We buried a hero on Sunday and crowned 'hypocrites' on Monday

As the nation slowly emerges from five solemn days of mourning and reflection — a rare collective pause to honour Raila Amolo Odinga, the man many fondly called Baba, the father of modern democracy — the country once again finds itself confronted with uncomfortable questions about the meaning of honour and integrity.

From the dusty lanes of Kibera to the manicured lawns of State House, from boda riders in Kisumu to mama mboga in Muthurwa Market, and even from the pulpits of Nyeri, Kenyans united in grief and gratitude for a man whose life embodied sacrifice and conviction.

On Sunday, we laid him to rest at his father’s home in Bondo, as political leaders, clergy, and citizens from all walks of life pledged to carry forward his legacy of selfless service and unyielding commitment to justice.

Yet, barely 24 hours later — before the flowers on his grave could even wilt — Kenya slipped back into business as usual. On Mashujaa Day, as the nation celebrated more than 180 individuals nominated as “heroes”, Parliament’s “honour roll” stood out like a scar on our collective conscience.

Parliament released a list of 60 nominees for national honours, dominated by elected politicians. The list included 11 senators, 35 Members of the National Assembly, and 14 senior government officials, nominated under the Elder, Chief, and Moran of the Order of the Burning Spear categories. Individuals whose reputations are forever soiled by drama.

The irony could not have been sharper, coming barely a day after Kenya buried Raila — a man whose entire life embodied integrity, sacrifice, and the fight against impunity — as eulogised by many of the very individuals who went on to preside over these questionable honours.

Sting deeply

The list had been compiled long before Raila’s passing, but its timing and character now sting even more deeply. To watch such figures draped in the language of honour, barely a day after laying to rest a man whose life represented courage and integrity, was a painful contradiction. It forces the nation to ask whether integrity has ceased to matter in Kenya. Has political loyalty replaced virtue as the new definition of heroism?

Article 10 of the Kenyan Constitution enshrines the national values of integrity, good governance, and accountability. Yet the Mashujaa Day honours exposed how hollow these ideals have become.

Even in death, Raila’s life casts a long moral shadow over Kenya’s leadership. He stood for what was right, often at great personal cost. His sacrifices were not motivated by titles, wealth, or comfort, but by a stubborn faith that Kenya could be better, fairer, freer, and more humane. When he was eulogised and honoured throughout last week, Kenyans were not merely mourning a man; they were mourning the fading ideals he represented — courage, integrity, and truth-telling.

Culture of patronage

The Mashujaa Day contradiction revealed a deep moral crisis. It showed that Kenya’s political elite have mastered the art of symbolic gestures while stripping them of substance.

The country’s heroes are no longer measured by service or sacrifice, but by how close they stand to power. The culture of patronage has so thoroughly eroded the meaning of national honour that even the most questionable characters can now be celebrated without irony.

It is this normalisation of mediocrity that Raila spent his life resisting. For decades, he defied regimes that weaponised loyalty and fear to silence dissent. His resilience gave millions of Kenyans the courage to believe in something larger than themselves — the idea that power must serve the people, not the other way around.

But that conviction now faces its greatest test. In today’s Kenya, integrity has been redefined as a political inconvenience. The same leaders who spoke glowingly at Raila’s state funeral — when his body was brought in amid tears, hymns, and tributes, and social media flooded with messages about his values and reforms — have quickly reverted to their old ways. Their eloquent eulogies have given way to the familiar rhetoric of convenience. They speak of accountability while shielding the corrupt, preach unity while sowing division, and celebrate heroes while betraying the very values that define heroism.

The country is once again witnessing a dangerous inversion of values. The line between shame and honour, crime and patriotism, service and self-interest has blurred beyond recognition. When Parliament celebrates itself, it sends a chilling message — that public office alone qualifies one for honour. That is not heroism; it is self-adulation.

True heroes rarely celebrate themselves. They work quietly, often in obscurity, guided by conscience rather than applause. They are the teachers in neglected schools, the doctors in underfunded hospitals, the journalists who speak truth to power, and the ordinary citizens who refuse to give or take a bribe. They are the ones who keep this nation standing when those in power betray it.

Raila understood this truth. His struggle was never about personal recognition but about restoring dignity to the Kenyan dream. His brand of politics was rooted in sacrifice — the willingness to risk everything for what is right.

That is what sets him apart from those now paraded as heroes. His life reminded us that leadership is not about power but service; not about comfort but conviction.

The tragedy is that Kenya continues to produce leaders who prefer comfort to conviction. The ease with which they drift back into the politics of greed and deceit, even after moments of national reflection such as last week, shows how shallow our collective memory has become.

Old ways

The Mashujaa Day celebrations came just a day after Raila’s state funeral, drawing a sharp contrast between the weekend’s national reflection and the week’s honours event. The occasion, marked by the usual official ceremonies, speeches, and festivities, unfolded as the country was still processing the loss of a figure widely regarded as central to Kenya’s democratic journey.

If Raila’s life is to mean anything beyond the eulogies, it must awaken our national conscience. His death should not be a chapter closed, but a mirror held up to Kenya. It now raises a national question: what kind of country will Kenya choose to build in Raila’s memory — one where honours are tied to proximity to power, or one where merit, sacrifice, and public service define true greatness?

History tests nations in moments like these. It is not the speeches or ceremonies that define us, but the choices we make afterwards. The return to business as usual — to corruption, impunity, and deceit — is not just a political failure; it is moral decay.

Raila spent his life challenging systems that placed privilege above principle. To truly honour him is to continue that struggle, to restore integrity as the soul of our public life. Kenya does not lack heroes; it lacks the courage to recognise them.

Now the question is whether, after mourning Baba, we will also bury the ideals he lived for — or finally rise to defend them. His legacy is not a relic for the museum but a living challenge to every Kenyan, especially our leaders: to put the nation before self, principle before power, and justice before convenience.

This year’s Mashujaa Day honour roll failed that test spectacularly. As the country moves forward, the public sentiment stirred by recent events must translate into genuine resolve to uphold integrity and restore meaning to national honour.

The flowers on Raila’s grave have not yet wilted; the values he stood for still linger in the nation’s conscience.