I never met Raila Amollo Odinga. He never knew my name. And yet he walked with me through every stage of my life. I saw him through the eyes of a child, a teenager, a young man, and now a teacher. I loved him, I was angry with him, and in the end I learned that love and disagreement can live in the same heart. This is not a political eulogy. It is the story of growing up with Raila, and of what he meant to me.
My earliest memory of Raila goes back to 1997. I was in Class Two, and Kenya was heading into a general election. Raila was vying under the National Development Party, whose symbol was a tractor. A song swept through the streets of Manyatta in Kisumu, where we lived: “Tinga onyono pier gweno ba gweno otore.” The tractor has crashed the cock. The tractor was NDP, and the cock was KANU, the party that had ruled since independence. To a child, politics wasn’t policy. It was story and song, something the adults around me carried in their chests.
I remember our neighbour, Nyar Kano, glued to the radio as the results came in, and the disappointment when Raila came third. But more than the result, I remember learning that he mattered. He was respected. He was ours.
By 2000 I was in Class Five, and Raila had confused many of us by joining Moi’s government as Minister for Energy. People in Kisumu were disbelieving, but also proud that one of our own had a seat at the table. It was through Raila that I learned governments are made of ministries. I already knew of the Ministry of Education through J.J. Kamotho, but now I learned about Energy. Without ever standing in front of a classroom, Raila was teaching me the architecture of power.
Then he resigned, helped build the National Rainbow Coalition, and KANU was voted out for the first time since independence in 2002. The nation was full of hope. The doors of the Nyayo House torture chambers were opened, and Raila, who had once been detained without trial and tortured under Moi, went to see them. He spoke only of forgiveness. I was still a teenager, but I understood something profound: this man had every reason to hate, and he chose to forgive. That was when I began to see him not just as a politician, but as a virtuous person.
Kenya's hope of 2002 did not last. By 2005, cracks were showing in the NARC government. Power remained concentrated in the presidency, and a small circle around President Kibaki, which the media dubbed the Mt. Kenya mafia, held the reins. Corruption, tribalism, and political killings continued. Raila, in response, led a referendum campaign to trim the powers of the presidency and devolve them. Out of that fight was born the Orange Democratic Movement. I still consider ODM Raila's greatest masterpiece. He assembled the ODM Pentagon, bringing leaders from nearly every region under one banner. I saw a man who believed in diversity and could unite people. By then I thought of him as the face of Kenya.
2007 was a pivotal year for me. I was sitting my Kenya National Secondary School examinations. I had just turned eighteen, but without a national identity card I couldn’t vote. I remember a drunk man almost attacking me on the way to the shop because I hadn’t voted. I was tall and bulky and looked older than I was, so he assumed I had failed my country by not voting.
The whole country was with Raila, but the election was rigged, and violence erupted. I remember Raila's words at the start of negotiations for peace: “How can someone milk your cow, then invite you to come and share the milk with you?” He was human and he could get angry. So were we. We felt his pain.
And yet, with the country on the brink of civil war, Raila chose peace. He formed a grand coalition with Kibaki. He chose stability over revenge. I have reflected on that decision often, and I have come to believe that in a region torn apart by war, avoiding conflict at all costs is not weakness. It is wisdom. Raila was wise.
In 2010, Kenya promulgated the new constitution. I believe this promulgation was among Raila's greatest achievements, a second liberation. However, Kenya has been unlucky: The 2010 constitution is being implemented by leaders who neither campaigned for it nor believed in it, and we are still waiting for it to bear fruit.
Then came 2013. Raila ran again, and the choice seemed obvious to me, yet Kenyans voted for Uhuru Kenyatta, who was facing charges of crimes against humanity at the International Criminal Court. My own name was missing from the voter register that year, even though I had registered, clearly indicating that these elections were not credible. Voters in opposition strongholds had been purged from the rolls. I was so disillusioned that I sat out 2017 as well.
But when the Supreme Court annulled the 2017 election, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: hope. Institutions could work just as Raila had championed. Raila was happy too, and I saw a man who believed in democracy, the separation of powers and the independence of institutions.
A few months later, Raila swore himself in as the people’s president following the contested 2017 election. I saw bravery. Here was a man who had survived Nyayo House, standing in a packed stadium in Nairobi while others hid, claiming his place. In that moment, he reaffirmed himself as the only true opposition leader the country had.
I wasn’t opposed to his handshake with Uhuru Kenyatta that followed. Although, my brother Nelson was disillusioned; he felt it came at the cost of lives, like baby Pendo in Nyalenda, and I understood his pain. But I also understood that Raila was trying to calm a country that was bleeding from another violently contested election.
The only time I have ever been angry with him was when he shook hands with William Ruto. Ruto had grown arrogant. He lied to Kenyans without remorse, taxed us without care, and watched the economy regress. In 2024, Kenyan backs cracked under the weight of a mismanaged country, and for the first time Kenyans stood united against a government that did not care. Then Raila rallied behind Ruto and shielded the government from the wrath of the masses. I felt betrayed and almost lost faith in him.
Raila died at time I felt he had grown old, that his light was dimming, that we needed a new young voice. But when he died, I realised I had only ever differed with him on the handshake. My love and respect were intact. Raila Amollo Odinga was not perfect. He made decisions I did not understand, and some that made me angry. But he gave me a childhood of hope, a youth of struggle, and an adulthood of reflection. He taught me that power can be challenged, that forgiveness is possible even after torture, that diversity is strength, that institutions can work, and that love and disagreement can coexist.
I will always love him, respect him, and be grateful for the way he shaped my life. Rest well, Raila. You were not perfect, but you were ours, and Kenya will never be the same without you.
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