By the Idler-in-Chief
This column exists to make you laugh, but I do not expect laughter today because it would be the surest sign that one’s mind has lost sound.
You see, the Nyagenkeans have unanimously agreed that death is stupid.
Snatching Agwambo from the world?
That’s not strategy but stupidity on a celestial scale.
If death were an elected office, we’d impeach it immediately for gross misconduct.
You see this time, death, that ancient fool blundered into the living room of history wearing muddy shoes, mumbling something about routine collection.
Without a trace of shame, it carried away the one man Kinya still needed in her unfinished chapter; Raila Amolo Odinga, the heartbeat of resistance, and, if we are honest, the king Kinya never had but deserved.
Even here in the noisy republic of Nyagenke, the home of laughter and laziness, where funerals are sacred zones of silence, the air has changed.
You can taste the grief.
The market women have stopped arguing about sukuma mwaka prices, and the goats are bleating in low tones, having joined the owners in mourning the man only death could return to Opoda, not to sell fish and fry mandazi, but to rest.
Even the notorious Nyagenke Jalopy, which has survived every pothole from here to Modogashe, refused to start on Thursday, perhaps in protest, or maybe in disbelief that the only man who could unite hustlers and dynasties in a single rally joined the angels for a dance.
Truly, this is not the kind of death one whispers about over tea.
This is the kind that shakes mountains, confuses governments and earns Nyagenke Airways’ Boeing a new name.
For once, even the mighty have been sleepless.
Security chiefs, who normally frown only when fuel prices rise, have stayed awake to choreograph grief.
The government, usually accused of being allergic to competence, has suddenly discovered efficiency in honour of the Enigma of Kinyan politricks.
And yet, deep in my idle heart, a wild thought keeps intruding: what if Baba, the great master of political resurrection, isn’t quite done?
What if, at that precise moment when the choir hits the high note and the priest’s voice trembles, the coffin lid creaks, and, out he rises, dusting off his handkerchief, adjusting his flywhisk, and saying, in that calm, defiant tone of his: “Hayaaaa! Relax, my people, I’m not going anywhere.”
I can see the bishops collapsing in sudden confusion, generals saluting by instinct, and women screaming with joy and disbelief.
The king himself would probably drop his speech mid-sentence and offer early Xmas break on the spot.
For that is the kind of man Baba was; one who could make power tremble and ordinary folk dance in the same breath.
Now! The stupid thing about death is that it takes the best and leaves us with traffic.
It thinks it has the final word, but men like Raila are not paragraphs but whole books written in the ink of conviction.
You can’t bury conviction; it simply changes address.
Even in the grave, Baba will likely whisper into the winds over Kinya, stirring storms of conscience in those who still pretend not to hear.
I’m comforted because here in Nyagenke, we have our own way of understanding legends.
When a great baobab falls, we don’t rush to plant another but sit under the stump and tell stories until the roots start humming again.
And that’s exactly what we are doing for Baba.
We sit by our fires, replaying his parables: the orange that became a party, the donkey that became a symbol of struggle, the handshakes that tamed tempests.
So let the world mourn with us.
Let rivers overflow with tears and flags dance low.
Now he’s gone, and we are left staring at the sky, wondering who will remind us that democracy is not a spectator sport.
But as we mourn and sing and wipe our eyes, we know one thing: Baba may have gone, but the idea of him refuses to die.
And so, to death I say: you are stupid, you are greedy, and you have terrible timing.
You may have won this round, but you’ll never understand the man you took.
Because Joshua Raila Amolo Odinga aka Baba aka Tinga aka Agwambo is watching how we handle the unfinished business of crossing over to Canaan.
Dear reader, let’s whisper to the wind: Rest easy, Baba; even death can’t steal your legacy.
Let’s laugh next week!
-babahezel@gmail.com