A legacy of uncertainty: The unresolved fate of Kenya’s six-hour president

In the quiet village of Nyakach Koguta in Kisumu County lies the modest homestead of Hezekiah Ochuka Rabala, also known as Awuor Onani. Once a Senior Private in the Kenya Air Force, Ochuka is believed to have led Kenya as president for a mere six hours during an attempted coup that still stirs controversy 37 years later.

The atmosphere in this secluded compound is a mix of calm and tension, as questions linger about the fate of those involved in the coup.

Ochuka’s cousin, Robert Akuro, sits in the homestead surrounded by unused bricks and a mud-thatched house. With a sombre expression, he recalls the story of the soldier who dared to challenge the late President Daniel Moi’s regime.

Akuro’s face darkens as he tries to piece together the events of that fateful day. He remembers August 1, 1982, the day of the attempted coup, vividly.

"It was a Sunday morning," he begins, "we were on the farm harvesting maize when we overheard a radio announcement that the military had taken over the leadership of the country," Akura recalls.

At the time, the family had no idea that their relative, Ochuka, was at the centre of the coup. They only knew that he worked with the Air Force, but it never crossed their minds that he could be the leader of such a bold move.

"As days went by, Ochuka’s name started appearing in the newspapers as the coup leader," Akuro says, the shock still evident in his voice.

The family’s concern grew when reports surfaced that eleven soldiers had been killed for their involvement in the coup. Ochuka’s father, Enoch Akuro, left their village of Nyabondo in Nyakach for Nairobi, desperate to find his son. When he arrived, he was relieved to learn that Ochuka was not among the dead.

"Many soldiers were killed, some with guns still in their hands," Robert recounts. "But we later learned that Ochuka, along with Oteyo Akumu and others, had escaped to Tanzania."

In Tanzania, the escapees sought asylum, which complicated efforts to extradite them to Kenya.

"Plans to extradite Ochuka and his group from Tanzania failed because they had sought asylum," Akuro explains. Eventually, Ochuka was extradited to Kenya, detained, and charged with treason.

"While in the Kenyan prison, his sister, Mary Odhiambo, his mother, his father and a lady named Linet Owira were the only ones allowed to visit him," Akuro recalls.

After his sentencing, family visits became rare, and Ochuka’s presence in their lives faded into the background.

"His case was handled by the court martial, and I vividly remember that the current Speaker of the National Assembly, Moses Wetangula, was his lawyer," Akuro notes.

In 1987, the court ruled that Ochuka was to be hanged. "I remember the day that news broke—it was devastating. Our compound was filled with mourners, wailing in despair," Akuro says, the memory still fresh in his mind.

Despite the grim sentence, the family never saw Ochuka’s body, and according to Luo tradition, they held a ceremony to bury something in his honour. However, government detectives disrupted the ceremony, warning the family not to conduct any funeral rituals until they received official confirmation of Ochuka’s death.

"The detectives asked who had brought the news of Ochuka's death, and upon learning it was based on a rumour, they ordered the gathering to be dispersed. Before leaving, they banned any funeral-related ceremonies, insisting they could only be held after a thorough investigation confirmed Ochuka's death and evidence, such as his belongings, was provided—something that has yet to happen," Akuro laments.

The family’s quest for closure did not end there. Akuro recalls how Ochuka’s mother once breached President Moi’s security during his visit to Nyakach Girls, desperate to inquire about her son’s whereabouts. She was met with a brutal response from the security forces, a memory that haunted her until her death. "She died a sad and disturbed woman," Akuro says, his voice heavy with sorrow.

What troubles the family most is the silence of Ochuka’s former lawyer, Moses Wetangula.

"It’s been over thirty years, and we’ve never received any tangible evidence confirming Ochuka’s death," Akuro says.

"The worst part is that Wetangula is still alive. How can he know nothing about the client he represented? We have lived all these years in hope, but we still don’t know if Ochuka is dead or alive."

Even after decades, the family holds on to the hope that one day the government will reveal the truth about their son, whether he is dead or still somewhere out there.