Raila's farewell was Kenya's story told variously

Opinion
By Wanja Maina | Oct 26, 2025

When news broke that former Prime Minister Raila Odinga had died, Kenya fell silent. Radios stopped mid-song, television screens dimmed, and social media was filled with disbelief. For many, it was not just the loss of a political icon but the end of a defining chapter in the nation’s story.

From the moment of his death to the day he was laid to rest, the media became both storyteller and participant, shaping the nation’s farewell and framing how Kenyans understood Baba’s legacy.

I followed that journey from JKIA to Opoda Farm and later to Jaramogi Oginga Odinga University in Siaya. I witnessed professionalism, unity, and moments where journalism faltered, all of which influenced public perception.

When Baba’s body arrived at JKIA,  there was an air of sadness. People lined up the runway waving flags and wiping tears. Television vans stood in rows, cameras were positioned, and reporters rehearsed their lines quietly. When the casket, draped in the Kenyan flag, was carried down the aircraft steps, a profound silence swept across the crowd. Only the faint clicks of cameras and the hum of live broadcasts broke it. Coverage was deliberate and respectful.

At Opoda Farm, the grief became intimate. The homestead was filled with relatives, friends, and villagers, surrounded by journalists. What struck me most was the unity among media crews. One journalist held out four microphones, each branded differently so colleagues from other stations could capture the same sound. Others shared power cables, swapped batteries, and helped each other with lighting and audio setups.

The media also helped viewers understand cultural nuances. At Opoda, mourners raised traditional whisks, gestures of mourning, peace, and dignity in Luo culture. Then came the powerful cry of Jowi Jowi, a chant that rippled through the crowd and across television screens. The media explained that Jowi, which means buffalo, symbolizes strength, courage, and fearlessness. It is reserved for leaders whose presence shaped communities.

The diversity of mourners was remarkable and well captured by the media. Baba was mourned by Kenyans from all walks of life. Some walked for kilometres, their shoes worn and dusty, simply to pay tribute. Others rode boda bodas, hired vehicles, lorries, or fuel-guzzling SUVs.

Journalists interviewed them all, young and old, rich and poor, showing that grief did not discriminate. Every journey became part of the story. From small kibandas to hotels and living rooms, Kenyans watched and shared the coverage. Social media amplified the message further. Clips, photos, and livestreams spread rapidly, allowing even those far from Siaya to feel connected to the farewell, comment on proceedings, and express their emotions publicly.

Baba’s burial was a powerful mix of religion and culture. As an Anglican, he received Christian rites, and as a Luo, his funeral also observed traditional customs. The rituals, prayers, and ceremonies were carefully combined, showing that religion and culture can coexist. Media coverage highlighted this delicate balance, teaching viewers about the coexistence of faith and heritage in Kenya.

The funeral capped days of memorial events across the country, which at times were chaotic. Tens of thousands attended public viewings in Kisumu and Nairobi, filing past Baba’s open coffin, many crying out “we are orphans.” The media, both conventional and social, conveyed the scale of mourning and the deep connection Kenyans had with Baba.

Despite missteps, media coverage, amplified by social media, captured Kenya at its most united.

As cameras packed away, one thought lingered. This was not just Baba’s story, it was Kenya’s story told through many lenses.

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