I’m mourning Raila. Not the politician the headlines wrote about, but the man who carried our collective pain and turned it into hope. He believed this country could be fair, honest, and kind to its people. He walked where others feared to walk, stood when others knelt, and spoke when silence was safer. Now that he’s gone, the question burns: will we keep fighting for the truth he lived for, or will fear and fatigue bury his dream with him?
He has given us the baton. The struggle is now in our hands. This isn’t the time to retreat. It is the time to rise, to organize, and to remind ourselves that justice is not a favor we beg for — it is a right we defend. The powerful want us tired, divided, and silent. But we owe Raila, and ourselves, something greater. We owe Kenya our courage. History never forgives a generation that watches freedom fade while it still has breath to speak.
I was angry with him when he joined Ruto. I felt betrayed. I thought he had forgotten the people. But grief changes how we see things. Maybe he was trying to hold a broken country together, maybe he saw what we didn’t. What matters now is not where he fell short, but what we do next. Because if we stop fighting, everything he stood for dies with him. The revolution doesn’t die because a leader falls; it dies when the people stop believing that change is possible.
Justice and truth are not slogans; they are the heartbeat of a nation. They are what make a country worth living in. Without them, we become slaves to greed, to fear, to the same old story of betrayal. Every young Kenyan who still dreams of a better nation must understand this — the revolution has not ended; it has only changed hands. Raila lit the fire; it is our turn to keep it burning even when the winds of oppression blow hardest.
There’s terror inside me tonight. A fear that this fire will fade, that we will return to the comfort of hopelessness. But we cannot. We must not. Raila’s death must become a mirror forcing us to look at ourselves and ask: what kind of Kenya do we want to build? Do we want one where truth is punished and thieves are crowned? Or one where honesty is strength and power serves the people? That choice is ours now.
The fight ahead will not be easy. It never was. But the future belongs to those who refuse to surrender. We must speak truth even when it shakes our voices. We must protest even when it costs us our peace. We must vote, build, and believe again — not because it is simple, but because it is right. If we keep quiet, we become accomplices in our own suffering. Silence is the slow death of freedom.
Raila carried the dream this far. Now it is on us to carry it home. We cannot let his fire die in the hands of the same people who betrayed him. Every street, every voice, every act of courage must declare one thing — Kenya will rise. We will rise. The dream of justice and truth will live because we refuse to bury it. That is how we honor him: by becoming the generation that finished what he started.
To fight for justice is to accept that peace without fairness is just another prison. Many will call us stubborn, but so were the ones who built this country from chains. The price of truth is high, but the cost of lies is higher. Every time a Kenyan says “enough,” the system trembles a little. That is how real change begins — not in palaces, but in ordinary hearts refusing to be broken.
Some nights, I imagine him watching us — not angry, not disappointed, but waiting. Waiting to see whether we will continue the work. Waiting to see if his dream still lives in the streets he loved. I think he would tell us not to cry too long, not to give too much power to grief. He would tell us to organize, to unite, and to fight smarter than before. He would remind us that victory is not an event, it is a journey.
We have buried too many heroes. Too many voices that dared to speak truth to power. We cannot keep lighting candles for the dead while letting the living be silenced. The government fears organized hope more than it fears anger. That is why our unity is the most dangerous weapon we possess. They can kill one man, but not an idea whose time has come.
This is the time to teach. The time to write. The time to mentor the young who are still finding their voices. The fight for justice must move from the streets into our schools, our churches, our living rooms. Let every child grow up knowing that truth is not dangerous — it is sacred. That courage is not madness — it is love in its purest form.
Our country has become a marketplace for corruption. But even markets can be rebuilt. The same way Raila rebuilt hope after every defeat, we too must rise again after every loss. The dream of Kenya will not die because one man has fallen. It will only die if we stop believing that ordinary people can change extraordinary things.
In the coming days, politicians will try to twist his story. They will turn his name into slogans, they will sell his memory for votes. But we must protect the meaning of his life — that truth and justice are worth any cost. That no Kenyan should ever kneel before lies. That leadership is service, not entitlement. That is the gospel he lived and the cross we now carry.
We are wounded people, but wounds heal when they are not hidden. Let us talk about what hurts. Let us name the betrayal, the theft, the injustice. Let us name it so loudly that those who benefit from our silence can no longer pretend not to hear. Truth is not chaos; it is the beginning of healing.
I want a Kenya where a child born in Turkana dreams just as boldly as one born in Nairobi. Where a doctor doesn’t strike for months to be heard. Where farmers get fair prices. Where teachers are valued. Where police serve, not oppress. That Kenya is possible if we fight for it with Raila’s kind of stubborn hope.
The revolution begins when we stop believing that nothing can change. That lie has killed more dreams than bullets ever did. But when people believe again, mountains move. We have the numbers, the brains, and the power. What we need is unity. Real unity is built on truth, not fear.
Let us remember him not with pity but with purpose. Let us rise from mourning to movement. Let us make sure his last chapter becomes our first. Kenya’s story is still being written, and history is watching what we do next.
So tonight, as the candles burn and songs of farewell echo through the land, let us promise him one thing — that we will not stop. That the flame he lit in our hearts will not go out. That we will keep fighting for justice, for truth, and for the soul of this country until Kenya becomes the dream he died believing in.