Hon. Raila Odinga: A Memoir of a Life Lived in the Shadows

The Enigmatic Legacy of Raila Odinga

Former Prime Minister Raila Odinga was a politician whose words were unquenchable, inextinguishable, and infinitely curious. He always seemed to be in a kind of convulsive rush, leaping across the airwaves to confront us. Whether we agreed with him or not, his appeals were personal and passionate. Sometimes they were tearful, at other times teasing, often humorous, but never dull. But who was he? What made him tick? A lifetime was apparently not enough to answer these questions. As he passed away on Wednesday, 15 October 2025, death only deepened his mystery.

In his memoir, The Flame of Freedom, Hon. Odinga emerges in the poignant voice of autobiography and pierces us. This voice, amplified, communicates his aloneness, his “unknownness.” Paradoxically, he has always been largely unknown to his people. Yet, this sense of opaqueness, of his hidden life, is precisely what gives him authenticity. An inscrutable subjectivity haunts his memoir. The portrait of this singular figure is, of necessity, incomplete. As the book shines a light, the man Odinga remains enigmatic, as though he holds a secret, lingering in the shadows.

The Dream Subject of Memoir

Hon. Odinga was the memoirist’s dream subject because of the richness of his life. In memoir, there is a seepage between author and subject that runs both ways. Across a threshold of susceptibility, the memoirist is touched by the subject. Memoirists work slowly, all at once, and always on someone else’s terms. When the dream subject is Hon. Odinga, it becomes harder. I could only catch a fractured glimpse of the man who seemed to slip through my grasp, always out of reach. His calendar was a world full of appointments.

Like a rare bird, he left behind only brief sightings—snatches of conversation, half-finished sentences, and half-heard laughter. He could be landing at Kisumu’s rippling Lake Victoria runway, disembarking at Berlin’s sleek terminals, slipping into Addis Ababa amid the rumble of high heels on marble floors, or hiding behind the bougainvillea-clad walls of his house in Karen, Nairobi.

A Fateful Encounter

Then one morning, on Thursday, 3 July 2025, I got the opportunity to meet him. I drove through the half-heartedness of Nairobi rain, enveloped in the haze of diesel fumes and the menacing snarl of boda bodas (motorbikes). The landscape flattened, and the visible horizon expanded in every direction, making the sky grow bigger and more vaulted. Matatus, with graffiti-washed flanks, bore down on the road, careening past me like rabid dogs in a crescendo of honks, revving engines, and shouts.

On the drive, I pictured his father, Jaramogi Oginga Odinga—moustachioed in the sepia photographs I had seen, looming like a shadow beside the austere Mzee Jomo Kenyatta. The flywhisk he held seemed to ooze raw power. Like father, like son: Jaramogi and Odinga, in the tangled thread of destiny, were born restless in a land quick to dim the lights of sons it considered rebellious. Two men in one country flirting with things that are quite dangerous, at great personal cost.

The two men sacrificed greatly as they opposed oppressive regimes. They had the stubborn patience required to stay alive in a country that loved nothing more than to chew up its sons. Though sometimes exhausted from the losses and devastation of seeing Kenya’s social structure overthrown, they contributed to moving it from the brink with tottering steps, putting her back on the march towards her exalted destiny.

The Arrival of a Legend

I reached the venue a few minutes before Hon. Odinga arrived. Then his convoy nosed up the drive. The cars were immaculate—pristine chrome, spotless windows, police lights washing the compound walls in sapphire and scarlet pulses. There was a metallic hiss, and then the lead car eased to a stop with precise finality. Other cars whispered to a halt, their taillights flashing like disco lights.

One of the guards stepped out before the driver had shifted to park. He circled, hand already on the rear passenger door, scanning the empty air as if for a security threat. The door opened, but only after a pause—an orchestrated beat—so that Hon. Raila, when he stepped out of the car, could do so with the dignity reserved for men whose faces had been stamped on presidential ballots.

He stepped out. Ahead, the house waited. He walked the distance to the door and into his office. A few other people and I were ushered into another room to wait for him. Occasionally, we looked at the door expectantly. Then, at first, I saw the silhouette of the man through the transparent glass part of the door. I expected aides, a phalanx of men in suits to rush in first, but Hon. Raila walked into the room alone. The air conditioning hummed. For a few seconds, the man who had once brought Kenya to the edge of mutiny stood before me before he took his seat.

A Moment of Connection

It would have been easy to mistake him for a tired man. His voice was gentle, occasionally hesitant. His hands stayed folded on the desk. Yet there was something else, a subliminal current that ran beneath the stillness. We shared a meal—rice, beef, chicken, both white and brown ugali, and other delicacies—while the clink of cutlery punctuated his stories.

And then later, we got into business. “What do you think about your second memoir?” I asked. “I am fine with it. Let’s do it,” he said, looking at me, kindly yet intensely.

As I left Hon. Odinga’s office that day, I was glad for the things he had said, but many things remained unsaid. I felt the way a man feels behind a half-opened door. I hoped the door would open fully for me to do his second volume of memoirs covering 2013-2025, with the working title The Flame Rekindled. This was not to be.

The Unfinished Story

Hon. Odinga's life was a tapestry woven with threads of triumph and tragedy. His story is not just his own; it resonates with the struggles and aspirations of many. Each chapter of his life is a testament to resilience, a reminder that our stories, no matter how complex, deserve to be told.

As I reflect on my encounter with him, I realize that every moment spent with him was a lesson in humility and strength. His legacy is not just in the political arena but also in the hearts of those who dare to dream.

In the end, we are all memoirists of our own lives. We carry our stories within us, waiting for the right moment to share them. Hon. Odinga's life encourages us to embrace our narratives, to write boldly, and to ensure that our legacies are beautifully chronicled and preserved for future generations.

So, let us take inspiration from his journey. Let us write our memoirs, capturing the essence of who we are and where we come from. After all, every story matters, and every voice deserves to be heard.

In this pursuit, I invite you to explore the art of memoir writing. It is a journey worth taking, filled with discovery and reflection. And who knows? You might just find that your story is the one that needs to be told.