By Alfred Gogi
A Tribute to Rt. Hon. RAILA AMOLLO ODINGA, Former Prime Minister of the Republic of Kenya
There are figures in a nation’s story whose presence feels like a great Mugumo tree — rooted, sheltering many creatures, and unignorable in life. Raila Amollo Odinga was such a figure — towering in stature, branching across generations, and resilient through seasons of sun and storm. To pay tribute to him is to acknowledge not only his towering shadow, but also the ground-shaking impact of his steps, his sacrifices, his reconciliations, his humour, and his indelible imprints on Kenya’s democratic journey and history. “The tree has fallen” here is a metaphor for the moments when the old gives way to the new, when chapters close and legacies speak more loudly than voices. In that spirit, we honour the man known simply as “Baba.”
Raila’s life is braided into the long arc of Kenya’s struggle for democratic space. As a young leader confronting the iron fist of the Moi era, he paid the price exacted from those who insist on air when the times prefer silence. Detention without trial, more than once, etched into him the hard lessons of courage, patience, and the paradoxical tenderness that can grow in those who have suffered for freedom. The concrete walls of Nyayo House torture chambers, Kamiti, Shimo Latewa, and Manyani were meant to shrink him. Instead, they sharpened him. He emerged not bitter, but bolder; not broken, but more broadly committed to a Kenya where no one should be caged for their convictions and opinions.
And yet, the story of Raila is not merely a chronicle of defiance. It is also the story of reconciliation. In politics, making peace with yesterday’s adversary is the most underrated act of patriotism. Raila made peace with Daniel arap Moi, whose regime once detained him, modelling a politics that can forgive without forgetting. He made peace with Mwai Kibaki — indeed, before that, he midwifed Kibaki’s presidency with the fateful, nation-altering declaration “Kibaki tosha!” in 2002. Those two words helped sweep out an era and usher in a new one under NARC, giving Kenyans a collective glimpse of possibility and hope. Later still, he chose rapprochement with Uhuru Kenyatta in the 2018 Handshake, turning down the volume of tension and turning up the work of national healing. And even after the fiercely contested 2022 election, in the tumult of accusation and disappointment, his public calls continually returned to peace, dialogue, and the primacy of Kenya over personal ambition — even as he exercised the constitutional right to dissent and picketing.
Over two decades of disputed elections, it would have been easy, even tempting, to exchange ballots for the blunter language of violence. Raila Amollo Odinga chose otherwise. In 2007–2008, when the country convulsed, he entered a government of national unity — a compromise that may have confounded partisans but saved lives and bought time for reforms. In 2012–2013, after a narrow and contested loss, he turned to the Supreme Court, accepting its ruling while insisting on electoral process improvements. In 2017, he pushed the judiciary to assert its independence — and it did, nullifying a presidential result for the first time in Kenya’s history — yet his rallying cry remained for peaceful engagement, culminating in the Handshake. In 2022, he again decried irregularities; still, his podium was a platform for rallies and civil action under the law, not a trigger for chaos. Across these seasons, Raila’s north star was not the immediacy of victory but the longevity of the nation.
His highs are carved into our civic architecture. He is inseparable from the “second liberation,” from the wind that swelled Kenya’s sails toward multiparty democracy, from the long walk to the 2010 Constitution that expanded rights, devolved power, and reimagined citizenship. As a minister and opposition leader, he pressed for infrastructure and oversight, championed devolution as a shield against the tyranny of distance and the hoarding of opportunity. He empowered county voices and normalised the idea that Nairobi is not the only centre of gravity and a place where all development should emanate — but gave counties rights to the development of their choice.
There have been lows too, and they humanise the legend. Party fractures that disillusioned supporters. Alliances that shifted like Nairobi weather and changes like a chameleon’s colour. The painful string of electoral defeats that left many wondering whether Kenyan politics can ever fully reward those who carry the heaviest load for reform. The whispers and wars of succession inside and outside his camp. The bruises of tear gas he once absorbed on countless protest lines. And the endless toll that public life exacts on private peace. When you thought he was written off, he reincarnated and came back in a different form — but still peaceful and fighting for democracy.
But even in the lows, there was humour and humanity — the two quiet engines of his resilience. Raila made politics feel like a stadium, a classroom, and a theatre all at once. He loved a good kitendawili — a riddle to teach a lesson without a lecture. He could deploy slogans with the cadence of a drumbeat: “Tialala! Tibim!” He baptised the political moment with memorable phrases — “nobody can stop reggae” — that turned rallies into rituals of hope. The country laughed with him in memes — “Baba while you were away” — because even his absence could spark communal creativity and questions from both the opposition and those supporting the government of the day. And on football terraces with Gor Mahia and Arsenal faithful, he reminded us that a leader’s truest face sometimes appears not on the dais, but in the stands of conviction.
Raila’s peace-making is not the peace of quietism. It is an active peace — one that stares down injustice, confronts institutions, and then, when the final whistle blows, insists that Kenyans must still share a country, a language, a culture, and a future. To shake hands with opponents is not to surrender principle — it is to declare the nation larger than any one man’s destiny. That is the paradox of Raila’s politics — unyielding in pursuit, unifying in purpose.
The Mugumo tree shelters many. Around Raila’s canopy grew legions of young leaders who learned to speak truth in full voice, women and men who discovered that power can be earned outside the old gates and not given, counties that realised they could dream big and budget bigger courtesy of the 2010 Constitution that devolved powers and development. Even those who opposed him acknowledged the scale of his influence — the way he could move the crowd, reframe the debate, reset the stakes.
And yet, a tree also bears scars — the machete marks of harvest, the carvings of passing lovers, the age rings of drought and flood. Raila’s scars testify to a life spent on the frontier between what Kenya was and what it could be. In the seasons when the ground shook with detention, disputed election outcomes, courtroom battles, and coalition mistrust, he did not scatter but came out stronger. He stood, gathered, and called the birds back to the branches to continue fighting for justice.
If legacy is the story we leave in other people’s mouths, Raila’s is a song — sometimes a dirge, often a chant, always a chorus. It sings of a people who refused to surrender their future to fear, of a leader who never confused stubbornness for strength nor compromise for weakness, of a country still becoming, season by season, election by election, to achieve its true democracy.
And so, to the Mugumo, we honour you. May your roots continue to nourish the soil of our democracy; may your shade remain a refuge for argument without enmity; may your fallen leaves fertilise new ideas, new leaders, and new courage. For if the ground must shake when a great tree falls, let it be the kind of tremor that wakes us all to our duty — to keep faith with one another, to keep peace with our differences, and to keep walking toward a Kenya broad enough to hold us all.
Baba, tosha today, tomorrow, and for the generations learning under your branches how to stand tall. Indeed, the Mugumo tree has fallen and birds perched on it must scatter; the ground must be shaken, but also the roots that remain shall yield new leaders to continue with his legacy. Indeed, Raila is a Prince who never became a King, but also a King who never ruled.
Long live Raila’s legacy. Long live Agwambo. Long live Wuod Mary.
