‘When I Die’: Tuju Feels Betrayed and Declares State Officials Persona Non Grata

By Kepher Otieno - Reporter

Kenya, 11 April 2026 - In the quiet, ancestral heart of Ralingo village, beneath the weight of memory and the gaze of a restless nation, Raphael Tuju stood not merely as a former Cabinet Secretary, but as a man confronting the fragility of life, power, and survival. What unfolded on that April afternoon was no ordinary homecoming—it was a deeply emotional reckoning, laced with defiance, fear, faith, and an unmistakable sense of foreboding.

“I am mentally ready for any torture that anybody may want to put me through,” he declared, his voice cutting through the stillness. “There is nothing they can do to me that I have not already prepared myself for.”

Before a crowd of villagers who had gathered in solidarity and curiosity, Tuju broke his silence with words that trembled between resilience and resignation. He spoke of unseen forces, of shadowy pursuits, and of a pressure so immense it would cripple the faint-hearted. Yet, with steely resolve, he maintained that what he faces mirrors the silent suffering of many ordinary citizens.

“What I am going through is what many ordinary people go through,” he added, grounding his personal ordeal within a broader national struggle.

Then came the moment that silenced the crowd.

With startling calm, Tuju pointed to two freshly chosen resting places within his homestead—one beside his father’s grave, the other just behind his own residence.

It was not a gesture of morbidity, but one of control in a life that, by his own account, has been anything but secure.

He spoke of death not as a distant inevitability, but as an imminent possibility to be planned for with dignity.

“Nobody lives here forever,” he said quietly. “When the time comes, I would like to be buried within forty-eight hours.”

He then offered ten youth from his Ralingo clan unspecified jobs. He only requested ten form four leavers and assured their parents that they will get a job placement in his flourishing companies.

But his wish was stark: to be laid to rest swiftly, privately, and without the spectacle or involvement of the state.

“I do not want the state to be involved in my funeral, pretending that they have anything to do with or empathising with me,” he asserted. “I have shown my family two spots, and they will make a decision.”

In those words lay a profound bitterness. A man who once moved in the highest circles of government now rejected its presence even in death, dismissing any future state-led tribute as hollow pretence.

It was both an indictment and a farewell—an emotional severance from the very system he once helped steer.

His narrative darkened further as he recounted an ordeal that would shake any citizen’s faith in authority. Trailed by unknown individuals, Tuju sought refuge where any ordinary person would—at a police station. Yet, instead of protection, he claims he was met with brutality: assaulted, detained, and discarded.

“In a normal country, when people are trailing you, you run to the nearest police station,” he said. “But when I went there, I was assaulted, put in a cell, and later released on a free bond.”

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Still, this was not the first time Tuju had stared death in the face. He revisited the horrors of a past plane crash and a devastating road accident that left his body shattered—eighteen bones broken, twenty-one injuries sustained, and survival odds reduced to a mere thirty per cent. His voice, though steady, carried the weight of those memories.

“I survived the accident with eighteen bones broken and a total of twenty-one injuries,” he recalled. “My family was even counselled because I only had a thirty per cent chance of surviving.”

That he lived to tell the tale, he insisted, was not chance but divine intervention.

“My God is within me,” he said with quiet conviction. “When you try to intimidate me, you are wasting your time.”

Yet beyond the pain and peril, there remained a flicker of purpose.

On the question of his political future, Tuju was measured, almost philosophical. He spoke not of ambition, but of responsibility—of the need to serve, to consult, to understand the will of the people before making any return to the political arena.

“The most important thing is the role you play in society,” he reflected. “You do not have to be in the political arena to make a difference.”

His critique of systemic failures was scathing. Land grabbing, he warned, continues to dispossess the vulnerable, while the judiciary—once a pillar of hope—he described as deeply compromised.

These were not the words of a man seeking favour, but of one unafraid to confront uncomfortable truths.

“It is part of my responsibility to fight for what is right,” he said. “And that responsibility does not depend on holding office.”

And yet, amid the tension and turmoil, Tuju extended a hand of hope to his community. Jobs were offered, opportunities created, and lives quietly uplifted. Hundreds, he revealed, had already benefited—from employment at his hotel to sponsorships for studies abroad.

“In the last three months, I have employed hundreds of people,” he noted. “Some I have even sponsored to study abroad.”

As the sun dipped over Ralingo, what lingered was not merely the echo of Tuju’s words, but the gravity of his message. Here was a man who has walked the corridors of power, survived the brink of death, and now stands at a crossroads—defiant, vulnerable, and profoundly human.

Whether this was a warning, a farewell, or the beginning of yet another chapter remains uncertain. But one truth is inescapable: Raphael Tuju is no longer speaking as a politician alone. He is speaking as a man who has seen too much—and fears too little.