“Who Am I to Write a Tribute to Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o?” A Young Kenyan Writer Reflects on a Literary Giant’s Legacy

A few hours after the news of the passing of Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o floods the country, my editor sends me a WhatsApp message: “What do you think about a tribute to Ngũgĩ and his contribution to political theatre?”

What did I think? I wasn’t even sure I knew what I was feeling. Was it a loss of the man I never met but whose work shaped the way I saw and perceived the world and my place in it? Was it grief that this towering figure of African literature was no more? Or was it a shock that Ngũgĩ – the Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o – could die? A sharp and sudden reminder that time comes for us all, that none of us is safe from the inevitable, not even those who crucified the Devil on the Cross.

Scrolling through a writers’ WhatsApp group I belong to, tributes trickled in – mostly from academics and professors who had known him personally. Some are fancy poetic dirges; others are anecdotes about individual encounters with Ngũgĩ. The words that danced on my screen: literary hero, legend, a patriot, trailblazer, teacher, gallant, pillar, icon, paragon of African literature, revolutionary thinker, radical educator, freedom dreamer, champion of African languages and philosophy. And then, a lone wolf: perennial contender for the Nobel Prize for Literature. This sparks a few moments of light-hearted banter. But the consensus remains: after Achebe, and now Ngugi, only Soyinka remains standing on the dais of the original African literary triad.

Like many young writers in my circle, I harboured the dream of one day meeting Ngũgĩ, perhaps even professing how reading Njama Nene’s Pistol, a kids’ novel I chanced upon on my dad’s bookshelf as an 8-year-old, might have been the reason I write today. And if upon meeting him, I found him as affable as Carey Baraka described in a profile he wrote for The Guardian, I’d tell him about this one time as a 10-year-old, my older brother almost pinched a hole through my earlobe when I borrowed, without his knowledge, The River Between –his high school coursework set book – and lost it in school. I read this book without understanding it, much like I did The Devil on the Cross, Weep Not, Child, and I Will Marry when I Want, all before I turned 12. Unfortunately, I never got to study Ngũgĩ in high school, which probably fuelled my hunger for his work.

So, how do I write a tribute to Ngũgĩ? Or rather, the better question is: who am I to write a tribute to this great writer who lived 87 full years, whose drama continues to play a major role in the fight against oppression and exploitation that Kenya’s political class continues to exert on the populace today, just as they did at the birth of this nation? A legend whose work pioneered Kenya’s political theatre as a tool of resistance and liberation?

Who am I to write a tribute to Ngũgĩ? In my 26 years of life, there’s always been Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o; there has never been a time in my life when he wasn’t a looming figure in Kenya’s literary scene. And yet now I’m supposed to acknowledge an end to his towering chapter?

Ngũgĩ’s political theatre was anchored in the belief that for a socio-political and cultural change to occur in Kenya, there is a need for the working class to participate actively in the call for that change. He grappled with the questions of social and political courage, patriotism, heritage, and the return of land grabbed by the political elite in the plays The Trial of Dedan Kimathi and I Will Marry When I Want, confronting class struggles, land rights, and cultural identity.

With his work, Ngũgĩ challenged the state’s greed, corruption, and betrayal – exposing how postcolonial regimes became mirrors of the colonial powers they replaced. But perhaps Ngũgĩ’s most profound contribution to theatre was that he showed us that theatre did not only belong to elite auditoriums and university halls, but out there with the real people. He took theatre to the villages, developed it with them, and made real-life plays that merged the existing traditions with a new local theatre aesthetics by the people and for the people.

I Will Marry When I Want, written in his native Kikuyu language, was produced and performed by local working-class and peasant farmers. One of its main themes is the ridicule of the neocolonial ruling class for colluding with the former colonists to grab land from Kenyan farmers.

Ngũgĩ taught us that theatre must remain steadfast in resisting any attempt by the state to woo, censor or control it. Theatre must continue to offer hope, challenge the status quo, call out the oppressors, and invite the people to actively participate in resistance.

Here’s a quick run-through of some of Ngũgĩ’s outstanding contributions to theatre.

The Black Hermit 1962
Ngũgĩ’s first play questioned the lingering cultural vestiges of colonialism and its impact on post-colonial Africa. He presents the post-independence African man not as triumphant, but conflicted, struggling with identity, religion, culture, and nationalism.

The Trial of Dedan Kimathi 1976
This play, which sparked significant controversy, explored the historical context of Kenya’s independence struggle. It was an act of cultural resistance, offering an African perspective on history, justice, and liberation.

Ngaahika Ndeenda (I Will Marry When I Want) 1977
Co-written with Ngũgĩ wa Mirii, this play led to Ngũgĩ’s imprisonment and further strengthened his reputation as a political activist, as his work advocated for a new social and political order in Kenya.

I Will Marry When I Want is a bold, fiery, and poetic indictment of post-colonial inequality. It’s as relevant today as it was then. A rallying cry for justice and dignity told with humor, sorrow, and raw truth.

Kamiriithu Community Education and Cultural Centre
In 1976, Ngũgĩ co-founded this center to organise African theatre in the Kamiriithu region. The centre promoted a participatory form of theatre, engaging ordinary workers and peasants in the performance, fostering community empowerment and artistic expression.

This experiment, though controversial and ultimately dismantled by the government, demonstrated the potential of theatre to raise social and political consciousness and mobilise the populace.

Ngũgĩ, I wish you well on your journey to the other side of Kere Nyaga.

Thank you for the words.

Thank you for the books.

Thank you for the Kenyan stage that stands higher and bolder today because you lived.

“If you had been poor in your last life, I would have asked you to be rich when you come again. But you were rich. If you had been a coward, I would have asked you to bring courage. But you were a fearless warrior. If you had died young, I would have asked you to get life. But you lived long. So I shall ask you to come again the way you came before.” — Things Fall Apart, Chinua Achebe.

Nind gi kwee ja ndiko.

Explore More: What Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o Helped Me See: Cinema, Language, and the Unfinished Work – a tribute by Sinema Focus and African Film Press (AFP) partner Akoroko, available exclusively to Akoroko Premium subscribers. Learn more here.

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