Freedom, for our ancestors, was going back home and being rooted in their identity. They fought and died believing they were securing a future for us where we could belong to ourselves again—a time when we could return to our land, our language, our names, and our dignity. That time came, and the colonizers left. However, with their departure, we were left with an even darker realization: freedom was merely a container of hope onto which we had projected everything we were denied. We might have regained our land, but many of us were still far from home.
This contradiction was most evident in the lives of those who sacrificed the most for it. Take Dedan Kimathi, for example—a hero who fought fiercely to restore land and liberty to his people, only to be executed by the British colonial government in 1957 and later buried in an unmarked grave. His family was denied the chance to bury him where he belonged—among his people and ancestors. Such irony: a man who fought so others could have a home was denied one in death. Patrice Lumumba, the first Prime Minister of independent Congo, met a similar fate. His assassination was not only political, but spiritual. His body was destroyed, denied dignity and passage back home.
These are not just isolated tragedies. They reveal one harsh truth: home is not always guaranteed, even when it is actively sought. Not forgotten or lost, but withheld. For some, even final rest becomes something negotiated, delayed, or denied. It is one thing to be far from home; it is another to be barred from returning to it, even after giving everything, including life itself.
And yet, their stories deepen rather than diminish the meaning of home. If home can be denied, then it was never only a physical place to begin with. Perhaps it has always been tied to the feeling that you matter, to dignity, and to belonging—even in absence. Maybe home is a question we keep trying to answer in how we live, how we remember our ancestors, and how we prepare for those who come after us.
There is a saying in my tribe when a baby is born: “mosamba mwaye”—he or she who burns their home, to never go back.
And maybe home is just like that too—not always a place we return to, but a longing that remains even when return is no longer possible.