LUMAKANDA, KAKAMEGA — The skies over Lugari wept in unison with thousands of mourners on Tuesday, but on the ground, grief quickly hardened into a cold, sharp rage. As the body of former Cabinet Minister Cyrus Jirongo—affectionately known as 'CJ'—was lowered into the red soil of his Lumakanda home, the solemnity of the grave gave way to a raucous political trial of President William Ruto’s administration.

What was scripted as a final send-off for the flamboyant former Lugari MP morphed into a defiant platform against what opposition leaders are calling a "sustained assassination" of Kenya’s multiparty democracy. The air was thick not just with humidity, but with the heavy accusation that Jirongo’s death in a grisly road accident on December 13 was no ordinary tragedy, but a dark omen for the country’s political future.

The "Killing Parties" Allegation

While the official police report attributes Jirongo’s death to a head-on collision with a bus on the Nairobi-Nakuru highway, the narrative in Lumakanda was starkly different. Speakers linked the tragedy to a broader, more insidious climate of fear. The sharpest daggers were drawn against President Ruto, who came under withering criticism for an alleged strategy to decimate opposition parties to pave a smooth road for his 2027 reelection bid.

"We are burying our brother amidst mystery," thundered Saboti MP Caleb Amisi, turning to face Prime Cabinet Secretary Musalia Mudavadi, the highest-ranking government official present. "Musalia, it is your responsibility to face William Ruto head-on. Tell him to tell us who killed Cyrus Jirongo. If they can silence a man of Jirongo’s stature, what happens to the common mwananchi in Kibera or Kondele?"

The sentiment was echoed by ODM Secretary General Edwin Sifuna, who painted a grim picture of the justice system. "You cannot get justice in this government," Sifuna declared, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "They know the truth, but they are silent. They want us to believe this was just an accident, just as they want us to believe that the death of our parties is 'natural attrition.' It is not. It is a calculated strangulation."

A Pattern of Silence?

The tension was palpable as leaders connected the dots between the physical safety of politicians and the survival of their parties. The accusation is that the Kenya Kwanza administration is using a mix of inducements and intimidation—the classic carrot and stick—to fold smaller parties into the ruling coalition, effectively killing the opposition.

• The Accident: Jirongo died when his Mercedes Benz collided with a bus near Karai, Naivasha.
• The Suspicion: Former Westlands MP Fred Gumo, chair of the funeral committee, questioned why no passengers from the bus have come forward. "It does not add up," Gumo noted.
• The Context: The death comes amidst complaints of shrinking civic space and the defection of opposition MPs to the government side.

DAP-K leader Eugene Wamalwa did not mince words, criticizing the state’s conspicuous silence since the accident. "There was no government representative at the mass in Kitale. Why the distance? Why the silence?" Wamalwa posed. "We demand that you clear the air before we leave this grave."

Economic Pain Meets Political Grief

The funeral also became a sounding board for the economic frustrations biting the ordinary Kenyan. Kakamega Senator Boni Khalwale, usually a staunch defender of the government, broke ranks to lament the disparity in development funding. He contrasted the billions poured into other regions with the "meager" allocations to Western Kenya.

"I feel pain that they have killed Jirongo," Khalwale said, slipping into the raw emotion of the moment. "The same speed you had when we lost other leaders, we have not seen it here. Western Kenya deserves respect, not just Sh100 million (approx. USD 760,000) tokens while others get billions."

For the average resident of Lugari, Jirongo was more than a politician; he was a symbol of resilience—the man who once printed money, the 'YK92' enigma who survived decades of political storms. His death feels like the end of an era, and for many, a frightening signal that in the high-stakes game of 2027 politics, no one is safe.

As the wreaths were laid, the message to the President was unequivocal. The calls for "party protection" are not just about statutes and registrations; they are a plea for the survival of dissenting voices in a democracy that feels increasingly fragile.

"Rafiki ni yule anakutambua kwa shida (A friend is one who stands by you in trouble)," Amisi told the hushed crowd, quoting a Swahili proverb. "If this government cannot protect the lives of its leaders, how will it protect the constitution that allows our parties to exist?"