When we parted ways here last week, our plans to visit Kang’o ka Jaramogi — where the remains of Baba were buried — and then Opoda Farm, to see Baba’s family led by Mama Ida, were complete. We had drawn up the list of all those going, secured a car, received some money for fuel and refreshments, and even picked our outfits.
I had settled on my special-occasion, long-sleeved, blue-pocketed polyester Kaunda suit — the one I last wore when we visited Nzomo’s home in Nunguni two years ago. The night before the trip, just as I was about to sleep, I received several “please call me” messages. They were from my father. When I called him back, he said,
“Please open the gate, we want to see you,” he said.
With my father were Alphayo, Rasto and Hitler. Rasto, being the oldest, said he would speak on their behalf.
“My son, we understand you’re planning to go to Raila’s funeral tomorrow, right?” I nodded.
“That is very good,” he said. “However, there are things you must know before you leave. That’s why we are here.”
“Raila was not a baby. He was an elder — a respected leader in society — and his funeral attendance cannot be taken lightly.”
He went on. “This visit is good, but there are three mistakes in your plan,” he said. “First, Raila was an elder; only fellow elders can lead such a delegation. I have heard the names on your list, and there is not a single elder among them. The MCA is just a boy, and Maina is not from Mwisho wa Lami, so he cannot represent Mwisho wa Lami.”
“You are not, my son,” said my father. “I am still alive, and unless I have sent you to represent me, we are the rightful people to head that delegation.”
They asked if we had any gift. “We just wanted to visit the grave, greet Mama Ida, and maybe contribute something small — even Sh2,000 in an envelope.”
Alphayo, who had been quiet all along, suddenly burst out:
“You cannot mourn a man like Raila with money in an envelope! You need a bull to visit his grave. That’s the only proper way to honour such a man. Going there empty-handed will bring a curse to Mwisho wa Lami!”
“Wazee, Raila’s family has been receiving a lot of cattle…”
“It will be an abomination,” snapped Rasto. “Even if you have no bull, at least carry a goat. But not chickens! Chickens are for women.”
I dismissed their last point when they said only men could make such a trip. I told them that I had heard them and would consult the others.
A view of the Jaramogi Oginga Odinga Mausoleum at Kang'o ka Jaramogi in Bondo, Siaya County.
Photo credit: File | Nation
“No, Dre,” said Rasto firmly. “We are not here to request — we are here to inform you that we will be part of the team. You must accommodate us in the car. We will be here at 9am when you leave!”
We had already formed a WhatsApp group for all those travelling. I quickly typed what had transpired and we agreed to change the departure point and time. We would all meet at Kasuku’s Annex, a branch of Kasuku’s Bar and Restaurant, about two kilometres away from Mwisho wa Lami.
“Please, let’s all meet there at 8am,” I wrote.
I also reminded everyone to come with chickens, since we couldn’t go empty-handed. Early Sunday morning, Nyayo picked Fiolina and I up on his boda and dropped us at Kasuku Annex. As expected, we were the first to arrive. Soon, Nyayo came with his wife Anindo, then Caro, then the MCA with a few others. Maina arrived shortly after us, but without the car.
“The vehicle is delivering something not far from here, it will be here by 9.30am, “Don’t worry, Bondo is near. We’ll be there before noon.”
Meanwhile, my phone was ringing non-stop. My father, Alphayo, and Hitler kept calling. I didn’t pick up. By 10am, Fiolina handed me her phone — it was my father.
“Where are you?” he asked. “We’re already on our way to Bondo,” I lied.
“Ah, there was a change of plans,” I said. “Mmetupuuza! Wacha tuone!” he shouted before hanging up.
Around 10.30 am, Maina’s car finally arrived. It had been carrying bricks, and it was dusty, dented, and smoking like a witchdoctor’s shrine. The driver took his sweet time to clean it up, and we finally boarded, leaving at around 11am. We hadn’t gone far before the driver stopped and parked by the roadside.
“We have a puncture,” he announced calmly. A puncture shouldn’t take long — until we learnt he had no spare tyre. A boda boda was sent back to take the punctured tyre for fixing. That took another hour. When we finally hit the tarmac, I noticed some strange behaviour. Quite often, the driver would leave the main road, weave through villages, then return to the tarmac. I later learnt he was avoiding police roadblocks since he had no proper documentation. A few minutes after Maseno, the car stopped again — this time, no fuel. The MCA was visibly upset.
The grave where former Prime Minister Raila Odinga will be laid to rest at Kang'o Ka Jaramogi in Bondo on October 19, 2025.
Photo credit: Alex Odhiambo | Nation
Maina demanded that I give him more money for fuel, claiming that I had given him “very little.” Carrying a small jerrican, the driver took a boda to a petrol station — another hour lost. A few minutes after Kisiani, the driver cursed loudly. There was a roadblock ahead, and he didn’t have time to turn back. The police stopped us. The Nissan had no valid documents — nor did the driver. Maina asked us to relax, assuring us he would “sort out the issue.” He came back later looking defeated.
“They’re asking for ten thousand,” he said.
The MCA was furious and was soon on his phone, making heated calls. A few minutes later, a pickup arrived, and the MCA and his wife quietly entered it and left. Negotiations with the police dragged on, and by the time we were released, it was almost 4pm. We were tired, hungry, and dusty. At the next town, we stopped to eat something. They only had tea and scones, but at that point, anything was food. Nobody had the psyche to continue with the journey — it was already past 4pm, and we couldn’t even tell how far we were from Bondo. We decided to turn back home.
The journey back was long and quiet. Twice, the car broke down again, and nobody spoke as the driver fixed it. It was well past 8pm when we arrived home — tired, hungry, and dejected. But that wasn’t the only problem. Nyayo mentioned that the chicken we had carried for the trip couldn’t be taken back home — otherwise, we’d be inviting bad luck and death. It had to be thrown into the forest. There were five chickens in total, and Nyayo, together with Maina’s driver, volunteered to throw them into the forest. I needed no calculator to know that they did not throw them away — but I was too tired and too disappointed to think about it. I just went to sleep.
Dear Baba, despite all this, I will still come to your grave before the end of the year.
