The Dream Deferred: Raila Odinga's Monument of Mist

Raila Odinga

Heroes always fascinate us. And so did Raila Odinga—the late and legendary former Prime Minister. Key parts of his reputation—his rejection of deference, his questioning of institutional authority, his bridling against the way things are, and a certain sense of abandonment—seem very much in keeping with revolutionaries everywhere. But his life also feels like a sweet but broken dream: promised, swift, and just as suddenly gone, leaving behind only the memory of its force and the heartbreak of disappointment.

Some parts of his life are slathered in mythology—some belonging to Odinga alone, some to an endless roll call of predecessors and antecedents stretching back centuries, all the way to ancient Greek warriors. Odinga embodied the longing of many Kenyans for social justice and the promise of something inspiring and beautiful—and doomed.

In death, Odinga is like a distant monument that, either because of its distance or a haze on the horizon, allows us to catch only a faint and fragmentary glimpse of greatness. His death struck with the suddenness of a sad and final movie scene—unresolved, unprepared—like a curtain falling before the last line is spoken, leaving the audience breathless, stunned by the silence.

Odinga started his career as a politician with harsh military defiance, mellowed with age into a compelling idea, and is now a myth we long for intensely—like one of the ancient Greek heroes: Achilles with his ill-fated ferocity, Odysseus with his restless cunning, and Hector, especially, with his battered dignity but always noble in defeat. If Greek heroes were carved from marble—unyielding and unbreakable—Odinga compared to them, but not quite. There was something different, something more fragile in his eyes. He was made of something softer, something that bled and bruised and still did what had to be done.

The memory of Odinga is like a piece of old music in our minds, bursting out every once in a while with all the splendour and fullness of an orchestra—the inconceivable intensity of his charmed style: the famous laced sports shoes, the ubiquitous white fedora perched with a dignified tilt atop his head, the flywhisk that danced like a conductor’s baton, and his signature “haaaayaaa, haaaayaaa” chant that stirred the soul of a nation. He became the main character in a script he created. The people chanted his name in the stadiums, painted it on the sides of matatus, and scribbled it on posters.

Odinga was Kenya’s unlikely answer to Shakespeare’s play King Lear. His political journey mirrors Lear’s tragic arc: a man of towering influence, undone not by lack of vision or hard work, but by the cruel interplay of fate, loyalty, and flawed systems. Odinga’s legacy, like Lear’s, will be debated for generations. Already, the debate is raging across the country—in face-to-face discussions, but especially on online platforms—about what Odinga said and what it means for our politics.

Odinga compares with King Lear in three ways: the arc of tragedy, generational burden, and political heartbreak. Firstly, like King Lear, Raila is a tragic hero who wrestles but is unable to bend the destiny arc. Lear divides his kingdom among his daughters, making mistakes in the process and suffering a reversal of fortune for it. For Odinga, after decades of struggle and near-victories for Kenya's top seat, he seemed destined for triumph—only for the end to be a stunning reversal of fortunes, King Lear-style. Both figures start with immense promise and political stature, are always surrounded by loyalists and hangers-on, and experience a fall from grace not due to lack of merit, but due to systems arrayed against them, betrayals, and fate.

Secondly, there is generational burden. Lear’s tragedy is deeply tied to his role as a father and king—his decisions fracture his family and kingdom. Odinga, son of Kenya’s first Vice President, Jaramogi Oginga Odinga, inherited a political legacy that he tried to fulfil but never fully realized, because he did not ascend to Kenya’s top seat.

Thirdly, there is dramatic persona. Lear’s descent is marked by emotional vulnerability, poetic speeches, and deep introspection. Odinga, often called “Baba,” carried a mythic aura—his campaigns were filled with drama and hope, and ended in real heartbreak and tears for his supporters, who saw him as a father figure, a liberator, and a symbol of resistance.

Odinga was a hopeless romantic, conjuring up visions of the Promised Land—that hoped-for paradise, tinged with tragedy, but flowing with milk and honey. He remained hopeful, resilient, sometimes almost messianic—especially in the face of electoral setbacks. The Germans have a word for it: Weltanschauung—a powerful term that translates literally to “worldview,” encompassing one’s beliefs, values, and understanding of reality. Weltanschauung is shaped not just by rational thought but also by emotion, experience, and culture. This was Odinga territory. His supporters were carried on the wings of this hope for a better Kenya. His ideological framework was for a free, just, equitable and prosperous country. May we all work towards that dream. If we do, we’ll be fulfilling Baba’s dream for Kenya.

The writer is a memoirist and book publisher based in Nairobi.

johnmwazemba@gmail.com