Raila Odinga's name once stirred a fire unmatched in the hearts of millions. For decades, he stood as the conscience of the nation, a symbol of defiance against tyranny, the man who dared to dream of a Kenya governed by justice and equality. His voice roared across generations -- from the days of detention without trial to the long nights of stolen elections. Yet in his twilight years, the man who had embodied resistance chose silence in the face of betrayal, shaking hands with the very force he had spent his life opposing. That handshake with William Ruto was not just political -- it was spiritual treason to the youth who had believed he was unbought and unbowed.
The youth, disillusioned and restless, had looked to Raila as a father figure who understood their pain. They had fought for him, bled for him, and risked everything in the streets believing his cause was pure. When he joined hands with Ruto, they saw not strategy but surrender -- a man choosing comfort over conviction. The handshake that was meant to heal the nation instead shattered a covenant built over forty years of struggle. Overnight, Raila went from the people's liberator to their greatest disappointment.
For many young Kenyans, the handshake symbolized a betrayal of ideals, not just alliances. They had endured police brutality under governments he opposed, believing his presidency would end the oppression. Yet when he embraced Ruto, whose administration symbolized the very corruption and arrogance they loathed, it felt like their suffering had been in vain. They saw in that pact a man too tired to fight, too weary to resist, too willing to trade legacy for relevance.
Raila's decision fractured his movement. The Azimio generation that once marched behind his banner dissolved into bitterness. The same youths who had shielded him from police batons during the protests now mocked him online, calling him a sellout. They felt used -- emotionally, politically, and symbolically. They had imagined that even in defeat, Raila would stand with them, but his silence during the Ruto regime's excesses was unbearable. The man who once shouted "No reform, no election!" now whispered "Let's give peace a chance."
The irony was cruel. Raila had always preached about justice, equality, and the fight for the common mwananchi. Yet by aligning himself with Ruto, the architect of policies that burdened the poor, he became indistinguishable from the system he once despised. To the youth, it was as if he had crossed over to the other side of history -- from victim to collaborator. His death, therefore, finds Kenya torn not between mourning and celebration, but between nostalgia and disappointment.
Many hoped that Raila would redeem himself before 2027. That he would rise once more, not as a candidate, but as a moral elder who could heal the wounds of betrayal. But death, cruel and unannounced, stole that chance. The streets that once sang "Baba! Baba!" now whisper with regret -- that the man who taught them to fight also taught them that even heroes can fall. His demise closes a chapter, not of triumph, but of unfinished reconciliation.
The youth's anger was not without reason. They had watched as corruption ballooned, taxes suffocated them, and jobs evaporated, while Raila smiled beside Ruto at national events. Each handshake photo felt like another stab in their backs. How could the man who once called Ruto a thief now treat him as a brother? The contradictions were too many, the wounds too deep. It was as if the revolution had been traded for a seat at the table of power.
Raila underestimated the intelligence and conviction of a new generation. These were not the same youths of 2007 or 2013 -- they were digitally connected, politically aware, and fiercely idealistic. They wanted authenticity, not compromise. When they saw him align with Ruto, they saw a leader who had finally become what he had long fought against. To them, Raila's handshake was not reconciliation -- it was capitulation.
The 2024 youth protests crystallized this tension. When millions of young Kenyans poured into the streets to resist bad governance, they expected Raila to stand with them. But he hesitated, calculating, cautious. That hesitation cost him the last of his credibility among the youth. They did not need a cautious elder; they needed a fearless mentor. His absence spoke louder than his decades of speeches. In the eyes of the young, Raila had abandoned them when it mattered most.
This broken relationship between Raila and the youth reflected a broader generational crisis in Kenya's politics. The old guard viewed compromise as wisdom; the young saw it as weakness. Raila believed he could negotiate change from within the system, but the youth believed the system itself was the enemy. Their vision of a new Kenya clashed directly with his instinct for survival politics. That disconnect became irreversible after the handshake.
When history writes Raila's epitaph, it will be torn between admiration and accusation. No one can erase his role in ending one-party rule, in constitutional reform, or in defending the rule of law. Yet, equally, no one can deny that his final political act alienated the very people who were supposed to carry his torch. His was a life of great victories and greater contradictions. His courage birthed a nation's consciousness, but his compromises killed its hope.
For many Kenyans, Raila's death feels like the end of an era -- and a painful reminder of what could have been. He was supposed to mentor the next generation of reformers, to guide them past the traps he had fallen into. Instead, he chose proximity to power over partnership with the people. The youth who once called him Baba now bid farewell to a stranger. In their eyes, he died long before his physical death -- the day he shook Ruto's hand.
The political ecosystem is shaken because Raila was more than a politician; he was a myth, a movement, a memory. His death leaves a vacuum not just of leadership, but of faith. Even his critics admit that he was the moral barometer of Kenyan politics. Yet in the end, he struggled to measure up to his own ideals. The tragedy is not that he died; it is that he died misunderstood, estranged from the generation he inspired most.
Kenya today mourns not just the man, but the bond that was broken. Raila's story is a cautionary tale about what happens when revolutionaries become comfortable. It is proof that even the purest ideals can be corroded by proximity to power. His death forces the nation to ask: Can one handshake undo decades of struggle? For the youth, the answer remains yes -- painfully and permanently yes.
In death, Raila may yet achieve the unity he sought in life. Perhaps his passing will compel both his critics and supporters to re-examine what democracy truly means. But until then, the wounds of betrayal remain raw. The youth will grieve him, but they will not forget how he made them feel -- abandoned. For them, Raila's final chapter was not written in glory, but in silence and distance.
And yet, beyond the disappointment, there is still respect. The young know that Raila gave more of himself to Kenya than most ever will. His mistakes do not erase his courage; his missteps do not erase his mission. But they complicate it. They turn a hero into a human being -- fallible, weary, and, in the end, tragically alone. The greatest tragedy of Raila Odinga's life was not that he lost elections -- it was that he lost his people's trust before he died.
If he had lived to 2027, perhaps he could have made peace with the youth. Perhaps he could have stood before them and said, "I was wrong." But fate denied him that redemption. His death freezes his legacy in the shadow of his last political mistake. The man who once defied presidents and prisons was ultimately defeated by the politics of comfort. It is a painful ending to a story that began with so much fire.
Still, Raila Odinga's life remains a mirror to Kenya itself -- brilliant yet broken, hopeful yet compromised, full of potential yet haunted by betrayal. His journey reminds us that revolutions do not die because of bullets, but because of bargains. And in that truth lies the lesson for the next generation: never let comfort kill conviction. Rest in peace, Jakom -- the man who taught us to fight, and in the end, taught us why we must never stop.