ROSEMARY: Raila my mentor, friend and king whose heart knew no tribe

To the world, he was the giant, the visionary leader whose decades of struggle defined our democracy. To me, he was the unwavering mentor and the quiet defender of the JM Kariuki legacy.

In the wake of that monumental loss of my assassinated father, JM Kariuki in 1975, it was Mama Ida Odinga who provided a sanctuary. She took me under her wing, watching over me with a quiet kindness that provided stability when my world was fractured.

That act of grace marked the beginning of my true connection to the Odinga family, long before I understood the depth of the enduring bond that would later form between Raila and me.

Before I ever knew him, I carried a profound fear of Raila. I had only the public image to go by: the narratives and rumours that distorted his character and painted him as a dangerous, tribal enemy.

Yet, year after year, when my father’s annual memorial services took place, he never failed to attend. It was here, away from the political stage that the distorted public image crumbled. He was warm with a softness that utterly contradicted the stories I had been told.

I later came to understand the historical roots of this affinity: the profound, quiet friendship that existed between my father and Jaramogi Oginga Odinga.

A book my father dedicated to Jaramogi was a testament to their shared purpose. Their bond was rooted in a common ideal — a fair nation where one’s tribe or birthplace did not dictate justice and opportunity.

The test of my own calling came in 2008. I had completed my book, I Am My Father’s Daughter. For the launch, I invited two key figures: President Mwai Kibaki and Raila, who was then serving as Prime Minister.

I made a silent vow, a prayer to God: whoever responded first would be the leader I was meant to serve alongside. As fate would have it, Raila was the one who replied, and he did so promptly.

Even my skeptical relatives were genuinely surprised, whispering their disbelief at how warm, approachable and truly humble he was. My season had arrived.

In 2012, I joined Raila’s presidential campaign in the field operations team. This was the year I experienced the depth of his character. He called me “Rosie”. I saw how he operated daily, meticulously avoiding any trace of tribal tone, always focused on a national agenda.

The real challenge, however, came from my own community. The suspicion was palpable. Some friends ignored me, others grilled me with cold accusations, treating my decision as a betrayal by a Kikuyu woman. What they did not know was the sheer naivety with which I entered that world.

This was literally my first professional job.

That same year, Raila demonstrated his unique dedication to correcting historical wrongs. I approached Prof Anyang’ Nyong’o with a request: please rename the hospital in Ol Kalou, which my father had built, in his honour.

The professor not only agreed but promised they would upgrade the facility. Raila formally executed the renaming in 2012. That day was monumental. Before the hospital ceremony, Raila came to our family home to pay his respects.

He became the first sitting senior government official in decades to lay a wreath at my father’s grave in Gilgil since his funeral in March 1975. My father had been forgotten and his sacrifice ignored by successive administrations.

My mother Doris Nyambura was overcome with joy. She gave Raila a special, cherished gift: a traditional stool and my father’s favourite metallic cup with a glass bottom. My father treasured it because, upon finishing his drink, he could still see the person opposite him.

In 2013, I joined the Orange Democratic Movement, as a membership director. I was acutely aware that many questioned his decision to appoint a Kikuyu woman. But his trust was absolute. He defended and entrusted me immediately. 

My very first assignment was to represent the party at the African Liberal Network meeting. I was genuinely surprised by the level of respect and deference I received simply because I represented his name.

The following year, I decided to run for vice-president of East Africa for the ALN. When I told Raila, he chuckled and asked if I had campaign funds. I admitted I had none. His advice was characteristically astute.

With that encouragement, I applied myself with nothing but faith. As fate would have it, I won. When I shared the news, he looked at me and said, “Good girl, Rosie.”  He was incredibly fond of me, always calling me Rosie.

I often wondered if the tenderness in his voice was because I was a namesake of his own daughter. He would speak to me with a tone that was both affectionate and firm.

My late brother, Anthony Kariuki, provided the perfect perspective on his true power. Whenever I felt despair after a lost presidential election, Anthony would remind me and ask, “Why are you sad, yet he leads this country even without a seat?” My brother was right. Raila did not need a title to hold sway over the nation’s conscience.

In the party, I witnessed his quiet, powerful philanthropy. A man from Rift Valley once approached him, desperately seeking assistance for his sick wife’s fundraiser. As the date approached, the man lost hope, thinking Raila was too busy.

The day before the event, however, the man went to the bank and discovered his account held an additional Sh900.000. Confused, he discovered that the former ODM leader had deposited the money himself, a gift made without fanfare or public mention. Such was his philanthropy.

This was proven again when my own mother, Doris Nyambura, had a serious matter in 2016 that she felt only Raila could resolve. When I took her to him, he listened to her, grasped the urgency and then called President Uhuru Kenyatta. Within minutes, the matter was resolved.

He then passed the phone to my mother so the President could speak to her directly. The deep respect and care he showed my mother that day remains an unforgettable lesson in leadership and human decency.

Something often overlooked about Raila was his rigorous discipline and his absolute abhorrence of wastage. Every shilling had to have a clear, demonstrable purpose. In 2022, during the national delegates conference, I oversaw logistics.

We were planning for expensive measures like extra security and busing delegates. He called me and demanded, “Why waste money?” He believed in moderation and efficiency. The event was a success without the unnecessary expenditure he had cautioned against.

Raila’s mind was a living archive. Earlier this year, on the 50th anniversary of my father’s assassination, I brought him pictures for the mausoleum, including one I labelled as the “first post-Independence Cabinet”. He corrected me instantly: “This was not the first Cabinet.” He then proceeded to school me with a history lesson, recalling the names, regions and context of the very first eight members of the Cabinet. He inspired everyone to be patriotic and to understand the rich, complex history of our nation.

My last conversation with him was just before I had a medical procedure in June when he wished me well with genuine sympathy. When I called last month to update him on my progress, he answered, “Yes, Rosie,” in that familiar warm voice.

I told him the surgery was successful and mentioned my mother wished to see him. He regretfully said he had been given medication and needed a few days’ rest. I planned to reach out later this month to allow him to rest. It was never to be.

While many people called him Baba, and others Jakom or Tinga, Wafule Buke and I had our own way of honouring him. Buke held my hand when I first joined politics and guided me through those early, complex days. He taught me a different name for Raila, one that reflected the respect and admiration we quietly held for him.

Together, we called him Kabaka, after the king of the Baganda Kingdom, and Buke would sometimes jokingly refer to him as the Pope because of the power he wielded. But on many occasions he was simply Mzee to us, out of deep respect we held for him.

Raila entrusted me with my final official assignment by nominating me to serve as county executive for inclusivity, public participation and customer service in Nairobi. He believed in my ability to lead, and that is a responsibility I carry forward with pride.

I owe it to my late father, to Raila, and most importantly to myself to build that legacy, serving with the same dedication, selflessness and vision for our nation that he embodied. Until we meet again, Kwaheri to my mentor, my friend and the king whose heart knew no tribe.

The writer is county executive for inclusivity, public participation and customer service in Nairobi