By Nyang’au Araka
In 2015, I entered a hall at Kisii University with my tool of trade—the camera. I was a young journalist documenting history.
Although this was an academic setting, politician Raila Odinga turned out to be the center of attention that day, his presence a gravitational force pulling every lens.
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But beyond the political spectacle, my focus was set on a different figure—a man whose legacy was written in ink, not speeches.
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o sat there, not demanding attention, but commanding it in a quieter, deeper way.
On top of the day’s assignment from my editor, I had come to see the author for the first time and, at the very least, shake his hand.
Because even then, I knew I wanted to write a book.
Ngũgĩ was proof that literature could ignite revolutions, that words could shape minds as surely as policies shaped nations.
That day, however, he remained eclipsed by the noise of political fervor.
The cameras turned. The voices clamored. And Ngũgĩ, though present, was obscured.
A Few Years Later
Years passed. I wrote my first book. Words that once hovered as ideas had finally taken form.
Then, in another twist of fate, I found myself back at that same university, this time standing in front of Ngũgĩ—not just as a journalist, but as a creative writer dreaming to walk in his footsteps.
We shook hands.
It was brief, yet momentous. In that handshake, I felt something indescribable—an unspoken passing of wisdom.
It was not just skin meeting skin; it was a bridge between generations, between aspirations, between literature’s past and future.
Now, Ngũgĩ is gone. And I sit here, mourning not just the loss of a literary giant, but the absence of a force that shaped how we understand Kenya, Africa, and ourselves.
Why He Deserves Honor
To honor Ngũgĩ is to honor our roots.
He did not just write books—he fought for the survival of indigenous voices in literature.
In a world that imposed English as the standard, he defied the colonial narrative, daring to write in Gikuyu when it was seen as rebellion.
It surprised me during my school days when I learned that his novel Devil on the Cross was penned on prison-issued toilet paper—a testament to his defiance against oppression.
Ngũgĩ’s courage was not confined to pages. He was arrested, exiled, threatened—but he never bowed.
And in refusing to surrender, he gifted Kenya a literary conscience, a mirror reflecting both its wounds and its resilience.
For a country that has struggled with identity—torn between colonial remnants and self-definition—Ngũgĩ’s work is a beacon.
Through his efforts, Kenya started to confront uncomfortable truths: how language can chain or liberate, how history can erase or empower.
He deserves honor not simply as a writer, but as a revolutionary. He was a man who did not just wield a pen, but a sword of ideas.
His Eternal Inspiration
Even in death, Ngũgĩ’s words breathe.
He will inspire because his work was never about nostalgia—it was about movement.
His call for language decolonization remains relevant, and his narratives about corruption, resilience, and cultural pride still ring true.
Even in his exit, it should never escape our minds that this wordsmith laid a foundation upon which future writers can stand—unshaken.
And for me, he remains the man who shook my hand—not just in greeting, but in affirmation.
That moment was more than fleeting; it was a pact. A promise that writing is never just about personal achievement, but about bearing witness to truth.
Truly, even in death, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o lives on. In books. In minds. In the hands of the next generation of storytellers.
And today, I write—because the other option is to write.
– Mr Araka is an author and editor with Kisii Press Club. Contact: babahezel@gmail.com.
