Before I knew Raila Odinga, I feared him. I knew only the public image shaped by narratives portraying him as a dangerous enemy. Yet, year after year, he attended my father’s memorial services.
I later understood the historical roots of their bond: the profound friendship between my father, JM Kariuki, and Jaramogi Oginga Odinga, as testified to by my father’s book dedicated to Jaramogi.
In 2008, after completing I Am My Father’s Daughter, I invited President Mwai Kibaki and then Prime Minister Raila to its launch. I prayed that whoever responded first would be the leader I was meant to serve alongside. Raila replied promptly. Even my sceptical relatives were surprised by his warmth, approachability and humility.
In 2012, I joined his presidential campaign as field operations team leader. He called me “Rosie”, and I witnessed his character first-hand. But my community was suspicious. Some friends ignored me; others accused me of betraying my community as a Kikuyu woman.
That year, Raila also helped correct a historical wrong. After I approached Prof Anyang’ Nyong’o about renaming the Ol Kalou hospital my father had built, Raila renamed the facility in my father’s honour. Before the ceremony, he visited our family home and became the first senior sitting government official in decades to lay a wreath at my father’s grave in Gilgil.
My mother, Doris Nyambura, was overwhelmed with joy. She gifted him a traditional stool and my father’s cherished metallic cup with a glass bottom, through which he could see the person opposite him after finishing his drink.
In 2013, I joined ODM as membership director. Raila trusted and defended me despite questions about appointing a Kikuyu woman. My first assignment, representing ODM at an African Liberal Network meeting, showed me the respect his name commanded.
I also witnessed his quiet generosity. A man seeking help with a fundraiser for his sick wife discovered Sh900,000 in his bank account the day before the event. Raila had deposited the money himself, without publicity.
In 2016, when my mother brought him a pressing matter, he called President Uhuru Kenyatta. Within minutes, it was resolved, and he handed her the phone to speak directly to the President. His care for my mother remains an unforgettable lesson in leadership.
During ODM’s 2022 National Delegates Conference, he questioned my plans for expensive security and delegate transport, asking, “Why waste money?” He believed in moderation and efficiency.
His mind was a living archive. At the 50th anniversary of my father’s assassination last year, he corrected my caption identifying a photograph as showing the first post-independence Cabinet. He then recalled the first Cabinet’s eight members and their backgrounds.
Our last conversations were in 2025, before and after my surgery. He wished me well, and I told him my mother hoped to see him. He needed a few days’ rest. That meeting never happened.
While others called him Baba, Jakom or Tinga, Buke and I called him Kabaka, after the king of the Buganda Kingdom.
He nominated me for my final assignment as Nairobi county CECM for inclusivity, public participation and customer service.
Until we meet again, kwaheri to my mentor, my friend and the king whose heart knew no tribe.
The writer is the daughter of JM Kariuki, the former MP for Nyandarua North, who was assassinated in 1975.
