The Courage of a Lion: Why Edwin Sifuna Deserves Our Admiration

In the turbulent aftermath of the
2025 political realignments in Kenya, one figure has stood out not for convenience or popularity, but for unwavering principle and boldness — Edwin Sifuna. Amidst the shock of losing Raila Odinga in October 2025, Kenya’s political landscape was thrown into uncertainty. Raila’s sudden passing at age 80 in Kerala, India, left a void not only in leadership but in direction for the opposition movement he had long led. 

Following that loss, the Orange Democratic Movement (ODM) faced intense internal pressure and confusion about its identity and direction. Some leaders argued for remaining aligned with the government; others insisted on a more traditional oppositional stance. Into this fractious environment stepped Sifuna — not with empty rhetoric, but with firm conviction.

From the outset, Sifuna made it clear he would not abandon principle for political expediency. He openly opposed alliances that he felt diluted ODM’s identity and betrayed the legacy of Raila Odinga. He insisted that the party should field its own candidate for the 2027 presidency rather than cede its autonomy in a broad-based government framework. 

Such courage did not come without cost. The

ODM National Executive Committee controversially attempted to remove him as Secretary General, accusing him of indiscipline and violations of party protocol — a move that sparked national debate and division within the party. 

But Sifuna did not retreat. He challenged the ouster, taking his case to the Political Parties Disputes Tribunal, which temporarily halted the removal and granted him legal reprieve, underscoring his determination to stand by his principles. 

Even as political pressure mounted, Sifuna maintained his stance publicly, rejecting calls for his resignation simply because he dared to speak truth to power and remain loyal to the foundational ideals of his party. 

His critics may label his position as defiance — but history will remember it as courage. In an age when many choose comfort over conviction, Sifuna has chosen courage. He has stood for accountability, for clarity of purpose, and for loyalty to the ideals that defined ODM’s struggle.

Whether one agrees with his political positions or not, one cannot deny the bravery of a leader willing to endure personal and political risk for what he believes is right. Kenya’s democratic evolution is strengthened not by silent followers, but by bold voices who insist on principle before popularity — and Edwin Sifuna is undeniably one of them.

STILL, I WISH YOU WELL

 Today, the world celebrates you.

Candles will flicker, glasses will rise,

messages will pour in loud and bright —
but mine will stay here,
quiet ink on a quiet page.

Once, I had plans for this day.
I had imagined laughter spilling into midnight,
my hands wrapped around yours,
a whispered wish against your chest
before the candles burned out.

I had imagined being there.
Instead, I am here —
learning how to love from a distance,
learning how to hold memories
without letting them hold me hostage.

For a few months,
you were my favorite place to rest.
Your chest felt like home.
Your voice at 2 a.m. felt like safety.
The way we folded into each other
made the world quieter, softer, kinder.
What we had was not imaginary.
It was not small.
It was not nothing.
It was real enough to leave an echo.
And echoes are strange —
they linger long after the sound has stopped.

They visit in ordinary moments:
a song, a late night,
a silence that feels too familiar.
But here is what I have learned:
Love does not disappear overnight.
It thins out.
It softens.
It becomes less of a wound
and more of a memory.
Every day it hurts a little less.
One day passes, then another…
until one morning you wake up
and realize you made it through an entire day
without thinking of him at all.
I am not fully there yet —
but I am on my way.

Today is your birthday.
And I will not pretend it is just another day.
You mattered.
You still matter.
But not in the way you once did.
I no longer wait for your name to light up my screen.
I no longer measure my worth by your attention.
I no longer confuse longing with destiny.
What we shared taught me something sacred:
that I can love deeply,
that I can open fully,
that my heart is capable of warmth
without fear.
And that is something I keep.

So wherever you are today —
may your steps be steady.
May your ambitions meet opportunity.
May laughter find you easily.
May the year ahead be kind.
This is not a plea.
Not a door left half-open.
Not a hope disguised as poetry.
It is simply a quiet acknowledgment
of a chapter that existed
and a woman who survived it.

Happy birthday Vasq.
From a heart
that once loved you fiercely.

THE MEMORY OF YOUR TOUCH

 I miss you in the quiet hours Mon Beau,

when the night stretches long

and my body remembers

what my hands cannot hold.

I miss your touch My King —

the way it spoke without words,

the way my breath forgot its rhythm

every time you pulled me closer.

That last night still lingers on my skin,

a warmth I haven’t washed away,

a memory that returns

whenever I close my eyes.

I miss the hunger,

the fire we didn’t try to tame,

the way desire felt honest

and beautifully reckless.

And more than anything Mon Roi,

I can’t wait to see you again —

to feel that spark,

to fall into you

like no time has passed at all.

Until then S-man,

I carry you in my thoughts…

and in the ache

that only you know how to calm Wise One. 

MGEMA AKISIFIWA TEMBO HULITIA MAJI

 So we’re just chilling with some friends from bara right here in my village, Ngao, Tana River County. Proper hangout vibes. Sun is shining, stories are flowing — then nature decides to join the conversation.

Someone spots a palm tree in the compound.

“What tree is that?” one asks.

My friend answers like a tour guide on salary:

“It’s a palm tree. Not the coconut one — mnazi. This one is called mkoma. It produces palm wine. Very common around here.”

Simple.

Clear.

Educational.

Or so we thought.

“Mnazi?” one asks again.

“No… not mnazi. Mkoma.”

“So you just go up the tree, pick a fruit, and it already has wine inside?”

At this point, I’m trying to respect the curiosity. I jump in:

“No, no. There are people who actually tap the wine.”

“How?” another asks.

And that’s where I hesitate. Because honestly? I know palm wine exists. I know it has humbled very strong men. But the engineering behind tapping it? Hapo sina copy.

Before I can recover, one of them suddenly says, very proudly:

“Have you never heard the saying mgema akisifiwa tembo hulitia maji?”

“Yes yes,” another agrees quickly, nodding hard — like nodding adds understanding.

Then comes the killer question.

“By the way… what is tembo?”

Silence.

Another one answers confidently:

“Tembo ni elephant.”

Now confusion enters the room fully dressed.

“So elephant anatiwa aje maji?”

Now we are in deep waters.

“Na by the way… anatiwa aje maji?” another one insists.

I collapse.

“PLEASE,” I say between laughter, “tembo hapo ni pombe. Alcohol. Not the animal.”

“Ooooooh.”

The relief.

The embarrassment.

The sudden Swahili awakening.

“Kumbe ulikuwa unatupanga!” one shouts, pointing dramatically at the person who said tembo ni elephant.

And that’s when it hit me: Kiswahili is actually a very dangerous language if you don’t understand context. One word, two meanings — and suddenly you’re imagining elephants being force-fed water because they were praised too much.

For the record:

Tembo = elephant 🐘

Tembo = alcohol 🍶

So no, mgema akisifiwa tembo hulitia maji is not about wildlife cruelty.

It simply means that when a brewer or seller of alcohol is praised too much, they get comfortable, proud, or greedy — and start diluting the drink with water, reducing its quality.

Honestly, I didn’t know Kiswahili could be this hard for watu wa bara.

So if you need Kiswahili lessons —

If proverbs confuse you —

If elephants keep appearing in your alcohol conversations —

Hire me.

Very affordable.

Only 1000 per hour.

Discounts available for repeat offenders 😌

So welcome to the Coast — the hub of Kiswahili.

And just to be clear for those taking notes: Tana River is part of the former Coast Province.

Yes, I hear it all the time:

“Kwani Tana River pia ni Coast? Na hamna beach?”

LOL.

Yes, it is part of the Coast.

Yes, we have a 71km coastal strip.

And yes — we also have palm wine. Mkoma. 🤪

Class dismissed. 

EVERY DAY IT HURTS A LITTLE LESS

 Every day, the weight softens—

not gone, just lighter.

The ache loosens its grip

without asking permission.

Days pass quietly,

one folding into the next,

until memory stops announcing itself

and becomes a whisper.

Then one ordinary day arrives—

no warning, no ceremony—

and you realize

you lived the whole day

without thinking of him.

And that’s how healing happens:

not loudly,

not all at once,

but in the silence

where pain used to live.

LONGING IN SILENCE

 I miss the shadow of your hand,

The echo of your voice across the land.

Yet I walk alone, steadfast and true,

For I know the path does not lead to you.

I ache for what we cannot reclaim,

A quiet flame with no one to name.

The heart remembers, the mind forbids,

A tender wound that never lids.

I reach for ghosts in the still of night,

Knowing well I must not ignite.

Longing lingers, soft and deep,

A secret I carry, mine to keep.

LOVE FOUND ME GENTLY

 

I walked out of a season

where love spoke in echoes

and promises learned how to bruise.

My tears became fluent—

especially at 3 a.m.,

when the world slept

and my heart refused to.

Those hours knew me well.

They heard my questions,

saw me fold into myself,

counting ceilings,

learning how lonely can sound.

I broke, yes—

but not the way ruins break.

I broke like soil

waiting for rain.

Then came a man

whose name means more than sound.

A name that carries order,

the quiet architecture of peace.

Not loud, not hurried—

but steady,

like wisdom that sits before it speaks.

He did not interrupt the pain.

He arrived after it.

Standing gently where the tears once fell,

turning 3 a.m. memories

into lessons that no longer bleed.

Now, when the clock returns to that hour,

it no longer scares me.

It reminds me

that I survived myself

and still learned how to smile again.

Happiness, I’ve learned,

doesn’t rush in.

It recognizes you

when you are ready to stop crying in the dark

and start breathing in the light.

And so I rise—

not because the night didn’t hurt,

but because morning stayed.