And It Breaks My Heart

At this young age

I’ve seen it all at this young age
The only thing left to do is die and hit front page 

— J. Cole

Lucky Summer was the place I spent the most meaningful time with my mother, the seasoned chronicler whose stories were never made up. With a graceful visage that masks her true age, she hides the contours that in many faces punctuate the vagaries of life. On the dark nights and slow days, her face would light up as she told me stories of the legends of our country that have left many of its citizens with mixed emotions.

One such story was how Raila’s father, Jaramogi, had helped my grandfather, my mother’s father, to pay the fees of my uncle. Back home, the Odingas are close neighbours. So when help was needed, they readily offered it. My grandfather, whose name I was bequeathed, to his merriment, as I have always been told, would then hop atop his “blacky” and cycle all the way from Bondo to St. Mary’s Yala, to pay the fees.

This is a single among the many positive recollections that swelled up from Odinga’s homestead. These stories will hardly headline on primetime news or feature in the major newspaper outlets. The acts are similar to what Rotary does; silent but impactful. And people remember. The media features the politician, but the people back home knew the man. True, only reliable systems save institutions, but you cannot substitute the love for Messi with the structure of Barcelona.

I was at work when I heard the news. The weather changed. A nimbus cloud of deep gloom choked the department. Working in an ICU unit, I witness death every other day. This day was darker than most. My WhatsApp statuses were filled with images of a man I got to know through my mother and aunts, and whom my uncles revered up close and from afar. There are people you never think are at the mercy of death’s vice grip. Baba was one of them.

That title, Baba, pronounced in a way that shows reverence, is only given to those whose impactful works speak for themselves. In high school, we called our principal Baba, with a slightly different tonal stress, because we admired him. Top students in joint exams would be called and got the privilege to shake Baba’s (Thomas K’Ogolla’s) hand. You could not equate any award to that momentary handshake. We loved him and waited to hear him talk, as he commanded the kind of respect that could silence even the rowdiest burger in school. Yet, we knew there was Baba, who was bigger than Baba.

This level of respect would be evident when his wife, Ida Odinga, visited the school during one of our prize-giving ceremonies. It was the closest we had ever been to getting to Raila, as Omega Joseph Luvanda matched alongside her. Raila’s admiration exuded through all the people he was affiliated with. Proudly.

My people are known to be a proud lot. A modest Luo man is a fake Luo. So when you see a man, sandpapered by the rough hands and high tides of life, shed tears at the passing of Baba, you know how much he meant to that person. Tears speak when words fail. They are an honest way to confirm you care.

My mother’s stories come to mind whenever I see the harsh words used to sully the legendary actions Raila has been known for. These were not new to the icon. He faced harsher terms. Jailed at a time when his father was being tortured, his wife and kids were chased out of the house, in the rain. The details don’t evade me as I’ve heard the story time and time again. Yet, like Mandela, he would leave detention with a forgiving heart, bent on changing a country he believed could rise above hatred.

His acts are reminiscent of Marcus Aurelius, who knew betrayal all too well. His best friend tried to overthrow him in a coup. Rather than retaliate, he took the wise route. Because wisdom takes work, he chose to identify differently with other historic figures, not choosing violence. The best revenge for your enemy is not being like them. For all the times he was publicly shamed and denied a seat we believe he honestly deserved, he chose the peaceful option.

But the people he represented never forget. Their silence is a tribute learned and emulated by The Enigma. Indeed, he was an enigma, the kind that can rally numbers to flock the grounds that in Swahili spell freedom (Uhuru), to be inducted as the people’s president. When in Kenyan history have you ever seen such acts of defiance wholesomely accepted and lauded? Only by a leader who was deeply loved. One who did not spark fear, but courage. Aptly named Joshua, he could blow the trumpets, and the metaphorical walls of Jericho would calm down.

There was only one real influencer in Kenya. Nobody came close. Tinga would say that tomorrow was a holiday, and it would come to pass before any state office declaration. He would ask his followers to hop on one foot, and even those using crutches would heed this command. Heck, if he told Kenyans to attend Funkie Fest, my team, albeit competent, would have a tough time handling the numbers. Joshua could order the sun to stop, and it would. Yet, his legacy was more synonymous with Moses. He would lead the country from Egypt, but would never step into Canaan.

Agwambo could create a riddle there and then, and the crowd would not shudder like students before a harsh teacher. They would beam with expectation, waiting for the answer. This is the kind of teacher I wish to be. So when I hear that he did not mentor anyone, I wonder what people mean. A successor, maybe. His star shone so brightly that it’s difficult to imagine anyone who may have been getting private lessons from him. My belief is you can hardly have such a profound influence and fail to mentor several people along the way.

Jakom’s passing reminds me of the sadness that enveloped our country after Pope John Paul died. The saintly cleric is the only one whose death, in my naïve view, comes close to the sadness we are currently going through. My family WhatsApp group is silent. I can’t drop in memes as I usually do, and I don’t know when I will have the confidence to resume. Baba was at some point known as Nyundo, and this hammer struck us with sheer force.

There will be generations that would never know Tinga. Tinga’s tales cannot fit inside a book, but if they tried, Jezzy’s rap lines would sum it up:

If I had to write a book, it would be the Life and Times
Every verse is that work, you can weigh it like a nine

Heavy.

Tinga was the name christened to him who would shake the Earth when he waved his fly whisk. A celebrated avatar, the movement would bend the air and carve the ground, ignite the fire inside us, and move the viscous, life-giving fluid pumping in our hearts. But when the world needed him the most, he vanished. His breath became air too soon. And it broke my heart.

On a phone call with my mother, she told me that I am still too young. And here I am, thinking I have seen a lot. Her confession about my youthful state took me back to a time when I was peeling pages of Marjorie Oludhe Macgoye’s Coming to Birth during my free campus time. One particular scene captured the state of the nation after Tom Mboya’s death was announced. My mother recalls the events. Time after time, she has seen formidable towering heads topple. Mboya led the chain. Robert Ouko followed decades later. And when Jaramogi left us, two months later, I was born. If my mother were not as strong as I have known her to be, I might not have come to this world. Stresses can cause miscarriages.

Yet here I am thinking I have seen it all. The stories continue to stream. A good number of people have spoken ill of him, to which I will echo the words from my seniors, aptly captured by J. Cole:

I said, you wouldn’t know the truth if it was right there in your face

The arguments are unsound, as they are misinformed. True, he had his flaws, as did Tom Mboya. One cannot rise to such a position without fissures to mark missteps. Mountains have fault lines, but they still stand tall. In contrast, hills are smoother. Words don’t shake mountains.

And right now, after Rao’s death, the apt description I was given by a close confidante was that it felt like we had turned into orphans. We don’t know who to turn to. A feeling of lack of direction and the absence of a pillar of strength define our present state, projected into an opaque future, indefinitely.

And it breaks my heart.

What I’m trying to say is…

Baba’s passing is akin to the death of a parent’s child, because in our eyes, he was supposed to live forever. In a way, he does. To wit, we can sing:

I’ve seen it all at this young age
The only thing that’s left to do is die and hit front page.

He has seen it all. His penetrating gaze could see through the layered hypocrisy, the connived alliances, the manufactured efforts to bring him down, but the only thing that can take down a mountain is another earthly or heavenly force. Despite it all, he would shift his facial muscles, smile, move his trunk in a unique dance, and in a distinctively hoarse, albeit pleasant voice, shout: Kitendawili?

John Allan Namu accurately described:

Raila Odinga was like the elephant in a dark room. Each of us touched a part of him; a leg and thought him a tree, a side and thought him a wall, a trunk and thought him a hose, a tail and thought him a whip. Only now, with the light on, and him resting with the ancestors do we see the enormity of who he was — good, flawed, immense, divisive and deliberative. An indelible part of [Kenya’s]journey.

How do you hold so much power and command such love without ever holding the top seat? How do you defy canonized tribal and gender lines to run for the top seat with a female running mate? How do you halt a country even when outside it? How do you have a flight tracked by both experts and local commoners with such eagerness? How does one simple yet complex person in his death control so many living souls?

In despair, my lovely cousin posted:

Ny what name shall we call you?
Hembko — the one who befuddles like a tornado that touches the belly of Nam Lolwe and the clouds at once?
Agwambo — the Enigma of Kenyan politics?
Chuma Liet — the red hot iron that burns careless doubters?
Tinga — the ground mover?
Or shall we call you Baba — the father of your people, the singer of our folk songs?
Got Ramogi bows, Nam Lolwe sways, Kit Mikayi trembles…

And it broke my heart.

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This song inspired some of the lines of this article. Source — YouTube