Raila Odinga is gone, and Africa feels smaller. His death has left a deep quiet across the continent — the kind of silence that follows the passing of someone who carried more than his share of our collective history.
I was privileged to have known him and worked with him during some of the toughest years of his political life. He wasn’t just a politician to me; he was a man who lived for something bigger than himself — a fighter who refused to surrender, even when surrender might have been the easier choice.
He loved Kenya deeply, and through Kenya he loved Africa. Born in 1945 to Jaramogi Oginga Odinga, one of Kenya’s founding fathers, Raila inherited not privilege but responsibility. His life was marked by struggle long before he ever held office. He spent years in detention for daring to question a dictatorship. He was tortured, silenced and exiled from public life. But he came back — again and again — with the same belief that Kenya could, and must, be better.
I was privileged to have been present when Odinga first met his own hero, Nelson Mandela. In that room that day I witnessed something extraordinary — the moment two great men, both shaped by pain and purpose, combined their spirits and their energy. What passed between them was more than conversation; it was communion.
I heard and shared a vision for Africa that was inspired, optimistic and anchored in the art of the possible. Mandela spoke of forgiveness and unity; Odinga spoke of service and renewal. They understood one another instantly. Both believed leadership was not about power — it was about purpose.
Mandela was a humble man, as was Odinga, and what I remember most from that day was their combined humility transforming into greatness. It was a privilege to have been in Odinga’s orbit, as it was to have once stood in Mandela’s.
Fought for constitutional reform
Odinga stood in that difficult space between generations: between those who fought to end colonial rule and those now struggling to define what freedom truly means. He was not flawless. He could be stubborn, even obstinate. But he was steadfast. He pushed Kenya towards multiparty democracy, fought for constitutional reform, and forced a country long numbed by cynicism to believe that integrity in politics was still possible.
The young people of Kenya saw something of themselves in him. They recognised in his defiance a reflection of their own frustration with a system that has too often failed them. He didn’t dismiss their anger — he understood it. He had lived it.
In his later years, when Kenya’s Gen Z began to rise up demanding jobs, fairness and accountability, Odinga stood with them. He listened. He spoke their language even when they challenged him because he understood that their courage came from the same place as his own — a love for country that refuses to die.
For many of those young people, Odinga was proof that conviction still matters. He was living evidence that you could stand up to power and still walk tall. But he also carried the contradictions that come with a lifetime in politics. He compromised when the moment demanded peace over purity. He made uneasy alliances and he lost friends along the way.
He disappointed some who believed he could be the one to finally deliver the change he had promised. Yet through it all, he never stopped believing in the cause that defined his life — the belief that democracy must mean dignity, and that the job of leadership is to serve, not to rule.
Kenya’s story is in many ways Africa’s story. A nation born from colonial pain and promise, blessed with talent and resources yet burdened by greed and misrule. Odinga understood this contradiction more than most. He knew true leadership in Africa was not about claiming victory — it was about keeping faith. He knew that the measure of a leader was not how loudly he spoke but how deeply he listened.
Even in his defeats he showed a kind of grace that only comes from moral certainty. When others were tempted to burn everything down, he sought to build bridges. He was willing to lose if it meant the country could heal. That doesn’t make him a saint, but it does make him rare.
Two burdens
His death reminds us of a hard truth: Africa’s greatest leaders have always carried two burdens — the struggle to free their people and the struggle to live up to that freedom once it is won. Odinga bore both with courage. He did not live to see all he dreamed of, but he kept the dream alive for those who will.
Now that dream belongs to the young — to the generation that no longer believes in heroes but still believes in hope. They will need to learn from Odinga’s fire, but also from his flaws. They must build movements, not cults. They must demand honesty from their leaders and from themselves. Above all, they must understand what Odinga never forgot: that power without purpose is poison, and that the real victory lies not in taking power but in using it for others.
I mourn Raila Odinga as a friend and a man of immense heart. He laughed loudly, argued fiercely and never lost his sense of humour even when history weighed heavily on his shoulders. He could be infuriating, yes, but never indifferent. His heart beat for Kenya, but his vision stretched across Africa. He wanted to see a continent led by those who understood that leadership is service, not status.
Odinga’s life was a long and imperfect march towards justice. He stumbled, he rose, he kept walking. And in doing so he showed us something precious — that leadership, at its best, is not about perfection but about persistence. His story is not just Kenya’s; it belongs to every African who still believes in the possibility of better.
Odinga is gone, but his light hasn’t gone out. It burns now in the hearts of the young, in the restless hope of a new generation determined to finish what he began. That, more than any office he ever held, is the measure of his legacy.
• Ichikowitz, an industrialist and philanthropist, chairs the Ichikowitz Family Foundation, which runs the African Youth Survey.
