Prof Obel was brilliant, eccentric and uncompromising to the end

Professor Arthur Obel, who died on Saturday at a Nairobi hospital, was a strict disciplinarian who never circumvented rules.

His brother-in-law, Charles Onyango, says the professor was a brilliant and very strict man.

“He followed rules. There were no two ways when it came to that. Things were either in black or white. There were no grey areas in his life,” says Onyango.

The academic, research and intellectual giant will be buried on October 11 in his Butula rural home.

Obel was suffering from prostate cancer and died after severe bleeding following an operation.

He leaves behind three wives and six children.

His first wife, Imelda Namalwa, an administrator, retired from the Judiciary in 2005. She had three children, Stella Zela, Raymond Waswa and John Masaba.

His second wife is Millie Obel, who retired as a nurse from Kenyatta National Hospital.
Millie is the only wife he married in a church wedding.

His third wife is Joyce Obel, with whom he bore three children: Angela and Brian Obel, who are twins, and Gloria Obel. Obel’s father had 21 official wives.

In sharp contrast, out of Prof Obel’s six children, only Stella and John went to university and hold degrees. None of his children followed their father’s footsteps into medicine, but they all veered towards the arts.

Born in a modest rural home in Bar Ober, Nyanza, on October 11, 1946, Obel was the eldest of seven siblings and earned his PhD in therapeutics from the University of London in 1978.

Obel was a recluse who never had friends. “He never ate in hotels. Never drank alcohol and never visited anyone. He went to work, and came back home,” says a family member, adding that the scientist’s favourite dish was ugali and fish. “He said fish makes people smarter, good food for the brain.”

His best friend was his eldest sister, Peris Siduba, whom he always gifted his cars to. At the time of his death, his home in Lavington had two W126 Mercedes Benz and a Peugeot station wagon.

Obel spent his retirement between his Lavington or Loresho homes, where he spent hours reading and writing for scientific publications.

Obel’s love for research and medicine stemmed from his father, an agricultural officer who supplemented his income as a village herbalist.

The intersection of indigenous medicinal knowledge and a respect for modern science shaped Obel’s quest in academic research. This eventually birthed the controversial Pearl Omega, Obel’s medicine that he claimed could cure HIV/Aids.

Renowned scientist, Ernest Omenge Nyamato, on his online profile, eulogises Obel, recalling their first meeting, when he was the professor’s student.

“He had come as a visiting professor of pharmacology. His work was our required reading. His biography, which I read after meeting him, was so dazzling it felt fictional.

‘Young man,’ he told Nyamato, ‘I noticed you did not fully explain the mechanism of action of acetylcholine blockers in your exam paper.’

And here was the terrifying part: under his arm he had every script from our entire class, all 50 of them.
He had read them all, marked them all, and memorised every wrong answer.

When my turn came, he casually opened with a smile and began reciting my errors word for word, like a stand-up comic roasting his audience.

‘Tell me again, slowly, how atropine works. And this time, don’t murder the poor receptors.’

I tried. He laughed. I sweated. He quoted me back to myself, line for line. And then, for good measure, he threw in the mistakes of three of my classmates and demanded I correct them on the spot.
It remains the single greatest display of mental power I have ever witnessed.

He also had the madness. Like many geniuses, his brilliance came laced with delusion.
He invented an ‘HIV cure’ called Pearl Omega, sold it for thousands of shillings.

He carried two pistols and occasionally unholstered them during ward rounds while berating medical students,” remembers Dr Nyamato.

Obel obtained his degree in Clinical Medicine from the University of Nairobi in 1987. He specialised primarily in medical and biological sciences, earning fellowship statuses in various prestigious institutions.

Beyond his degrees, he was a member of the Global Epidemiology Society (1983), the Achievers Society (1983), and held fellowships with the Jewish Chemists Federation (1986), the International Diabetes Federation (1986), the Global Pharmaceutical Federation (1987), and was recognised as a Project Management Professional (2004).

Lazarus Othieno, who grew up in Obel’s village of Bar Ober, remembers a childhood in awe of the scientist.

Posting on his social media page, Othieno recalls: “To us in Bulemia Village, in Butula sub-County, he was ‘the man behind the wall.’

His homestead stood like a fortress in the middle of our modest village, a walled island with two gates on either end.

What marked his arrival was not his face; it was the roar of his Peugeot, Mercedes or BMW.

But all of us recognised the voices, a deep, growling engine that could be heard before it even descended Mung’ambwa’s slope, and then came the hoot—long and singular, like a trumpet announcing royalty.

Othieno recalls that the professor on several occasions fired his gun at people or animals—whoever upset him at the moment.

“My older brother and cousins once learned this the hard way. They’d crept close, peeking through the gate cracks, trying to glimpse what lay beyond the compound. That day, the professor didn’t yell. He simply fired into the air and the boys ran so fast they tore their slippers in half.”

Later, when I was still young, I would do the same. Curiosity is hereditary.

But it wasn’t just boys and birds he chased. Even hawks circling above weren’t spared. One morning, a sharp crack echoed across the village. A hawk dropped from the sky, hit mid-flight for daring to fly too low over his homestead. The message was clear: his airspace was private property.

Inside, the estate was a world unto itself. He kept two caretakers, both quiet men who never spoke much in the shopping centre. They maintained the lawn, washed the fleet of cars—a BMW here, a Mercedes there—and kept the gates ready for the Professor’s unpredictable comings and goings.

The impatient side of Professor Obel was also prominently displayed to the villagers. Othieno recalls: “One day, Professor Obel arrived without warning. In those days, there were no mobile phones. His gate-man had stepped out briefly to attend a family matter, unaware that the lion was returning to his den. By the time someone reached his doorstep with the news, it was too late. Obel had found the gates locked. He didn’t knock. He didn’t call.

He got out of the Peugeot and rained kicks and blows on the man when he returned. That evening, he fired him. Just like that. That was how the professor operated: with finality. His judgements were fast and without appeal.”