By James Okoth
At Jomo Kenyatta Sports Ground in Kisumu, where residents have gathered for the county-level Mashujaa Day celebrations, a gentle stillness lingers in the air. The speeches are familiar — tributes to Kenya’s heroes, to men and women whose courage shaped the nation’s story — yet beneath the ceremony lies a heaviness that words cannot fully conceal.
Only a day has passed since the nation laid to rest one of its most enduring figures, Raila Amolo Odinga, and nowhere is that loss more palpable than here, in the heart of his homeland. The crowd is large but subdued; the music, though bright, carries a soft melancholy. Even the laughter that occasionally ripples through the stands feels restrained — an echo of a city learning to celebrate while still mourning.
The gathering itself tells a story. Most of the seats under the white tents remain empty, a sight unusual for a national day in this city known for its political fervour. Those who came sit quietly, their eyes fixed on the dais, their hands folded in their laps. The air feels heavy with both respect and fatigue — as though Kisumu, still drained from yesterday’s farewell, has shown up today not out of duty, but out of devotion.
“I came because this is what Baba would have wanted — peace and unity,” says Millicent Achieng, an attendee, her voice low but steady. “But the spirit is not the same. It feels like we are celebrating and mourning at the same time.”
Nearby, Tom Odhiambo, a boda boda rider, leans on his motorbike at the edge of the grounds, his gaze fixed on the flag waving above the podium. “Every Mashujaa Day, we shout and dance. Today, we just stand still,” he murmurs. “It’s like the city is breathing slowly — careful not to wake its own pain.”
The national colours rise, proud and full, against a still Kisumu sky. It is a day of celebration, yes, but one cloaked in reflection. Applause comes, but measured, reverent. Faces in the crowd hold an expression of quiet pride mingled with absence — as though each person carries both the weight of gratitude and the shadow of loss.
Almost all the entertainment pieces, from choirs to cultural troupes, still find ways to mention Raila Odinga — his name carried in song, his image invoked in rhythm. And when the drums roll, the familiar chant “Jowi!” breaks out, filling the air with both pride and ache. It is less a slogan now and more a farewell echo — a reminder that even in death, the man remains woven into Kenya’s spirit.
Outside the grounds, on Angawa Street, Janet Atieno, a groundnuts seller balancing her basket under her arm, listens to the proceedings from a small radio placed beside her stall. “Even the wind feels different today,” she says softly. “We have lost a lion, but we are still his people. Kisumu can’t be loud today — not yet.”
Across the country, in Kitui where President William Ruto leads the national celebrations, the tone is strikingly similar. From the Coast to the Highlands, Kenyans have turned out to honour their heroes, but this year’s Mashujaa Day is defined less by fanfare and more by introspection. The parades, the military rhythms, the colour and pageantry — all seem tempered by a shared understanding that the nation stands at a moment of emotional pause.
Here in Kisumu, that pause feels deeply personal. Raila’s name is not on the official programme, yet his presence lingers in every whispered conversation, every folded hand, every wistful glance toward the lake. The city that once roared his name now hums with remembrance. Between speeches, silence fills the spaces — not empty, but sacred — as though the wind itself carries his unfinished words.
Today, Kenya celebrates its heroes in unity and grief. From Kitui to Kisumu, from the State podiums to county grounds, the nation moves as one — proud yet pensive, grateful yet grieving. Mashujaa Day endures, but its heartbeat this year is quieter, deeper, echoing with the memory of a man whose life became part of the country’s story itself.
