I stood in Kisumu today and watched a city breathe as one. Twigs—our Luo symbol of mourning—rose like a low forest above the crowd. From the terraces, the chorus of “Baba! Baba!” rolled and returned, a tidal sound that said what speeches could not. In that silence without podiums, I understood again why Raila Amollo Odinga was not merely a politician to millions of Kenyans; he was a lodestar for what a fairer country might look like.
Raila taught an entire generation that democracy is not an event but a discipline. He absorbed defeats without bitterness and victories without triumphalism, reminding us that the long game is institution-building, not personality cults. Those of us who walked with him through the second liberation years know how costly that discipline can be: jail cells, exile, legal battles, reputational smears, and the relentless fatigue of organising in a country where power often resists accountability. And yet he never relinquished the belief that Kenya could be better if Kenyans themselves demanded better.
That is why the events of these days carry both grief and instruction. The crowds that filled the Jomo Kenyatta International Stadium in Mamboleo came not for spectacle but to say thank you—to bear witness to a life that insisted the rule of law must be felt in the lives of the poor, that devolution is not a slogan, and that the national cake is meant to be shared, not hoarded. They came to honour a leader who made them feel seen.
It was fitting that there were no speeches in Kisumu. The city knows his story; the nation has memorised his battles. Instead, we let the ritual of passage do its work. From the airport to the stadium, and later by road to his Bondo home for an overnight stay ahead of Sunday’s State burial, the journey itself became the message: this is a leader returning to Dala—home—not only to be mourned, but to be entrusted to history.
What, then, should we carry forward? First, the ethic of service. Raila’s politics were not flawless—no human effort is—but they were anchored in a stubborn empathy for the ordinary mwananchi. That empathy must outlive him in how we legislate, police, tax and plan. Second, the courage to contest. He refused the convenience of silence. In a season when cynicism is fashionable, courage is the only antidote that works. Third, the habit of unity across difference. Raila’s broad coalitions were built on listening; he knew that national progress requires uncomfortable alliances.
I am asked whether his absence leaves a void. Of course it does. But a void is also a summons. If his legacy is to “power on”, it will do so not through slogans, but through citizens insisting on dignity in hospitals and schools, integrity in public tenders, prudence in debt, and fairness in opportunity. It will endure if young people—those who sang his songs without ever meeting him—convert grief into civic work where they live.
Rest now, Baba, as you make the final journey to Dala. You taught us to keep our eyes on the horizon and our feet in the mud of real life. The horizon still beckons. The work still calls. And your legacy—marked by sacrifice, steadiness and hope—powers on as Kenya strives for better.
The author is a lawyer and a former personal aide to Raila Odinga
