Ngugi: The man who planted stories in our souls

Why is Kenya, a small country, so well known across the globe? Is it because of our world-class runners who dominate marathons and bring gold home? Yes. Is it because we share a lineage with Barack Obama, the first black president of the United States? Certainly. But beyond athletics and politics, Kenya gifted the world something even more enduring: Ngugi wa Thiong’o.

Beyond doubt, Ngugi is not just a writer. He is, in many ways, a literary colossus and a towering intellect. He is an icon of resistance and decolonization. Through his works, Ngugi transformed not only African literature but the global understanding of the interconnection between language, power, and identity. His abandonment of English in favor of Gikuyu was not just an act of defiance, but a bold affirmation of cultural pride. Through Ngugi, Kenya’s voice, roars on the world stage.

As a small boy growing up in Navuhi village, in Vihiga County, I was inspired by Ngugi wa Thiong’o to study literature. His works, filled with vibrant and relatable characters, opened my eyes to a world where books were not just entertainment. Ngugi made me start seeing books as tools of resistance and imagination. By the time I was in form two, I knew that I was going to live on telling stories, courtesy of Ngugi.

The detention of Ngugi without trial for daring to write and stage a play in Gikuyu, was a turning point for me. I saw his incarceration as a revolutionary act that made me understand the power of the subject I loved. Literature, I realised, was not merely about form and beauty. It was a weapon.

As we bow our heads in mourning Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Africa’s uncompromising cultural warrior, and perhaps the world’s loudest voice for linguistic justice, we should stop and reflect. Let us reflect on what we are doing to our children. I grew up in an environment where I read Ngugi, Chinua Achebe, Charles Mangua, Meja Mwangi, Wole Soyinka, Sembene Ousman, Flora Nwapa, without restrictions!

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Look at what we are doing now! Regrettably, we now have people who have positioned themselves as gatekeepers to restrict the imagination and creative freedom of writers, rather than serve as champions of diverse literary expression. The preference for books that conform to narrow moral and ideological templates deny learners the opportunity to engage with the full spectrum of human experience.

We systematically shut down any text that dares to depict emotional intimacy or confront complex social realities. What are we offering our children is a sanitized, diluted version of life. This is an affront to literature itself, which, as Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s philosophy teaches us, should be a liberating force. It should challenge, provoke, and nurture critical thought.

Ngugi’s works, rich in cultural memory, political consciousness, and unflinching honesty, stand in direct contrast to this approach to censorship of thought. Literature should not be imprisoned by fear or conservative gatekeeping. It should be allowed to roam freely, asking difficult questions, awakening empathy, and mirroring life in all its beauty and brutality. To cripple writers by censoring imagination is to betray the very essence of literary education. Our children deserve more than half-truths. They deserve the whole story, with all its complexity and nuances. It is time for my friend Prof. Charles Ong’ondo of the Kenya Institute of Curriculum Development (KICD) called for a dialogue on this matter as we mourn Ngugi wa Thiong'o.

I am fully aware of the criticisms leveled against Ngugi, especially from his colleagues from the University of Nairobi, led by my good friend Prof. Henry Indangasi. However, let us face it. Ngugi’s contribution to the generation of new knowledge in the academy was nothing short of transformative. Alongside like-minded colleagues, he challenged colonial legacies. At the University of Nairobi, he was part of the team that spearheaded the Africanisation of the Department of English. The department was renamed the Department of Literature. This reflects the radical idea that African stories, African languages, and African realities deserved academic attention.

I think that was more than a change of name. It was an intellectual rebellion. Ngugi insisted that our oral traditions, folktales, and performance forms were valid repositories of knowledge. He urged us to look inward and value the rhythms of our mothers’ tongues and the philosophies encoded in our proverbs. In doing so, Ngugi didn't merely challenge the canon. He changed it.

Perhaps Ngugi’s boldest intellectual and artistic move was to abandon English and write in Gĩkũyũ. To some, it seemed like literary suicide. To Ngugi, it was an act of cultural reclamation. Writing in Gĩkũyũ was, for him, a way of resisting neocolonialism. He was telling us that we exist, we matter and our tongues carry truth.

He went further to advocate translation as the language of languages. His own novels, like Caitaani Mutharaba-ini (Devil on the Cross) and Matigari, were first written in Gĩkũyũ. In doing so, he did not seek Western approval. He demanded Western attention on African terms. As a writer who also  writes in the Maragoli language, I owe that courage to Ngugi. He cleared the bush so that those of us coming behind him could walk boldly.

Ngugi believed that writing should serve the people. This conviction led him to community-based theatre. In 1977, his play Ngaahika Ndeenda (I Will Marry When I Want), co-written with Ngũgĩ wa Mirii, was performed by villagers in Kamirithu. I have imitated Ngugi largely by establishing Wanda Gardens in Kakamega  as a hub for book reading and theatrical activities.

For me, this act of performing with villagers at Kamirithu, was more than symbolic. It was proof that no regime could silence the voice of a writer. Ngugi turned the prison cell into a classroom, a pulpit, and a stage. I always enjoy listening to Ngugi talk about his pet topics. His speeches are global in reach but African in soul. He never tired  urging us to reclaim our cultures, our memories, and our languages. He reminded us that decolonisation was not an event, but a lifelong struggle.

It is not an overstatement to say that Ngugi carried Kenya on his back wherever he went. His fiction, plays, essays, and public lectures introduced the world to Kenya’s complexities, its beauty and brutality, its contradictions and resilience. Significantly, he globalised our literature without diluting it. He never tried to make Kenya palatable for foreign consumption. Instead, he forced the world to see us as we are. For that reason, we can say, without exaggeration, that Ngugi put Kenya on the high table of world cultures. He was a citizen of the world. Yes. But he never stopped being a son of Limuru. Ngugi did not just inspire, he actively nurtured generations of young writers. His humility and openness made him accessible even to emerging voices. I am one of them. Today, I serve as chair of the Creative Writers’ Association of Kenya (C-WAK), an organisation Ngugi founded.

Ngugi believed in the power of collective literary action. That is why he mentored with generosity. He listened, advised, encouraged and corrected. He celebrated the small victories of young writers. Ngugi was a literary statesman whose words crossed borders and ignited minds. He championed the idea of a united Africa, not just politically, but culturally and linguistically. He saw storytelling as the ultimate act of Pan-African solidarity.

And yes, Ngugi was a human being, with his strengths and his flaws. He was passionate, sometimes unbending in his ideological stances. But in his vulnerability, we saw courage. In his flaws, we saw authenticity. In the global academy, Ngugi’s ideas have been nothing short of seismic. He has lectured across prestigious universities, igniting debates on postcolonial theory, language politics, and African epistemologies. His works are now standard texts in literature, but not in his own country, Kenya.  Many Kenyan graduates have never read Ngugi. This a strong indictment of our system. Ask the British. You have to read Charles Dickens and William Shakespear to belong.

His vision of the academy is not ivory-towered but rooted in the soil of the people’s struggles and hopes. In an era where education risks becoming commodified and detached from context, Ngũgĩ’s legacy reminds us that scholarship must remain morally grounded and socially engaged. Today, as Africa grapples with questions of identity, governance, and globalization, Ngũgĩ’s scholarship is more relevant than ever. He teaches us that academic excellence is not just about mastering foreign theories but about daring to think from home, linguistically, culturally, and historically.

Ngugi wa Thiong’o has not merely contributed to the academy, he has reimagined it. In the intellectual history, few names shine as brightly as that of Ngugi wa Thiong’o.

Prof. Egara Kabaji is a Writer, Educationist and Researcher Based at Masinde Muliro University of Science and Technology, Chairman of the Creative Writers Associan of Kenya (W-WAK), Patron of the Kakamega Book Club and Vice President of the Pan African Writers Association (PAWA).