It's 6.30am as I write this letter, exact time when George Magoha loved to hold meetings at Kenya Institute of Curriculum Development.
But those meetings that took place when we were tucked in our chairs happened only once in a while.
Most of the time we were out in the slums, in schools, and in institutions – what became his trademark.
The one time I was held in traffic, I got to KICD at around 7.15. I met his three Prados leaving the premises. That's how I missed attending the event.
I know you know we used to refer to you as Joji; it’s because you had a softer side that most people never got to encounter. But I am glad to be among the few who saw you as Joji and not George Albert Omore Magoha all the time.
“Young girl from the Star, leo hauna swali tena?” you posed.
“Shika hizi sausage ukule. Mimi nitakula mahindi na nduma, you know am an old man sitaki junk,” you told me on one occasion.
When the news hit media houses that you were gone, one thing kept striking my thoughts.
I was planning to visit your clinic at Nairobi Hospital, even though I don’t have any problems passing the ‘river.’
My fellow journalist, a TV presenter, and I were planning to visit you, to know how life is outside Jogoo House, KNEC, and the UoN.
"At the reception just show them your press card and they will let you come in," you said.
But it was too late. I was in denial of your demise for around three hours until reality hit me, that Joji, you were no more.
My heart bled for Grade 7 students, whom you would have really liked to witness their transition to junior secondary.
But your efforts and firm stand in CBC and the education sector will be unforgettable.
On Wednesday as your procession snaked through Nairobi, one thing kept lingering in my mind. When you were alive we ran around with you, and even in your death we still ran around with you.
We would follow your convoy around three schools, just like the procession followed through four stations.
As I walked into KNEC offices and saw the Kenyan theme decoration I remembered the anxieties we had at the gate waiting for you to finish presenting the results in State House.
The KICD choir would be singing songs of joy in anticipation of results. A van would park next to the gate waiting to serve us delicacies.
A red carpet from the gate set up waiting for you and your team.
Education officials walk around in small groups carrying papers which I think were their speeches.
But on Wednesday, February 9, a wider red carpet had to be set up, for the hearse to fit.
The KICD choir sang slow sad songs. Officials sat in silence holding flowers, a somber mood engulfed Dennis Pritt surroundings.
As you are laid to rest, Joji, I will not forget the love you had for children in slums.
You crossed filthy rivers, jumped trenches, passed by rusty iron sheets and impassable roads, just to pick children and take them to school.
I cannot forget one child who stayed with her family in a single room in Kawangware. She was the first born and the first one to step into secondary school in her family, because of you Joji.
The joy on the girl's face when she finally wore the secondary school uniform was unmissable.
To this end I know Magoha son of Magoha will not rest, you will shine on your way just as you shined in the education sector.
Shine on, Prof.
