Carole Argwings-Kodhek

I remember Storm's 12th birthday at Maji Magic. Storm and I were shivering from the cold after the plunge we had taken earlier that day. Because of the weather conditions, everyone was canceling, and Auntie Caroline was calling everyone who was supposed to attend.
I remember the look on Storm's face when Grandma Carole said she could make it. We all met at CJ's Restaurant, and Grandma Carole brought a big blanket for her, Storm, and me to share. As we sat there, cuddled together in a cocoon of warmth, I knew this would be a memory I would cherish forever. You will be dearly missed Grandma Carole!

I am so deeply sorry for your loss, Caroline. Even though I didn’t know your mom personally, I can see exactly where your kind heart and warm smile come from just by looking at her photo. It is so clear that she was a remarkable mother and a truly amazing grandmother to Storm. Her beautiful love and legacy continue to live on through both of you. Please know that I am holding you, Storm, and Samantha in my prayers during this difficult time.

Tribute to Carole
I first met Carole 25 years ago at lunch with Caroline. Caroline seemed more nervous about this meeting than when she introduced me to her father, Robbie Armstrong.
So I dressed smart but casual, clipped my nails, trimmed my then short hair, arrived on time, and prepared to be observed under a microscope by the lady who could make Caroline nervous.
That first interaction left me wondering whether Carole was actually Caroline’s mother or a stand in judge, deciding if I qualified to advance to the next round. She appeared relaxed, in charge, and spoke on hundreds of topics — none of which were about me.
Later, Caroline quipped, “Well, I think that went well!” leaving me with no doubt she thought it was a disaster.
I should have prepared better for my second interaction. Carole certainly did. This was where her true prowess came to light.
It felt less like a casual conversation and more like investigative journalism. She fired off questions on beliefs, politics, even favourite colours, and tested her dry humour on me.
I was bobbing, weaving, circling the ring, dreading the impending knock out punch. To this day, I’m not sure how I performed — but I’m still standing.
And what I came to realize is that Carole wasn’t trying to defeat me; she was trying to understand me.
Over time, Carole’s other side began to show. She demonstrated respect and warmth — as long as I towed the imaginary line with her daughter, Caroline.
But beyond that, we developed our own direct lines of communication. Those WhatsApp jokes forwarded many times, articles of interest shared on email, funny tweets and TikTok videos — which I know she wasn’t sharing with Caroline or Samantha — became our private exchanges.
Carole would call me randomly, often to ask my opinion on some subject I was already convinced she had decided, or to seek a reference on somebody she had already hired.
It was her way of drawing me in, of making me part of her world. And in those moments, I realized that she wasn’t just Caroline’s mother — she was my ally, my sparring partner, and my friend.
When going through my photos of Carole, I was struck by how many lunches I captured.
It seemed as though she was permanently positioned at the head of the table — a delicious meal before her, in stunning settings, always smiling in amusement while those around her babbled on.
Carole truly valued moments like these, where every topic under the sun was debated. She had strong convictions, yet she welcomed discussion, allowing it to flow until the point was exhausted.
And then, with a wave of her hand, she would dismiss it — not having been convinced one inch — and move us swiftly on to the next.
That was Carole: confident, curious, and endlessly engaged. She made every gathering feel alive, every conversation worth having, and every meal a celebration of family and thought.
Carole’s ultimate moment of joy was when Storm was born. In characteristic fashion, she was horrified by our choice of name for her granddaughter.
But true to herself, she quietly began to develop a character around it — steering away from the Marvel superhero and instead shaping Storm into an energetic, bubbly, witty, sporty, and loving grandchild.
Far from being the ever present, doting grandmother, Carole created her own programme with Storm.
These often included multiple days of sleepovers or grandmother granddaughter trips to the coast, which left Caroline and me very nervous given the state they often returned in.
They had their private, lengthy chats on the telephone, sharing jokes and chattering about a vast range of subjects — interesting only to the two of them, but deeply meaningful nonetheless.
Carole proudly attended many of Storm’s school events and performances, as well as her extracurricular endeavors such as motocross and golf competitions.
She wasn’t just a spectator — she was a cheerleader, a supporter, and a source of encouragement. Her pride in Storm was unmistakable, and her joy in watching her granddaughter grow, achieve, and shine was one of her greatest pleasures.
With Storm’s arrival and her growth into a real human being, the shift was evident. My relationship with Caroline naturally gave way to the daddy daughter bond.
Carole watched our interactions with sheer delight, as Storm put on her best performance of how she wraps me around her little fingers.
It was in those moments that Carole’s joy was unmistakable. She loved seeing the next generation thrive, and she took equal pleasure in watching me learn the art of being a father — often with Storm as the director of the show.
Carole was an insatiable adventurer. She would skydive, bungee jump, zip line, trampoline, swim out to sea, immerse herself in the culture of remote East and West Kenyan coastal villages, and devise countless other questionable schemes.
Storm teased her by calling her Gangsta Granny, after one of her favourite David Walliams books about an eleven year old boy who discovers his grandmother’s past as an international jewel thief.
She was always excited to hear about our own adventures — years of competing in the Rhino Charge, motor rallying, road trips, and bush trips.
But more than that, she wanted the adventures to continue, and most importantly, for Storm to carry forward that same spirit of curiosity and courage.
Carole lived boldly, laughed deeply, and loved fiercely.
And so, as we remember her today, we say:
fly with the rocket propelled angels, Carole.

“Some people arrive in your life and you know right away that they were meant to be there for life .”

My story with Carole started in 1968, we were both 14 years old. I was in my first year at Kenya High School and I was informed that I was to show her around as she may join my class. My classmates and I were so excited to have this new girl who had come from England to be in our midsts. On the day, she arrived with her white boots and mini skirt the epitome of Carnaby street, I felt super charged and excited in making a new friend.

As we toured the school, two of her comments stayed with me. When we passed the sewing and domestic science rooms she said, “You’re not going to catch me in there.” She simply refused to enter and said, “Let’s move on.”

Her message was clear: domestic duties would have to survive without her. That independence of mind stayed with her throughout her life.

That was the beginning of our friendship.

Carole later told me that she chose Maryhill School because Kenya High was pretentious and too rigid. In Mary Hill, she was always top of her class and mischievous too. In those days the boys and girls boarding school talking drums broadcasted news of the naughty kids who would sneak out of school during the weekend to have fun in the city-guess who was amongst the lucky ones, Carole of course.

On my first attempt to join in this adventurous escapade in Kenya High, I got caught. Silly for me and my inexperienced escapees we snuck off to go see our crush Sidney Poitier on the big screen at 20th Century cinema -“In the heat of the night”- unlucky for us we encountered all the 5th/6th formers including prefects.

Our Cool Girl aspirations were thwarted and were rewarded with imprisonment (Gated) for the whole term and had to face the wrath of my parents.

Carole loved this tale and she would laugh her head off and feel so chaffed cause even if she sometimes got caught she knew how to get away without punishment. Our reminiscing of those days gave us a lot of laughter for a long time.

Those who knew Carole then will remember the white boots, the Angela Davis Afro, and the way she would stride through the streets of Nairobi as though the city had been waiting for her arrival.

Carole’s Mood Thermometer- her Hair
1. Hair pulled back tight in a ponytail- in control and serious - don’t mess with me
2. Afro- bold and defiant
3. Out loose cascading down her back- the Amazonian warrior is out to conquer whatever she wants.

In our high school years we saw each other during holidays. She commanded the city.Where we were timid she was bold, where we were meek she was strong - trailblazing her path and with determination.

Carole was determined to pursue further studies in England which had been her home before coming to Kenya . On her own initiative she followed all possible avenues with such determination and conviction and though this did not come to pass she did what Carole always did: she took the lemons life gave her and made lemonade. Her career and life history attests to her strong will in whatever challenges she had to face.

The Starlight Club
My first introduction to The Starlight Club was when my mum gave me permission to go with Carole. I was over the moon and Carole assured my mother that she and Robbie would take good care of me which they did and made sure I was with their trusted friends.

At around 5.30am and unbeknown to my protectors, a big hunk of an African American fellow managed to infiltrate the safe haven and after many enthusiastic exchanges about the Black Power movement amongst other things we vowed to meet again and shared tokens of this promise. His was a Black Panther wooden fist on a leather string and mine alas was my amethyst stone on a gold chain which was a gift from my mother. By the time we got home, I was bursting with excitement and proudly shared my wonderful news. Carole, however, was absolutely mortified. Her immediate concern was not my romantic future, but how on earth she was going to explain to my mother that I had returned from a night out with her and without the valuable necklace she had given me.

Her protective instinct came into full force firmly forbidding me from pursuing any further contact with that no-good crook and that Robbie would make sure to get my necklace back.
It was one of the earliest signs of the Carole I would come to know: fiercely loyal, wonderfully bossy, and always ready to protect the people she loved.

Carole’s fierce independence sometimes got her into trouble. One night she had a serious accident and ended up in hospital luckily no other car or persons were involved . Naturally, I was very concerned when I visited her—but Carole was in no mood to be treated like an invalid.

When I arrived, she was holding court in her room, surrounded by well-wishers and, somehow, drinks. She reassured us that the nurses were wonderful and had become great friends. Even so, we were nervous, sitting there like mischievous schoolchildren, hoping we would not be caught.

Then Nairobi received some very exciting news: the legendary Bob Marley was passing through, and Carole’s good friend was organising his tour and a cocktail party. Most people would have considered hospital an obstacle. Carole regarded it as a minor logistical inconvenience. Somehow, she managed to persuade the nurses to let her leave despite her serious leg injury , attend the party, and return to the hospital afterwards.

Yes—Carole definitely had those nurses completely wrapped around her little finger. Even in hospital, she was still the one in charge.

Carole and I loved the Indian Ocean and we would go on vacation and spend hours frolicking in the water creating dreams of visiting far-away islands as billionaires of course.

On one of our trips to diani we stayed at our favorite dilapidated cottages and a troop of Sykes monkeys paid us a visit. Carole was checking them very attentively and then said “ I don’t see Jessica the one with a maimed hand”.
Next day low and behold Jessica appeared in time for breakfast and had a healthy fulfilling meal to my objection which Carole refused to hear. Her beloved Jessica had come to visit her. Next morning at 6.30 we heard a commotion in our kitchen and there was Jessica and a troop of six monkeys raiding our fridge With the males gnashing their teeth at us. This happened twice. They had found a weak spot on the makati roof. Jessica was absolved from any wrong doing and continued to be invited to partake in goodies.

Carole' s passion.
Family first before all else.
An avid reader, an accomplished and respected writer, she put her heart and soul into writing the bibliography of her father , a love for live music, her draw to the theatre artists/actors and their audiences and friends, and an incredible photographer. This was her creative soul food and true essence.

Carole had no barriers or airs of grandeur. She knew who she was, followed her own instincts, and did not feel the need to follow the pack—. She was the queen of her own jungle.

Carole was a fierce protector of her family (I’m sure they would agree that she could go overboard) She also was a big sister to her siblings, a role she took very seriously like a mother hen. She was their guide, their defender, and sometimes, I imagine, their personal security service.

Carole NEVER EVER compromised her values or principles .She was rigid and uncompromising on this and it was her absolute core. If you knew her you would respect this and she too would give you her respect.

My darling Carole, my beloved sister, my kindred spirit and dearest friend, thank you for the privilege of sharing love, laughter, giggles, loyalty, trust, fun times, not so happy times and the unforgettable white boots that walked into my life.

You walked through life in your own way, and you left a trail that none of us will ever forget. To Caroline and Samatha what a formidable mother you have and I know without a doubt she will forever fiercely look over you. So hold yourselves with your heads held high as she did and would expect nothing less.

Carole, kick up a storm up there in them boots.

Hearing about your passing was a painful shock for everyone in the Maryhill community. Carole, we still talk about you as if you are here with us, even though you have gone to a better place.

Maryhill School was a private Catholic school located about 14 kilometres from Thika town. Our school had strict rules that everyone was expected to follow. We look back on our school days with fond memories. We remember having teenage conversations about how we were growing and changing.
Some of us had small chests, others were flat, and some were already wearing bras.

Carole often got in trouble for reading comics late into the night with a flashlight. Carole was always up to something. She believed rules were meant to be challenged.

We used to talk about the teachers and subjects we didn’t like. Carole loved English literature, French, and looked forward to having fun on the games field. While playing hockey, she would teach
the younger girls how to sing, and sometimes she taught them funny lyrics they didn’t really understand.

Carole always joined in during music classes. We learned church hymns and classical songs. One of her favourites was Prayer to St Francis that we sang it during Mass, while the late Trixie Ramogo played guitar and Ndinda played piano.

Sadly, over the years, we have lost several classmates namely Trixie Ramogo, Bessie Ambunya, Anna Wambui Douglas-Muggler, Roselyn Thugge, and now Carole Argwings-Kodhek.

Carole was always a bit of ‘trouble’. She didn’t like Math and sometimes set off stink bombs in class, causing a big disruption to the lesson.
In her own special way she was a quiet fighter, always facing her challenges with courage.

We looked forward to school outings, picnics at Chania Falls, swimming at the Blue Posts Hotel, and most of all, going to dances at the boys’ schools.

We believe our Form 2 class had both the best and the worst that Maryhill had ever seen. Some of us became class prefects or dorm monitors, not because we were the most disciplined. This made us set better examples and rethink our mischievous ways.

Carole welcomed everyone, no matter their background. She was curious and full of energy. She wanted to learn about everything and everyone she met.

Last week, we tried to remember if Carole had ever done anything negative or hurtful. To our surprise, we couldn’t think of a single thing.
In the early 70s, many students kept autograph books. Before we left Form 4 in 1971, our final year, friends wrote touching and lasting messages. Some of us still have those autograph books today.

In a private Catholic School run by nuns, boyfriends and matters ‘amour’ were NEVER allowed. During school holidays, we would meet up and go to afternoon dances at Cameo, Hallians Club and a few other places to see our boyfriends.

Back then, there were no mobile phones. If you didn’t have a phone at home, you had to use the public call boxes near the GPO, the General Post Office. At noon, you would wait there for your call. Often, someone else would be in the call box. You would knock on the door and ask them to hurry up because you were expecting your call.
A date was a date, and we always kept our appointments.

As adults, we stayed in touch with Carole. Whenever we met, we laughed until we cried.

Some of us enjoyed her company at The Starlight Club, dancing to rhumba music until the early hours of the morning.
Later, we moved on to The Bacchus, Luke's, and Pasha Clubs, where the music and the people were like no other.

What an amazing life she lived, absolutely!

Carole, wherever you are, remember there are no more rules to break.
As we say goodbye, we pray for Carole’s family and everyone who loved her. May God comfort them and give them peace and courage as they try to make sense of this great loss.

And may Carole’s beautiful, selfless soul rest in eternal peace.

With Maryhillian Agnes Odhuno

At Maanzoni Lodge March 2025 - Wenwa Odinga and Bilha Mwenesi

Carole with Nina Straulino

At Koroga lunch

Girls Get Together

I knew Carole for many years, but from a distance

I knew Carole from the late 1960s as my older sister Anna’s friend and schoolmate. Indeed, Carole and Anne were born on exactly the same day, same year, as was their fellow Mary Hillian, Liz Odera. These three and other mainly Mary Hillian girls formed a group of high spirited, fearless, and fiercely independent girls who lived their lives freely and unapogetically. They were always also great, fun company. Though only a year or so older than me, I lived in awe of these fearsome young ladies.. That first generation of post-Independence high school girls were truly something special; they knew that, revelled in it, lived it. These were no shrinking violets. They knew they were destined for leadership and influence and did not shrink away in dread from this prospect.

I knew Carole as the daughter of CMG, an important man, a famous man, a man whose face adorned the Cabinet charts that were hung above our classrooms in those years. More personal to me, I knew CMG as my father’s friend, and as the man who had represented my grandfather, a Mau Mau detainee, in his case against the colonial government. Indeed, my grandfather was amongst the first of hundreds of Mau Mau detainees whom CMG would go on to represent, mainly pro bono, as they switched from fighting for their land, rights and dignity in the forests to legal battles on the same with the colonial authorities.

I knew Carole through her partner, Robbie Armstrong, a man who influenced many people’s social lives, first my father’s Starlight generation, then my Bacchus, Pasha and finally Lukes crowd

I knew Carole through hers and Robbie’s daughter, Caroline, with whom I worked at Citibank and later ended up alongside on the Kenya Airways Board. To know Caroline is to know Carole: both bright, sharp, opinionated, principled, and loyal. As it happens Caroline’s then future husband, Michael, also worked at Citibank at the same time that Caroline and I did

Finally, I knew Carole through her career and writings, and was eagerly looking forward to reading her planned biography of her father, which book she had titled ‘Mau Mau Lawyer’, not least because of my family interest in CMG’s legal work.

That is how I knew Carole: through our families, and through her work

I was deeply moved when Carole and her fellow Mary Hillians turned up in numbers in late 2017 to bid farewell to my late sister Anna. Carole played an instrumental role in gathering her girlfriends to remember Anna. I am grateful that in turn I have this opportunity similarly to honour Carole.

I have read and listened to many tributes to Carole over recent days, most memorably a moving and powerful tribute to her by John Kamau, carried in the July 12 2026 edition of the ‘Sunday Nation.’

It is right that Carole is so honoured. It is to our enduring shame as Kenyans that we have developed a lamentable collective trait of forgetting so many of our heroes and heroines, those who have positively impacted on and changed our lives. I place Carole firmly amongst these heroic figures.

Luckily for us, the younger generations are asking questions, want to know where they have come from, how we got us to where we find ourselves today, and who led us here. Without such self-knowledge we will remain doomed to repeating the same errors, and to seeing our descendants go about their lives as though they had no past. This is one of the reasons why Carole was so passionate about writing her father’s biography, as John Kamau so eloquently argued in his Sunday Nation piece.

Now that Carole has gone ahead to join her parents’, her ancestors’ and her friends’ souls, I am confident that others will pick up the baton of national liberation, national self awareness and national confidence that she so eloquently wielded. I am also confident that her life will inspire a biography that places Carole in her proper context in Kenya’s rich post-independence story, and in doing so help put our national story on a different, more hopeful and more confident trajectory.

For now, I choose to remember Carole as that bright, beautiful, sparkling, irrepressible, fascinating, compelling and utterly captivating being that I first met all those years ago

To the Argwings-Kodhek, Armstrong and Ogwapit families, please accept my and my family’s deepest condolences.

I will miss Carole

High School Days