20 October in Kenya is never just another day. For 62 years, it has been the date on which people celebrate that sacred but somewhat elusive thing they call “national heroism”.

It all began in 1889, with the birth of the “Father of the Nation”, Jomo Kenyatta. Activists of the time revered him as the prophet of independence, and in 1963, his birthday became a national holiday: Kenyatta Day, a tribute to him alone, with hymns, speeches and black-and-white photographs.

Then, in 2010, the new Constitution swept away the “ad personam” celebrations and put Kenyatta senior in good company. Thus was born Mashujaa Day, Heroes' Day, dedicated no longer to one man, but to all those who pushed, suffered and in some cases bled to bring modern Kenya into being.

Among the first to deserve the title were the infamous Kapenguria Six: Achieng' Oneko, Bildad Kaggia, Fred Kubai, Kung'u Karumba, Paul Ngei and, of course, Jomo Kenyatta. They were all imprisoned in Kapenguria, along the Turkana road, accused of being the masterminds behind the Mau Mau uprising. Decades later, the cell has become almost a monument to the tenacity (or stubbornness) of patriotism.

But Kenyan heroism began much earlier. How can we forget Mekatilili wa Menza, the Mijikenda rebel who, between Malindi and Kilifi, challenged the British colonists when doing so was practically suicide. She challenged them with words, then with actions: she even went so far as to slap a British officer. She was imprisoned twice, escaped twice, and on one occasion walked almost a thousand kilometres to return home. On foot. Today she would perhaps be honoured on television as “woman of the year”, but at the time she merely secured better conditions for the farmers on the coast.

Then there is Harry Thuku, founder in 1921 of the Kikuyu Youth Association — the country's first real political party. He was arrested in 1922, and from that day on, the protest took shape. Exiled to Somalia for nine years, he returned with a more moderate profile: he grew coffee and became the first African to be admitted to the Kenya Farmers' Union. Even diplomacy, after all, has its courage.

And how can we ignore Dedan Kimathi, the most feared face of the Mau Mau, executed in 1957 by the British? Or Tom Mboya, the charismatic “African Kennedy” assassinated in 1969, and Pio Gama Pinto, socialist and idealist, killed a few years earlier? Independence, as is often the case, came at a high price.

Closer to our own time, the list of Mashujaa has continued to grow. Wangari Maathai, Nobel Peace Prize winner and the first African woman to receive it, has earned her place among the greats. Then there is Katana Kalulu, spiritual leader of the Mijikenda, killed in 2014; veteran Kitu wa Kahengeri, a living symbol of the Mau Mau; and lawyer Joseph Karisa Mwarandu, who took the case of his compatriots tortured by the British to London, succeeding in obtaining real, not symbolic, compensation.

In recent years, the concept of “hero” has expanded somewhat. Eliud Kipchoge, the marathon runner who ran faster than time, breaking the two-hour barrier live on global television, has also joined the list. An epic feat, certainly, but then — as always happens — someone has stretched the pantheon too far: alongside respectable academics and courageous activists, inglorious rappers and social media celebrities have also slipped in.

So, every 20th of October, Kenya stops to celebrate memory, resistance and — inevitably — confusion. Because remembering one's heroes is a noble act, but choosing who really is a hero, in times of instant fame, has become almost another profession.