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Prime Minister Raila Odinga

So, ghosts drifted into my study last weekend. They came and my view shifted to a Kenya of thirty-five years ago. What a strange name it seemed to me that day in September of 1974—Oginga Odinga.

I sat in the bar of the New Stanley, eyes shot with red, new worry lines cut into my face, spirit thin as a rail. A victim of too much reality—too much....Africa. I was loitering a final few days in Nairobi when a messenger appeared. A young, sweaty Luo man dressed in a cheap suit asked if I were Gabelhouse. His eyes darted between my government handlers: Ricki and Muneje. Despite the presence of the Government minders, the Luo claimed that the first Vice President of Kenya, Oginga Odinga, wanted to meet with me and any of the other Americans in our party. After making his invitation, the Luo man avoided looking at Ricki and Muneje—staring intently at me—imploringly....hopeful. Ricki leaned across the table and whispered in my ear that it was not a good idea to meet with this Odinga. He told me how he was recently jailed for treasonous acts and was a dangerous rebel who opposed Kenya’s first President Jomo Kenyatta. Ricki fervently told me to avoid the meeting—told me that I may even face jail by just meeting with this Odinga.

Seems Odinga had seen me in a Daily Nation newspaper article that had touted our expeditionary accomplishments during our months in-country. In reality, he saw there were Americans in town and he wanted to have the ear of ANY American. Seems he had a story to tell.

I knocked back my Tusker beer, and despite Ricki’s protests, I agreed to the meet. Joe wanted to come, too.

We walked through Uhuru Park and past the Intercontinental Hotel. It seemed that many of the street people were staring at us—two Americans—probably expats from our dress and the weariness that had claimed our eyes. And with us, a cheap-suited Luo who continually looked over his shoulders. For me it seemed surreal and as though it were happening to someone else. After months in the bloody belly of Africa, my world had ceased to exist. Then, Africa appeared to me not as a tourist destination but for what it was: jackal nations fighting for scraps in a world defined by death.

We turned down the street and passed the Hotel Tropic which would some years later, offer me refuge from a violent coup-de-tat. We found our way into a second-floor apartment building that, for Kenya, was probably considered upper middle class. However, the apartment was grim. Despite the rough ambiance, the Luo man who greeted us was quite impressive as he stood, his broad, Luo face smiling. He offered us his hand. Three warm bottles of Fanta orange drink sat on a side table along with three filmy glasses.

The man was a believer. And he was on fire with his belief. We sat on a thread-bare sofa in an apartment that overlooked the Jevanji Gardens. The scent of curry and vindaloo competed with the offerings of charcoal braziers full of corn on the street below.

Odinga sat on the edge of his chair and leaned forward, facing Joe and I. He told us of his visit to America and how American Freedom Fighters—civil rights activists had secretly visited with him in Atlanta as he was under State Department security control. He told us how the famous American Freedom Fighter, Malcom X had embraced him (Odinga) and that there was even a song written in America called, “Oginga Odinga of Kenya.”

http://www.gabelhouse.com/blog-jan-jun-09.htm