Kenya and the global literary community are today mourning the profound loss of Ngugi wa Thiong’o, the internationally acclaimed author and advocate for African languages and voices. He has passed away at the age of 87 years.
Born in Kamiriithu, Kenya on 5 January 1938, under the shadow of colonialism, Ngũgĩ witnessed the distortions of history, the erasure of cultures, and the violence of oppression. Yet, from these struggles, he forged a weapon mightier than any sword: language. He reminded us that language is not just a tool for communication but a battleground for liberation. His defiant decision to abandon English and write in Gĩkũyũ was not just literary, it was an act of resistance, a reclamation of identity, and an invitation for Africa to tell its own stories.
From the searing critiques of Weep Not, Child and A Grain of Wheat to the radical vision of Decolonising the Mind, Ngũgĩ’s works were a mirror held up to power. He exposed the wounds of colonialism, the betrayals of neocolonial elites, and the resilience of the oppressed. Even imprisonment for his play Ngaahika Ndeenda (I Will Marry When I Want) could not break his spirit. Instead, he wrote Devil on the Cross on toilet paper, proving that no bars could cage his imagination.
Beyond his literary genius, Ngũgĩ was a teacher, not just in the universities where he taught but in every sentence he penned. He taught us that culture is the invisible gun used to control minds, and that reclaiming our narratives is the first step toward freedom. His advocacy for African languages was not just about words; it was about dignity, memory, and the future.
Today, as we mourn his passing, we also rejoice in his immortality. For as long as a child reads Wizard of the Crow, as long as a student debates Petals of Blood, as long as a farmer recites a proverb in Gĩkũyũ, Ngũgĩ lives. His work sowed seeds that will bloom for generations, in Nairobi, in Harlem, in the favelas of Brazil, and anywhere people dream in their mother tongues.
To the world, he was a literary giant. To us, he was Ngũgĩ, our storyteller, our fighter, our ancestor of letters. As we lay his body to rest, let us pledge to keep his fire alive: to speak boldly, to write fiercely, and to never let our stories be stolen.
Rest in power, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o. Your words were your monument, and they will never fade.