Baba, how strange it is—you’ve gone beyond their reach,
Leaving us stranded mid-sentence in your last speech.
They say the Great Enigma’s journey is complete,
But tell us, did that final, forced surrender feel bitter or sweet?
You, who mastered the tempest, who rode the highest wave—
Why did you always choose the shadow over the seat they gave?
You gripped the plough so long, hands scarred and raw—
Was the joy of the planting greater than the sight of the true crown?
We trace your path now, Jakom, from detention’s icy dark,
You carried home the embers of democracy’s spark.
You turned the opposition from a whisper to a roar;
You taught us how to knock, and kick down the closed door.
We saw your eyes, Baba, knowing that your endless war
Was waged not for yourself, but for the future you saw.
But why did fate decree, in that enduring, tragic twist,
That you became the key that merely opened doors you missed?
Your voice, the fierce Luo Thunder, is now just memory’s strain;
We mourn the mortal shell that held a lifetime of pain.
We who follow must now carry the risk you dared,
And weep for the final, simple peace that you never shared
On the pinnacle of power, where your dreams took flight.
But was not your true power found outside the light?
Now, the compass settles, the long, hard road is done.
You lost the elections, yet the larger war was won.
Go well, Baba, in the peace you now possess.
The justice you commanded is your final, lasting address.