NAIROBI, Kenya, Oct 18 — When the late former Prime Minister Raila Odinga’s flag-draped casket was escorted into Nyayo Stadium for a state funeral on Friday, one of the uniformed soldiers standing guard caught the attention of a few keen eyes.
His name tag read “Chemorei.”
To most Kenyans, he was just another member of the Kenya Defence Forces performing his solemn duty.
But to those of us from Trans Nzoia’s Kitalale vilage, the sight of that name stirred powerful memories — of a tragedy that had once shattered an entire village and a family that had quietly carried the wound of betrayal for two decades.
The young officer was Samuel Chemorei, the son of the late Erastus Kirui Chemorei, a senior General Service Unit (GSU) officer gunned down in 2005 under circumstances that remain one of Kenya’s darkest unresolved chapters.
Standing tall and composed beside the casket of a national hero, Samuel represented something far greater than military discipline.
His presence was a living act of defiance — a son’s quiet reclamation of honor in a country that had once branded his father a criminal.
The symbolism was almost poetic. Two decades ago, state officers had turned their guns on his father; today, the son stood among them, guarding the body of a man his father might once have been assigned to protect.
Gunfire in the village
Watching from Trans Nzoia, Elijah Chemorei, Samuel’s elder brother and witness to their father’s killing, captured the moment in a moving post.
“Chemorei is now saying something to Baba,” Elijah wrote. “At least my son is looking after your body, sir. If I were alive, I would have done so myself — but I left my young warriors with my blood behind.”
It was a moment that brought pride, not pain, to a family that had known little else since 2005.
I remember that day vividly — February 19, 2005 — because I was there.
I was a schoolboy at Kitalale Preparatory, attending a weekend lesson when the quiet of our village was broken by the sharp cracks of gunfire echoing across the fields.
The morning sun had barely warmed our classrooms when the shots rang out, just past 10am.
‘Criminal’
Our teacher froze mid-sentence. Panic rippled through the class, and soon through the entire neighborhood.
We were told to leave our desks and assemble outside — the gunfire sounded too close.
Within minutes, whispers replaced the usual chatter of our schoolyard. No one knew what was happening, only that something terrible was unfolding nearby.
Then came the broadcast that changed everything: “Jambazi sugu auawa Kitalale na vikosi vya usalama” — which translated as, “A hardened criminal has been gunned down in Kitalale by security forces.”
Those words blared from transistor radios and televisions across the country. But in Kitalale, we knew the man behind that name.
He wasn’t a notorious criminal. Erastus Kirui Chemorei was a disciplined, soft-spoken officer of the General Service Unit, one of our village’s proudest sons, and the father of Elijah, Sarah, and Samuel.
By mid-morning, word had spread that Chemorei had been killed by a heavily armed police contingent.
Curious and afraid, I joined the villagers streaming toward Marambach Centre, where the road from Kitale town was jammed with police trucks and GSU Land Cruisers.
The red-bereted units — Fanya Fujo Ujionee (FFU), as we called them — were everywhere.
And just like that, a man who had spent his life serving Kenya was branded a criminal by the very state he had served.
Cocaine haul coverup
At the time of his death, Chemorei held one of the most sensitive positions in the security service — Adjutant at the GSU Training School in Ruaraka. He was known for his discipline and integrity. But in 2005, loyalty was not enough to protect him.
His death was later linked to the Sh6.4 billion cocaine haul seized in Malindi in 2004 — one of Africa’s largest drug busts.
According to a later exposé by journalist-turned-MP Mohammed Ali on KTN’s Jicho Pevu, Chemorei had been the custodian of a key to a safehouse where the contraband was stored.
Days before his killing, he had been sent on “forced leave” without explanation. And on that fateful morning, more than 70 officers from various stations surrounded his home and opened fire.
Witnesses said he was shot over 20 times — in front of his children, Elijah and Sarah, and another man who had been visiting. Police claimed he was armed and tried to escape; the family insisted it was an execution.
For weeks, the headlines painted him as a rogue cop. For years, the truth lay buried under fear and silence. And for decades, his family bore the weight of a lie.
Yet they never turned against Kenya.
Sabaot ‘warrior clan’
Elijah proudly describes their Kapnakambik clan of the Sabaot sub-tribe as “a warrior family from a warrior clan.”
Even after their father’s betrayal, they chose service over bitterness.
“We serve our nation in low tones,” he says, quoting the Latin creed Semper Fidelis — Always Faithful.
When images of Samuel Chemorei surfaced from Nyayo Stadium, social media lit up with messages of pride and awe.
“This is the real reincarnation. Proud of you, Sam.”
“Greatness runs in the blood.”
“You can kill a man, but not his spirit of service.”
In Kitalale, where memories of gunfire once haunted the air, pride finally replaced pain.
“When we saw that boy guarding Raila’s coffin, we felt our village had risen again,” one elder told me. “His father would be proud.”
Two decades after the bullets that cut his father down, Samuel Chemorei’s silent march beside Raila’s casket stood as a wordless answer to that injustice.
He may not have spoken, but his uniform, his composure, and his loyalty told a story Kenya had long tried to forget — a story of endurance, forgiveness, and the unbreakable spirit of a family wronged by the state yet redeemed by service.
The Chemorei story is no longer just about betrayal. It is about faith in a country that once failed them, and the enduring truth that while governments may falter and history may forget, duty and legacy never die.
