peaceful, and has left behind a peaceful land. He never compromised the sanctity of the state, for he understood the art of political bargaining and knew where and when to stop.
From him we learn that in politics one must hold no grudges. He was always ready to negotiate with anyone for the sake of the nation’s greater peace. From Moi to Kibaki, from Uhuru to Ruto, he walked beside them all, a constant co leader through Kenya’s changing seasons.
Now his chair stands empty. The road from Bondo to Nairobi carries no song. The wind that once bore his laughter now hums softly like a wind in the meadow. Oh Kenya, mother of restless sons, your bravest has returned to the dust.
Today he rests at Kang’o ka Jaramogi, in his father’s compound beside the mighty patriarch Jaramogi, his mother Mary Ajuma, his brother Ogolla, and his son Fidel Castro. The circle of blood and struggle is whole again, a lineage of courage laid beneath the Luo sky.
Do the mountains not bow at his passing? Do the waves of Nam Lolwe not rise in lament? Even the old stones remember his footsteps, the stones of Kamukunji, of Uhuru Park, of Kibra’s lanes. They whisper, He lived for us, and we failed to live like him.
And somewhere in the stillness of Kang’o ka Jaramogi, the wind seems to murmur, Kitendawili. For Raila himself was a riddle, a puzzle of courage and sacrifice, of vision and patience, of hope that refused to die. To some he was a storm, to others a shelter, but to Kenya he was both, the tempest and the calm that followed.
Great was his stride, and mighty his endurance. Like Gilgalad he stood against the shadows of his time, his light unbroken till the final dusk. And like Glorfindel he shall find rest in the Halls of Mandos, and perhaps return when Kenya shall need her heroes once again. For he was born of stardust and steadfast will, and stardust does not die, it drifts back to the heavens to light the path for those who still wander.
Sleep now, Raila Amolo Odinga, in the embrace of the ancestors. Your struggle has joined the eternal fire where freedom never sleeps. Your name will be sung in the halls of men, your story whispered by the wind of the lakeshore, and your spirit shall walk with the dawn, a torch still burning in the long Kenyan nigh.
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By Fwamba NC Fwamba