Life and Then Death: A Tribute to Dr. Magubo
We move through life with the quiet assumption that tomorrow is guaranteed. We make plans, chase dreams, and imagine futures without ever truly knowing when our final hour will come. Death rarely announces itself. It arrives uninvited, disrupting everything in its path and leaving behind a silence so profound that words often fail.
The sudden passing of Dr. Magubo has left me heartbroken. It is a loss I am still struggling to comprehend.
I knew Magubo from our campus days in 2009. Even then, he stood out. He was cheerful, free-spirited, and full of life, yet remarkably focused and driven. We were young, idealistic, and deeply involved in campus politics, united by a shared belief that leadership and collective action could make a difference. Those experiences forged a friendship and brotherhood that endured long after university.
By 2021, that bond had evolved into a shared commitment to the struggles of our profession and our union. Magubo became one of the most dependable voices in our movement. I remember the countless hours spent organizing online, mobilizing colleagues, and traversing Kitui in pursuit of a common cause. He never did anything halfway. When he believed in something, he committed himself fully.
When he later moved to Rwanda for postgraduate studies, I visited him there. That visit remains one of my fondest memories. He was vibrant, optimistic, and constantly thinking about the future. His dreams were ambitious, but never self-serving. He wanted to grow because he wanted to serve better. Time spent with him always left you inspired to think bigger, work harder, and believe more deeply in what was possible.
During the 2026 KMPDU elections, Magubo remained true to that character. He stood firmly with the leadership, guided by conviction and loyalty to the work we had built together over the years. We spoke constantly—sharing ideas, discussing strategy, and planning for the future. He was not merely a colleague; he was a trusted friend whose counsel I valued immensely.
Around May 12, 2026, he reached out to me from India, where he had completed his advanced training. Unfortunately, he had encountered an unexpected challenge after overstaying his visa and was temporarily detained as he worked to resolve his documentation.
Yet even in the midst of uncertainty and frustration, he remained unmistakably Magubo.
Looking back at our conversations from those days now fills me with a sadness I can hardly describe. In one message, he joked:
"Nikama sasa hamtawainiona Kenya tena 🤣. I have done everything humanly possible to get out of here but wamekataa kunipea documents."
At the time, we laughed. Together, we navigated the anxiety of the situation as he spent eleven difficult days in Delhi, even marking his birthday there while waiting for clearance. Eventually, the issue was resolved. He obtained his documents and finally made his way home.
He returned more accomplished, more experienced, and more determined than ever to serve. He had invested years in sharpening his skills and expanding his knowledge. He was ready for the next chapter of his life and career—a chapter that promised so much.
And then, in a moment none of us could have imagined, death came.
The words he had written jokingly now return with an unbearable weight: "Nikama sasa hamtawainiona Kenya tena." What was once a lighthearted remark has become a painful reminder of how fragile life truly is.
His passing is not only a loss to his family and friends; it is a loss to the medical fraternity, to his community, and to all who had the privilege of knowing him. We mourn the man he was, but also the countless lives he would have touched, the contributions he would have made, and the future that was so cruelly cut short.