Mourning Raila Odinga, A Shared Loss
5 min read

"I still haven’t come to terms with the fact that he’s gone. I no longer watch the news because they don’t talk about the things affecting the person on the ground the way Raila used to."

Mourning Raila Odinga, A Shared Loss
Silhouetted against a luminous memorial screen, a grieving congregation gathers to honor the legacy of Raila Amolo Odinga, whose decades-long political journey is commemorated under a vivid blue light that casts a solemn, reflective glow over the collective loss of his followers.

Rumors of Raila's visit to the famous Kamukunji grounds in Kibera spread quickly. Even before his arrival, the grounds would be filled with people waiting, from school-going children and women to journalists eager to hear from him. He will arrive on top of a van, waving to the people, the size with the one waiting. His visits to Kibera were always televised; it is where he announced some of his major political decisions.

To talk about his closest allies is to also talk about the careers of the people he created. Every Sunday, people from Katwekera  and the surrounding villages would meet at the Kamukunji grounds, a political gathering said to have firsthand knowledge of what was happening with the main Orange Democratic Movement (ODM) politics. When the news of the death of Raila Odinga broke, we had to confirm it. 

A solitary silhouette sits beneath a stark, monochrome mural of Raila Odinga at Kamkunji Ground, where the bold proclamation "Long live the Crown" underscores the deep-seated political devotion and collective memory of a community navigating a historic transition.
There’s one person I always check with on matters concerning ODM and Raila: Otieno K'otieno. He is the former Member of County Assembly for Katwekera. Despite previously holding political office, K'otieno had been instrumental in championing peaceful political quests among local leaders and aspirants. That morning, as I passed through Kamukunji and saw what the people were going through, I had to call him. "Baba ametuacha," his voice was heavy, and he hadn’t even gone out that morning.

The local political landscape has changed; people used to get messages from Raila and take them closer to the people, specifically outlining what the visions are for Kiberans. Immediately after his passing, the local political scene turned hostile as there was no supreme word to guide the people. In Luo, they say that if the master of the house dies, the house must shake, if not, then the person wasn’t that important.

A sea of solemn faces fills the streets of Kibera, where community members gather in shared grief and quiet solidarity to navigate the profound social and political void left by their departed leader.
It might be plausible that, to some, politics is the only event that has exposed Kibera to the world. From the time he joined politics, Raila had been on the fringes of the opposition, and Kibera was termed as his bedroom. It is one of the places where protests erupt and spread across the country; a fierce following ready to do anything for Baba.

I have a personal story from when I was young. I remember standing close to the podium, and Raila stepped on my hands as I held onto the margins of the stage. I was around 10 years old. I ran home like a blessed chap. My mother still remembers that day and how I narrated it to her.

The deep sorrow and disbelief in the eyes of these young men from Kibera show a raw, shared grief, leaving a generation that only ever knew his leadership to face an uncertain future.
Raila Odinga was a global name, and this community built him; to think that we could get a share of his send-off wasn’t a pipe dream. It came in the form of a screen installed exactly where he used to talk to the people. The screen showed his funeral procession in Bondo, Nyanza. People from Luo Nyanza like to attend funerals, especially if it’s for someone they know. Some people could afford to attend, but the majority were left watching from the screens.
The heavy silence of children and young men sitting by the roadside reflects a deep, shared sense of loss that spans across generations.
What does it mean for the people of Kibera to lose someone they call their son, their leader, and "Baba"? I talked with a few people from Kibera specifically on how they feel about the demise of Raila Odinga and his burial:

  • "I still haven’t come to terms with the fact that he’s gone. I no longer watch the news because they don’t talk about the things affecting the person on the ground the way Raila used to."

— Elijah Muga, at Kamukunji Grounds, Kibera


  • "I went to the burial; I only knew how huge he was by the attendance. Though I couldn’t get closer on the day, I had time to visit his grave later. You could feel the heaviness around the burial site. I think the ceremony was befitting of him. I wish that people from Kibera could have experienced this moment more, but it’s understandable why. We’ll never have another person like him, and his name will live with us forever."
    — James Obonyo, clothes vendor in Kibera


  • "It feels different now; everyone has something to say, and there are no clear directions. We couldn’t even hold the party together a few months after his death. With every passing day, you can see that the things he was holding together are shattering. Considering that and the many other things he has done for people around the country, it’ll be long before we forget him in this lifetime."

— Charity Nabiswa, political aspirant from Kibera


  • "He brought a sense of unity here. People used to adhere to certain conditions that came directly from him. Today, if you come here, there’s a fight in almost every political gathering. Everyone wants to say how close they were to Raila so they can cling to his shadow. It’s hard to know why God planned to take him at that time. He sacrificed so much, and maybe it was his moment to rest."

— Alusa Japuonj, Chairman in Kibera

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