By Clifford Derrick – The Inside Story
Kenya’s politics has always been haunted by ghosts. Some are the literal ghosts of young men and women slain by the state during protests. Others are the ghosts of historical betrayals, secret oaths, and elite manipulations that stretch back to independence. The current controversy surrounding the appointment of Faith Odhiambo, the President of the Law Society of Kenya (LSK), to a panel on compensating victims of protest violence cannot be understood outside this longer arc.
The Historical Roots of Exclusion
In 1963, as the British prepared to exit, Jaramogi Raila Odinga was three times offered the position of Prime Minister. He refused. His condition was that Jomo Kenyatta, still in detention, must be released first. Jaramogi was not willing to be a colonial stooge.
The British were displeased, and soon allied with Kenyatta, Tom Mboya, and others to marginalize him. When Jaramogi resigned as Vice President in 1966, the systematic exclusion of the Luo community began in earnest.
By 1969, after the assassination of Tom Mboya, Kenyatta convened a secret oath-taking ceremony at Gatundu. The vow was simple and chilling: that no Luo, especially an Odinga, should ever rule Kenya. This oath—though rarely spoken of in public—set the tone for decades of elite manipulation. It explains why Raila Odinga has been alternately celebrated as a “statesman” when serving Kikuyu interests and vilified as “uncircumcised” and “dangerous” whenever he threatens their monopoly of power.
Faith Odhiambo and the New Battlefront
Enter Faith Odhiambo, A Luo, a lawyer, and the elected President of the LAW SOCIETY OF KENYA (LSK). Her acceptance of a vice-chair role on a presidential panel to compensate victims of police brutality has triggered outrage. Critics cry “betrayal,” claim the panel is unconstitutional, and demand her resignation. Yet the same critics are curiously silent about Irũngũ Houghton of Amnesty International, also appointed to the panel. Why the selective outrage?
The answer lies in continuity. In the minds of a segment of the Kikuyu elite—those shaped by the 1969 oath and decades of entitlement—Luos must not be allowed near the machinery of the state. They can die on the streets for democracy, but they cannot sit at the table to decide how victims are compensated. They can fuel protests that topple regimes, because they ‘unbwogable’ or unshakable, to quote Joe Gidi, but they must never oversee justice. Faith’s very presence unsettles this order because it disrupts the gatekeeping.
René Girard and the Politics of Envy
The French philosopher René Girard wrote of mimetic desire: the idea that human beings desire not objects for their own sake but because others desire them. Political power in Kenya has become precisely that. The Kikuyu elite’s fear of the Luo is not because the Luo have failed but because they recognise their intellectual energy, courage, and organisational potential. To keep them at bay, they must monopolise power while projecting negative stereotypes—poverty, HIV, uncircumcision—onto the Luo body politic.
Thomas Hobbes warned that sovereignty rests on a monopoly of violence. For decades, the monopoly of Kenya’s security apparatus has rested with those same elites. It explains why Raila’s supporters have borne the brunt of police brutality, from Baby Pendo in Kisumu to the bodies dumped in River Yala. And it explains why critics of Faith Odhiambo would rather delegitimize her appointment than confront the real violence at the heart of Kenya’s governance.
Raila, Mandela, and the Logic of Assimilation
Raila Odinga has been called a betrayer for working with Moi, Kibaki, Uhuru, and now Ruto. But history demands a subtler reading. In politics, sub-groups must often adopt strategies of aggressive assimilation—entering the dominant coalition not out of weakness but as a survival strategy. Nelson Mandela did the same in South Africa. He shook hands with the very architects of apartheid, not because he admired them, but because he sought to dismantle the system from within.
Raila’s doctrine of the unclenched fist has been consistent. He has endured prison, exile, bullets, and betrayal, yet he has chosen dialogue to avoid bloodshed. His decision to cooperate with William Samoei Ruto after the Gen-Z protests was not greed. It was an ethical calculation: to save lives while pushing for reforms, including compensation for victims of state violence. Faith Odhiambo’s appointment flows directly from this agreement.
The Gatekeepers of Civil Society
Much of the loudest criticism of Faith comes not from victims but from civil society elites who thrive on perpetual crisis. Donors funnel money through them, and unresolved cases are their lifeblood. If the state begins compensating victims directly, these NGOs lose both relevance and revenue. It is telling that the loudest lawyers attacking Faith—Munyeri, Wathuta, Wanjiku—hail from the same Kikuyu networks that dominate NGO and legal funding.
Their argument that the panel is “illegal” would be more convincing if they showed equal outrage at unconstitutional positions like CAS appointments or at the executive’s perennial defiance of court orders. Selectivity reveals motive.
Beyond Shadows: A Call to Discernment
Socrates once described prisoners in a cave mistaking shadows for reality. Many young Kenyans, including some Luos, are falling into the same trap—attacking Raila and Faith because they cannot discern the larger shadows of elite manipulation behind the outrage. They risk turning their backs on those trying, however imperfectly, to bring victims’ voices into the room.
This is not to sanctify Raila or Faith. They are human. They will make mistakes. But history demands that we ask: who has consistently borne the cost of state repression? Who has fought for reforms at personal expense? Who has compromised not for wealth but for inclusion and stability?
The answer is clear. And it is not Fred Matiang’i, nor the Kikuyu elite now trying to recycle him as a “neutral technocrat.” It is Raila Odinga, and now, Faith Odhiambo.
Kenya stands at a crossroads. We can either allow the ghosts of 1969 to keep haunting us, dictating who may serve and who must forever remain at the margins, or we can embrace a politics of inclusion. Faith Odhiambo’s appointment is not betrayal. It is a crack in the wall of gatekeeping. And like Mandela’s handshake, or Raila’s unclenched fist, it may yet prove to be an act of wisdom disguised as compromise.
Clifford Derrick is an investigative journalist, strategic communicator, and documentary filmmaker whose work examines truth, power, history, and justice. He writes at the intersection of politics, culture, decolonisation, and human right.
