The independence generation of African leaders is quickly disappearing, called by their creator or simply succumbing to limits set by nature. The latest to go was Charles Njonjo from Kenya. He died on Sunday, January 2 at his home in Nairobi at the ripe old age of 101.

Njonjo was no ordinary man in Kenya and indeed East Africa. Perhaps not so much in Rwanda, except among those formally exiled in East Africa.

He was a member of Kenya’s cabinet from independence in 1963 to 1983. As attorney general, he wielded enormous power and could make or break a politician’s career. It was in that role that he silenced debate on presidential succession by famously decreeing it a crime to imagine or encompass the death or incapacity of the president. He was a kingmaker who had the ear of the presidents he served, one of whom he helped install.

Ironically, it was the latter who brought him down. The Swahili have a saying for this sort of gratitude. They say: Asante ya punda ni mateke (the gratitude of a donkey is a kick).

It’s nine days since he died and was cremated, and forty years since he last had political power. A lot is still being written about him and will be so for a long time.

Most of the commentaries do not have kind words for him. They portray a man who wielded enormous power and used it to build a monster regime that ruthlessly suppressed anybody who opposed it to it or who held divergent views. They present a man more English (at least aspired to be) than Kenyan, who was indeed contemptuous of most Kenyans.

Others have tried to paint a different picture of a kind, friendly and engaging man in private, liberal with his support and advice. A politician whose actions contributed to Kenya’s stability and progress. Above all, a man of his convictions, not one to go with the wind. When he fell from power accused of treason, he was not broken or beg for mercy or flee the country. He simply went home and lived his life quietly. These are a minority and have been labelled revisionist.

Both views of the man – the extent of his power and reach, negative or otherwise, or his nature as essentially a good man - may be right. Such is the paradox of human nature. 

At this moment, though, Njonjo does not care about the debate about him. He would not even in life. But even if he heard them, he would probably dismiss some of those who make them as vulgar and common, not worth his time and attention. Or he would chuckle and pity others for their ignorance or being presumptive. He seemed not to care much about what Kenyans thought about him.

But this also shows something else. Public figures of a certain greatness or reputation, especially if they arouse strong feelings or opinions, can never live or go quietly even if that is their wish. Public figures are public property. They cannot plead protection of the law, such as that on trespass, against people looking at them too closely and saying certain things about them.  When they become public, they give up a lot of their privacy.

For the last forty years, Njonjo had led a fairly quiet life and wished to go quietly when his time came. And so he left instructions for a private funeral and cremation by close family and friends.

This was a departure from the way Kenya’s big men depart from this world. They usually do so in a lavish ceremony that mirrors the way they lived, attended by the high and mighty but also ordinary people, and covered by all the nation’s media. A long procession of cars to the house of worship and later to the cemetery, a long list of speakers to eulogise them and an even longer list of others with wreaths complete the picture.

Usually, acrimonious fights follow (if it goes ahead, what with all manner of injunctions) over the estate, or even the right and place to bury, matters of culture and so on, by the widow(s) and mistresses, known children and others who suddenly appear, and relatives.

Some might remember the famous case of lawyer S M Otiono and the Umer Kager clan and Nyarugunga saga. Not our Nyarugunga from where I am writing this, but another in Nyanza. Oh dear! Not our Nyanza either, but another on the eastern shores of Lake Victoria. It dragged on and provided entertainment of sorts and lessons in comparative cultural practices. But it was also distressful to the bereaved family and disrespectful to the departed.

That this did not happen in Njonjo’s case attests to order in his life and disdain for many things Kenyan, including this version of trappings of power and wealth.

At the funeral, the bit about family and friends only was respected. The quiet aspect, especially away from the place of cremation, was difficult to enforce. Everybody said pretty much what they wanted to say about him. Some well, others ill; some nice, others nasty. That is how it is with public figures, mostly divisive; consensus rare.

The cremation thing, too, is strange in these parts. Maybe less so in Kenya. It is regarded as foreign practice, certainly here in Rwanda, although ten years ago parliament passed a law making cremation an accepted and legal method of interment. No cremation of a Rwandan has taken place yet. We still prefer the dust to dust form. No person has been courageous enough to go first. Perhaps Njonjo, though not Rwandan, might have set an example.

Hate him or like him, you have to give it to him. He stuck to his convictions. He was not terribly moved by all the criticism levelled against him. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it, perhaps saw it as validation of his views. Even in death, he went in his own individual way.

The views expressed in this article are of the writer.