By James Okoth

In the quiet morning after the nation laid to rest Raila Amolo Odinga, the red soils of Bondo still whispered with grief. The air, heavy and still, carried the weight of Kenya’s collective farewell. But amid the calm, one presence stood out — former President Uhuru Kenyatta, walking slowly, head bowed, toward the fresh grave of his old friend.

It was not the visit of a former Head of State to a fallen political ally. It was something far deeper — the quiet pilgrimage of a brother to another.

Uhuru’s visit to Raila’s resting place at the Jaramogi Oginga Odinga homestead was a gesture soaked in emotion and meaning. It was a tribute that went beyond words, politics, or headlines — an affirmation of a bond that time, rivalry, and leadership could never erode.

The story of the Kenyatta and Odinga families has never been an easy one. It has been one of unity and conflict, of partnership and divergence — yet, in every turn of Kenya’s history, their names have remained intertwined.

From the days of Jomo Kenyatta and Jaramogi Oginga Odinga, who built the foundations of an independent Kenya, to the years when Uhuru and Raila stood together to calm a fractured nation, theirs has been a bond of destiny.

When Uhuru stood beside Raila after the historic Handshake of 2018, it was more than political reconciliation — it was the healing of an old national wound.
And now, standing by his grave, Uhuru rekindled that spirit of brotherhood, affirming that friendship built on shared struggle never truly dies.

Those who saw Uhuru at the graveside speak of a man overwhelmed by quiet reflection. In that moment, Uhuru was not a former president. He was simply a friend — mourning, remembering, and honouring.

His decision to remain in Bondo after the national burial, long after most dignitaries had left, captured something rare in today’s politics: humanity over ceremony, loyalty over convenience.

“We didn’t expect him to stay behind,” said Mary Akinyi, a trader in Kisumu town who had learnt of Uhuru’s gesture through the media. “When we heard Uhuru was still there, visiting Baba’s grave quietly, it touched many of us. It showed that friendship can be real — not just politics.”

“For the Kenyatta family to come here, to Jaramogi’s home, after all that history — it means a lot,” added Peter Oduor, a local. “It tells us that forgiveness and respect still exist among great men.”

As Kenya continues to mourn Raila Odinga — the man who defined an era of democracy, resilience, and reform — Uhuru’s gesture speaks to something larger than personal grief. It reminds the nation that true leadership begins and ends with empathy.

Two families — once divided by ideology, later united by purpose — now find themselves bound again, not by politics, but by shared loss and love.

In visiting Raila’s grave, Uhuru Kenyatta lived out the full circle of brotherhood. A brother in struggle. A partner in healing. And now, a friend in farewell.

In the stillness of Jaramogi’s homestead, as the wind brushed through the mango trees and the soil settled around Raila’s resting place, Kenya witnessed something quietly profound —
a nation reminded that, even in death, brotherhood endures beyond power.

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.

By Anderson Ojwang

The death of Raila Odinga has opened to the public the secret coded number 5 and the months of January and October patterns that have determined and influenced the late Jaramogi Odinga lineage.

For the Odingas, the number 5 has remained a constant in the Odinga family, while important events such as births and deaths mostly occur either in January or October.

Siaya Senator and Odinga’s eldest son, Dr Oburu Oginga, opened the lid when he said Raila died on his birthday.

Oburu was born on 15th October 1943, while Raila died on 15th October 2025.

But for Raila, he captures all the important numbers and months, as he was born in January 1945.

The late Jaramogi Oginga Odinga was born in October 1911 and died on 20th January 1994.

Raila’s mother, Mary Oginga, died on 5th November 1984.

Raila’s eldest son, the late Fidel Odinga, died on 4th January 2015.

The coincidence of number 5 and the two months, January and October, shows the pattern continues to determine the lineage.

Or number five could be the family’s golden or lucky number and the determinant in the lineage.

When Oburu spoke during the prayer service for Raila at Nyayo International Stadium, he said how he had wished to celebrate his birthday, which turned into a sorrowful day.

He has religiously celebrated his birthday with his family, including Raila, whose presence has been significant to him.

But this year, Oburu knew Raila would not attend the birthday party because he was in India undergoing treatment.

Oburu had earlier told a gathering in Siaya County that Raila had gone for a medical check-up in India and would soon return to the country.

“Raila was feeling unwell, but I can tell you he is improving. It was not a serious matter, and we expect him to return home soon,” he said.

But it never occurred to Oburu that that would be the last time and day he would see and speak to his younger brother.

But as fate would have it, on his birthday gloom descended upon the Odinga family. It was never to be a birthday celebration but a death-day sorrow.

“I had prepared to celebrate my birthday, but I found myself mourning my brother. It was a sad and dark day for me,” he said.

Oburu said he had a heavy heart to say farewell to his brother, whom he described as his protector and defender.

“Raila was more than a brother to me; he was my friend, business partner, agemate, and advisor. He was everything to me. We grew up together as twins.
When we grew together in Bondo Sakwa, we were three boys. Our mother was a disciplinarian. Raila knew how to cook, but I didn’t. Raila was best in class while I was average. Raila was always in position one in class.”

Why President William Ruto’s gesture may redefine both legacy and leadership in Kenya’s political memory

By James Okoth

When President William Samoei Ruto stood before the nation to mourn Raila Amollo Odinga, his voice was unusually steady, his words measured but heavy with emotion: “I could not gamble with the life of my brother Raila Odinga.”

For a country long defined by their fierce political rivalry, that statement stunned and softened even the hardest of hearts. In one stroke, Ruto broke through the hardened shells of partisanship and revealed a leader capable of compassion beyond competition. His decision to accord Raila a full state funeral, the first of its kind in independent Kenya as confirmed by Siaya Governor James Orengo, was not just an act of respect — it was an act of political courage and national healing.

For decades, Ruto and Raila had shared one of Kenya’s most turbulent political relationships — allies turned adversaries, comrades turned competitors. Yet in death, Ruto chose fraternity over feud.

In describing Raila as his “brother,” the President elevated the funeral beyond a partisan farewell to a national moment of reconciliation. It was a symbolic dismantling of the walls that had divided Kenya’s politics for generations — where rivalry too often meant enmity.

By personalising his tribute, Ruto set himself apart from leaders who mourn mechanically. His tone was intimate, his message deliberate: Kenya must learn to outgrow its bitterness.

The Statesman’s Calculation

While Ruto’s gesture was undeniably humane, it was also politically astute. Kenya’s political culture thrives on perception — and in that arena, magnanimity is power.

By presiding over Raila’s full state funeral with solemnity, pomp, and grace, Ruto positioned himself as a unifying national figure, capable of transcending tribal and political divides. It was a scene few would have imagined only years earlier, when the two men faced off in the bitterly contested 2022 election.

This act has effectively reframed Ruto’s image — from a political tactician to a President with emotional intelligence, one willing to reconcile even with his fiercest opponent. In the eyes of many Kenyans, it was a moment of moral leadership rarely seen in our political theatre.

Kenya’s political wounds run deep. Raila’s followers, especially in Nyanza and parts of Nairobi and the Coast, have long viewed state power as a tool of exclusion. Ruto’s decision to honour Raila with the highest possible state recognition disrupted that narrative.

For once, the state and the opposition stood side by side — not in contest, but in ceremony. That symbolism cannot be overstated. It was a visual reconciliation, a gesture that brought together two halves of Kenya’s divided soul.

In political psychology, such gestures often carry more power than policy. They create emotional bridges that legislation cannot. Ruto’s presence in Bondo — standing not as victor, but as mourner — may mark the first genuine attempt at national closure after decades of polarised politics.

The Legacy Within the Legacy

In honouring Raila, Ruto also shaped his own legacy. History will likely record this as one of his defining statesman moments — an act of political generosity that elevated both men.

Every great leader, at some point, must act beyond politics to define their humanity. For Ruto, this was that moment. It will be remembered not only for the military salutes and the marble casket, but for the humility with which he recognised the worth of a man who had once challenged his legitimacy.

It was a declaration that Kenya is greater than its elections — and that leadership, in its truest form, is about empathy even towards rivals.

But beneath the emotion lies strategy. By bridging himself with Raila’s legacy, Ruto may have quietly opened new political pathways — particularly in regions where his influence has historically been thin.

Nyanza’s political landscape, once impenetrably pro-Raila, is now in emotional flux. Ruto’s overtures through empathy, development promises, and visible respect may soften hostility and lay the foundation for a new kind of political dialogue.

This does not mean he will inherit Raila’s base, but it signals a maturing of his national outreach — an effort to govern inclusively rather than electorally.

Still, the move carries risks. Among his own political allies, some may see Ruto’s gesture as politically naïve — a moment that romanticises an adversary instead of consolidating victory. Yet, in the long arc of history, such risks are often the building blocks of greatness.

Ruto’s Balancing Act

What President Ruto achieved in Raila’s funeral was a delicate balancing act — merging humanity with strategy, humility with authority, compassion with control. He allowed the state to honour its most formidable critic, and in doing so, humanised the presidency itself.

It was not just a farewell; it was a statement of vision — that the Kenya he leads must not be one of grudges, but of gratitude.

In the final analysis, William Ruto’s decision to honour Raila Odinga so profoundly may reshape how future presidents treat their rivals — and how history judges their leadership.

He did not just bury an opponent; he buried the culture of political vengeance. And in that act, he may have secured his most enduring victory — not over Raila, but over Kenya’s old politics.

William Ruto’s handling of Raila Odinga’s state funeral revealed the leader behind the politician. It blended empathy, foresight, and reconciliation — a rare trinity in Kenya’s political story. Whether born of genuine brotherhood or strategic brilliance, it was a moment that made Ruto not just President, but statesman.

By James Okoth

When President William Samoei Ruto stood at the podium in Bondo, before a sea of orange flags and tearful faces, he did something few in Kenya’s political history have dared. He abandoned his own party colours — and draped himself in those of his rival.

In a scene that blurred the lines between mourning and politics, Ruto invoked the ODM slogan, calling out “ODM!” to which mourners thundered back “Tuko Tayari!” The President smiled, not as a visiting dignitary, but as one of their own.

And as the chants rippled through the crowd, one thing became unmistakably clear: Ruto was not just paying homage to Raila Amolo Odinga, the man — he was courting the soul of ODM, the movement.

Throughout his lengthy and emotionally charged speech, Ruto made no mention — not once — of UDA, the party that carried him to State House. The conspicuous omission was not accidental. In politics, silence is often the loudest form of speech.

By deliberately keeping UDA out of his message, Ruto signalled something profound: a strategic widening of his political embrace beyond his traditional base. His language, tone, and symbolism in Bondo were not of a partisan president — but of a national reconciler, a man positioning himself as the legitimate heir to Raila’s broad reformist constituency.

“I was there when ODM was formed,” Ruto reminded mourners.
“I supported its vision. I believed in its dream for a better Kenya. And I still do.”

Those words drew thunderous applause. They were not just nostalgic — they were strategic.

Ruto’s evocation of ODM’s history and his early involvement in its formation reopened an old political chapter many had long closed: the Pentagon era, when ODM was a powerhouse coalition that united Kenya’s most charismatic regional leaders — Raila Odinga, William Ruto, Musalia Mudavadi, Najib Balala, and Joseph Nyagah.

That old unity was rooted in reform, inclusion, and shared struggle — ideals that Ruto cleverly resurrected in his speech. In doing so, he not only honoured Raila but also revived the nostalgia of the 2007 dream, a Kenya that almost redefined its politics before the storm of division set in.

Now, nearly two decades later, Ruto appears to be flirting with that memory — and with the idea of a reborn, rebranded political movement that transcends party lines. His emphasis on ODM’s legacy and reformist DNA hints at a deeper political chemistry: the possible amalgamation of ODM’s ideals and UDA’s structure into a new national vehicle.

Whether that becomes a merger, a coalition, or the rebirth of the Pentagon, only time — and strategy — will tell.

Ruto’s gesture in Bondo was far more than sentiment. It was political seduction at its most refined.

By chanting ODM’s slogan, Ruto didn’t just honour Raila — he symbolically entered the party’s emotional space. He spoke not to politicians, but to the Orange faithful, a constituency that has for years defined opposition politics in Kenya.

He appealed to their shared pain, invoked their collective pride, and subtly positioned himself as the custodian of Raila’s dream — a dream he now vows to complete.

In that moment, ODM ceased to be an opposition party in Ruto’s rhetoric. It became a moral partner in his administration’s larger vision — a vision he framed as national, not partisan.

Political observers saw the move as deliberate theatre, one designed to blur the boundary between Raila’s legacy and Ruto’s mandate — to make them indistinguishable in the minds of millions of Kenyans.

The question now is: was Ruto’s ODM moment a gesture of gratitude, or a glimpse into his 2027 strategy?

There are two plausible readings.

First, it could signal a permanent absorption of ODM into government — the completion of the slow political integration that began after the 2022 elections, when Raila and Ruto began privately collaborating on national development goals. Raila’s death may have accelerated that unification, leaving Ruto as the natural leader of a hybrid government–party structure.

Second, and more intriguing, it could point to Ruto’s preparation for a new, post-2027 political outfit — a revival of the Pentagon spirit under new colours, blending ODM’s reformist soul with UDA’s grassroots machinery. Such a formation would allow him to expand his coalition beyond Rift Valley and Central Kenya, absorbing Luo Nyanza and the Coast into his base.

If that happens, Ruto will not just have inherited Raila’s legacy — he will have re-engineered it into the foundation of his second-term political empire.

In Bondo, Ruto was not campaigning. He was consecrating. He was writing himself into the history of a movement that, for decades, defined the moral pulse of Kenya’s democracy.

By silencing UDA and amplifying ODM, Ruto presented himself not as a party man, but as a national reconciler and the living extension of Raila’s unfinished mission.

And perhaps that was the masterstroke — to let the orange colour drape over green and yellow, not as surrender, but as symbolism.

Because in politics, colours fade. But legacies endure.

And in Raila’s death, William Ruto may have found both — a legacy to complete, and a movement to inherit.

By Anderson Ojwang

President William Ruto has termed the death of Raila Odinga as a big blow to him.

Ruto also said that the organization of Raila’s funeral was an act of God and a painful, difficult, and tense undertaking.

“I have heard people say, and I have read in newspapers and on social media, that the death of Prime Minister Raila Odinga is a blow to President William Ruto. Yes, indeed, it is true. It is a big blow to me,” he said without elaborating.

During the recent burial of the late Mama Phoebe Asiyo in Karachuonyo, Raila had said that the broad-based government would go beyond the 2027 General Election.

“We will go to the people and present to them what we have achieved, and the broad-based government will go beyond 2027,” Raila said then.

ODM leaders who spoke at the function committed to remaining in the broad-based government, saying it was Raila’s wish before his demise.

Ruto said the successful organization of Raila’s funeral was an act of God, and that it would not have been possible without heeding the former Prime Minister’s wish to be buried within 72 hours.

“When I went to my office at 6:45 a.m., Dr. Oburu Odinga sent me a WhatsApp message reading, ‘My brother is critically ill.’ I called him back and asked what had happened, because we had spoken with Baba and everything seemed okay.

“Ten minutes later, Oburu called again and told me, ‘It looks like Baba is gone.’ He was not conclusive. Two minutes later, Winnie Odinga called me. I told her, ‘Please, Winnie, don’t tell me anything bad.’ She replied, ‘The bad news has happened. My father is no more.’”

Ruto said he immediately contacted the Government of India and requested that they accord Raila the highest level of support.

“It was not easy. In the evening, after we had arranged for the repatriation of the body, Winnie called me at night. She asked, ‘Mr. President, why is the plane scheduled to collect my father’s body landing in Mumbai instead of where my father is? You are now stressing me with moving my father’s body at night to Mumbai, and I am exhausted.’

“I had a very difficult moment. I tried to explain that the plane had passengers destined for Mumbai, but she could not take my explanation. So I called Ruth Odinga to kindly manage Winnie on my behalf. All in all, the concern of the family was overwhelming,” he said.

Ruto said he had to work overtime to fulfill Raila’s burial wishes.

“At 9:00 a.m. in the morning, as we were making arrangements, I saw a WhatsApp message from Raila Junior. It read, ‘My father’s will says he must be buried within 72 hours, and I am sending our lawyer to inform my mother of Mzee’s will,’” he said.

Ruto said it was a delicate balancing act—juggling between Raila’s will, the repatriation of his body, cultural expectations, state protocol, and the circumstances in India.

“We are here this Sunday to pay our last respects to Raila Amolo Odinga. It is an act of God, and we thank God that He has brought us this far,” he said.

By James Okoth

When the dust settled after the bruising 2022 general election, Kenya was a nation divided — tense, wounded, and uncertain. The electoral battlefield had drawn sharp lines between loyalty and loss, jubilation and disbelief. But amid the charged silence that followed, President William Samoei Ruto did something few expected from a victor: he reached out to Raila Amolo Odinga, the man he had just defeated, not as a foe — but as a brother.

“I reached out,” Ruto confessed during Raila Odinga’s state funeral.
“I waited, not for a truce, not for conditions — but for an understanding. I wanted to heal this nation through the man who had fought for its freedom.”

Those words, spoken slowly and deliberately, sank deep into the hearts of the mourners gathered in Bondo — and perhaps, deeper still, into Kenya’s collective conscience.

Ruto’s revelation peeled back the veil on one of the most defining, yet little-known chapters of Kenya’s recent political history. He spoke of nights when he wrestled with the thought of reconciliation, when Kenya’s fragile peace hung in the balance, and when leadership demanded not vengeance, but vision.

He reached out, he said, “because I knew Kenya could not afford another cold war between its sons.”

What followed was not a negotiation, nor a trade-off. Raila did not ask for power. Ruto did not demand allegiance. What existed was something rarer in Kenya’s politics — a mutual recognition of responsibility.

“He never gave me conditions,” Ruto said, his tone softening.
“It was I who made the offer — that the values Raila stood for, the ideals he fought for, would not die outside government. I wanted his people, his legacy, to live within the system — not against it.”

That was the seed that would later germinate into the unspoken merger of ODM into government — a gradual, symbolic reconciliation of history’s fiercest rivals.

In the months that followed, Ruto’s government quietly opened its doors to ODM figures — not as defectors, but as collaborators in national renewal. Key Odinga allies began working within state structures, subtly eroding the old lines between opposition and government.

To the casual observer, it looked political. To those who understood the undercurrents, it was deeply personal — Ruto fulfilling a silent covenant made to Raila Odinga: that Kenya would never again be torn apart by tribal fault lines or partisan vengeance.

This was not surrender. It was strategy, clothed in empathy.

By embracing Raila’s ideals of inclusion and fairness, Ruto positioned himself as the healer-in-chief, a leader mature enough to honor his opponent’s legacy while expanding his own. It was the making of a statesman — one willing to absorb his rival’s mission rather than erase it.

Historians will one day record that Raila Odinga’s final political chapter did not close in defeat — it evolved in transformation. And at the center of that transformation stood William Ruto, the unlikely architect of Kenya’s post-Raila political order.

Ruto’s “unconditional promise” — to protect, preserve, and mainstream Raila’s political ideals — has redefined power itself. It has blurred the once-iron line between government and opposition, birthing a new political hybrid built not on animosity, but on accommodation.

“We will not gamble with Raila’s legacy,” Ruto declared.
“His struggle was not for a party — it was for a country. And that country is now ours to protect, together,” he affirmed.

Those words drew applause at the graveside, but they also drew meaning far beyond the funeral tents of Bondo. They were not merely eulogies. They were Ruto’s political creed, laid bare for the nation to witness.

In the end, history may not remember Ruto for how fiercely he fought Raila — but for how gracefully he embraced him in death.

His was not a gesture of convenience, but of conviction. It takes courage to defeat an opponent; it takes greatness to carry his dream forward.

Ruto’s unconditional promise to Raila Odinga, made in the aftermath of division and fulfilled in the hour of mourning, will forever stand as one of the most unifying acts in Kenya’s democratic journey — a moment when leadership transcended politics, and power bowed to humanity.