When I find the Ngũgĩ section at Bookstop, I circle around a little shocked that the title I’m looking for does not just jump into my hands. This is the book by the Kenyan writer. It is one of the handful that he wrote in English, published in 1966. I had Ngũgĩ’s The River Between as a set-book. I’ve lost my copy but the Christian allegories come just as thick and fast in this one. This is after the missionaries and the completion of the railway. It is about the State of Emergency and those who suffered the worst of it. It is a young man’s first-hand account of the plight of his people in the wake of a blood-soaked catastrophe. Like Achebe’s Things Fall Apart and No Longer at Ease,  it is a historical document just as much as it is a novel.

In the week leading up to December 12, 1963, the people of Thabai edge ever closer to a reckoning. This fictionalised account of the events preceding Kenya’s independence follows a handful of friends of the same peer group, including a narrator who fills in exposition when direct recollection or testimony will not suffice. At the centre is Mugo, our agonised protagonist. 

Two days pass before I pick the book up to read. It will take three sittings to finish. It’s not perfect. The characters are form-fit to their symbolic roles and never break out long enough to be memorable, the ending is rushed and I am still unsure who the intended reader is. But it is Ngũgĩ wa Wanjiku, later wa Thiong’o, so there is plenty to make up for all that.

In the final act of the book, a race is held as part of the uhuru celebrations at the village. All the main male characters are in it. Two ex-resistance fighters start out ahead. The homeguard Karanja outpaces ex-detainee Gikonyo for a while but the carpenter and self-made businessman surges to the front of the pack. The point is that you need to have something good and strong to keep you going. Gikonyo, has enough to keep him going but is tripped up close to the finish line because he cannot give up his ideal pre-catastrophe Mumbi. Mumbi is the book’s symbol of home, redemption, uhuru, Kenya, love, hope and all good things. 

It should have been a relay race. If you’re going to be so squarely on the nose as to have a carpenter and a blessed mothermary complete with a near immaculate conception, you have no reason to hold back. Competitors in relay races must practice passing the baton as much if not more than the actual sprint. It does not matter if such is your genetic advantage that the fierce winds coming down Kerio Valley might as well be gathered at your feet for how long and fast you can run, a bad hand-off will lose it for everyone. I believe that’s what this story is about, the fumbles and what comes after. Given that, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o ties three critical historical hand-off moments together to present a simple, devastating-if-true proposition.

In Kenya we want deaths which will change things, that is to say we want true sacrifice.

First, the British conquest and annexation of the territories that would become Kenya. Ngũgĩ spends the first thirty pages summarising the events as experienced by the people of Thabai. Through the first hand account of the omniscient narrator who dips in and out of the story, we learn two Gikuyu myths of reviled women rulers and how they were overthrown. The pregnancy story is canon by now but the second has to be made up. More on that later. There’s Waiyaki, his capture and execution, the train and both World Wars. He, Waiyaki, is rumoured to be buried alive face down into the soil. And thus he does not die for nothing, his sacrifice births what Ngũgĩ calls the Movement.

I remember Waiyaki’s chapter in 8-4-4 history. He shared those pages with Mekatilili and Samoei. I see the image of a Nandi woman adorned with metal wire around her neck that was liberated from a train encampment. Their capture and executions were a footnote, a sentence with a date to memorize for exams. I learned about the hunt for the Tsavo maneaters long before I found out about detention camps and the horrors executed within them. Even that took a movie about an old man joining standard 1. When they taught us about the red in our flag they should have put this excerpt under it:

No human disaster, with the exception of the Flood (if that biblical legend is true) can equal in dimension of destructiveness the cataclysm that shook Africa. We are all familiar with the slave trade and the traumatic effect of this on the transplanted black but few of us realize what horrors were wrought on Africa itself. Vast populations were uprooted and displaced, whole generations disappeared, European diseases descended like the plague, decimating both cattle and people, cities and towns were abandoned, family networks disintegrated, kingdoms crumbled, the threads of cultural and historical continuity were so savagely torn asunder that henceforward one would have to think of two Africas: the one before and the one after the Holocaust. – Ivan Van Sertima, New Brunswick and London 1984

Second, post-annexation organised resistance to colonial rule ending with the brutal suppression of the State of Emergency. Warui the elder remembers walking to Nairobi in 1923 to join those demanding Harry Thuku’s release. After Thuku is lost, the movement stumbles. In Ngũgĩ’s own words, the young man with the fiery gaze takes over. (Did you know the elder Kenyatta worked for the city council?)  It is around this time that our friend group is born and comes of age. Among them will be Kihika, blessed with purpose and pretty much born ready to fight. Princess Elizabeth will visit Nyeri where she will become queen in the same year that the state of emergency will be declared. The village avoids the early terrors of the Emergency until Kihika is captured after killing a white district officer. 

In Kenya we want deaths which will change things, that is to say we want true sacrifice. But first we have to be ready to carry the cross. I die for you, you die for me, we become a sacrifice for one another. So I can say that you, Karanja, are Christ. I am Christ. Everybody who takes the Oath of Unity to change things in Kenya is a Christ. Christ then is not one person. All those who take up the cross of Liberating Kenya are the true Christs for us Kenyan people. (AGOW p89)

Mugo is the traitor. I ate up the book just to find out why. I waited for the heartbreaking scene where a bloodied and broken man, neglected by his people but still loyal to the oath, is pushed beyond any conceivable limits. I wanted the confession to leak through gritted teeth. 

Third, the end of the state of emergency and declaration of independence. Despite the catastrophic disruption visited on the previous generations, hope remains if the characters choose it. As we draw closer to uhuru, Mugo breaks open at last and confesses his betrayal of Kihika. Now, never too late, he accepts the work that was always his. He becomes the man the people need, not the hero of their imaginations. He ends all their lies with a single truth. His truth. He is not the hero who gave sanctuary to their venerated son but his murderer. He did not endure the pain of multiple beatings in detention out of faithfulness to the oath nor was he carried through by his love for home like Gikonyo. He does not explain why and he does not seek forgiveness. He rips away all the hope of what he could have been – their chief, their pride, the old dream realized at last. He dies and his sacrifice frees Gikonyo, opening his eyes to what is possible, to his and Mumbi’s work. 

Back to the relay, a parallel race began upon Waiyaki’s death. Kicking it off would be British officers like Lt Col John Henry Patterson – hunter and killer of Tsavo’s infamous lions. Successive lines of Brits, Indians and Africans passed the baton, gaining speed and power all the while. On the eve of uhuru, they too have their handover. The Movement is replaced by the Party. The MPs skip village celebrations for the honour of receiving Prince Phillip in Nairobi. The parallels to the present day require no reframing. Warui’s haunting recollection of the massacre that ended the march for Harry Thuku could have been cut out of last month’s paper. 

On the fourth day they marched forward, singing. The police who waited for them with guns fixed with bayonets, opened fire. Three men raised their arms in the air. It is said that as they fell down they clutched soil in their fists…. Within a few seconds the big crowd had dispersed; nothing remained but one hundred and fifty crooked watchers on the ground, outside the State House. (AGOW p12)

In fact, last month’s paper reported on MP’s outrage at BATUK officials’ no-show at parliamentary hearings on alleged crimes by British soldiers in Nanyuki. The officials were meant to answer for the Lolldiaga Conservancy fire, the latest in a string of crimes and abuses going back to the founding of the base. Of course, such a hearing is only possible because of the termination of automatic diplomatic immunity in 2016 which was laid out by the BATUK Agreement of 1964. No doubt the deal was hammered out as the outgoing administration scrambled to destroy any incriminating files from their time here. The little that survives still exposes a system intent on mass terror through unrestrained violence. A system that was adopted wholly by its inheritors. 

The BATUK officials claimed they had no knowledge of the hearings. Reader, I believe them.

Can a metaphor breath?

In Decolonising the Mind: The Politics of Language in African Literature Ngũgĩ points to Joseph Conrad’s work for inspiring the non-linear style adopted in A Grain of Wheat but believes Conrad is limited by his ambivalence towards imperialism. Ironically, A Grain of Wheat is similarly held back by the author’s decidedly less ambivalent thoughts on women. 

The second myth of the Agikuyu employed to illustrate the reservations and sense of foreboding that the people felt towards British arrival is about a deposed queen. She ruled after the knock-em-all-up coup. She was beautiful and “chose for herself young warriors who became the target of jealousy”. The inciting (or arousing) incident is narrated as follows…

Came a night when, no doubt goaded by the admiration she aroused, or maybe wanting to gratify their shameless longing, she over-reached herself. Removing all her clothes, she danced naked in the moonlight. For a moment men were moved by the power of a woman’s naked body. The moon played on her: an ecstacy, a mixture of agony and joy hovered on the woman’s face. Perhaps she, too, knew this was the end: a woman never walked or danced naked in public. She was removed from the throne. (AGOW p10)

When I say I think he made this up I don’t mean that I think this myth is a fiction and the other may be grounded in truth. I mean I do not believe this story was passed down through the generations to reach baby Ngũgĩ in Tigoni. The author assumes much about ancient Gikuyu attitudes on sex and nudity. Those assumptions tell on him. More to the point, there is no need to call up extra reasons for the people to have been suspicious of the whites. It is not enough to prove sexist bias let alone a pervasive misogyny. Sadly, examples abound. 

Men and women play remarkably different roles in the story. The women help move the plot forward but only as catalysts for male character development. Take Mumbi, the only one to approach three dimensions. She is Kihika’s sister first and then Gikonyo’s wife who conceives a bastard just so he (Gikonyo) may come to terms with the new realities of uhuru. She also symbolizes the land that Mugo loved so much that he betrayed Kihika for it. She is the object of Karanja’s obsession and his undoing but that is when she is not being the dutiful daughter(-in-law) who will take any insult except that of whore. And finally, she’s the vessel of the new dream that Gikonyo will surely nurture after the scales have fallen from his eyes.

The male characters, though not spared from being stand-ins for larger themes and ideas, get to grapple with issues and make decisions, for better or worse. They form the set pieces and crucially, they make the sacrifices. They are imbued with agency and therefore humanity. 

One woman does take decisive action. Njeri who loves Kihika and follows him into the bush. Although it is reported that she keeps fighting after her beloved is captured and killed, her sacrifice moves little in the story. It is just a girl’s blind devotion, the pathetic outcome of unrequited love. 

Mugo’s aunt is a drunkard who fails in her duty to him as do her six daughters or ‘female slime’ as she calls them. Thus, Mugo is disconnected from his community, mirroring what the British did to the fighters in the forest when they cut them off from the villages. General R leaves home and joins the Movement after his battered mother takes the side of the violent, drunkard father when the boy finally comes to her defence. This in turn foreshadows what the fighters will meet on their return from the forest. Mugo’s aunt and the General’s father are also meant to give a glimpse of the well-documented disruption that alcohol and alcoholism had on traditional socio-economic relationships. Wambuku is Kihika’s fickle girlfriend who, to quote Mumbi, ‘destroys herself’ when she turns to prostitution during the Emergency. She dies and her body is found in a ditch but not before Mugo can get arrested and sent to detention for trying to defend her. This list would be incomplete without the three (3) separate occasions where men have vivid fantasies of murdering the women closest to them. 

Cracks form in the vision Ngugi proposes with each instance. Sometimes it feels like he read that Salman Rushdie quote about accusing fingers and used it as a literary device. It makes it harder to see my part in this story and in turn recognise the truth of it. 

Be my Messiah?

When I was asked to attempt writing something on Ngugi, I did not know that he had died. I was using a Nokia flip phone and making a concerted effort to focus on nothing but keeping a roof over my head. I knew about the protests, mostly loved working from home for days at a time. I liked the time away from the office but I felt dirty when the reason for it came up at work. The words Maandamano and Gen Z join a special list of mine that includes swanglish, punchy, slayqueen, ordinary mwananchi, omoka, localized, disruptive, personal brand and leapfrog. 

A couple of days before Labour Day my apathetic shield slips and I use the word workers on a… marketing thing (just giving the wrongful termination suit a fighting chance). I insist on it when met with resistance and do my best impression of a fool (no easy task I assure you) when I wonder aloud, “It’s International Workers Rights Day, and don’t they work there….” I refuse to appreciate why the COO might take offense at being called a worker, “If they don’t want the affiliation with labour unions and workers rights then why bother at all? Oh…my bad. I didn’t know the guys in retail did not get a day off for Labour Day. So just take out the word restful for watu wa ground and replace the word workers for corporate? No wowos.”

After the police and affiliated militia were given carte blanche to attack us on the June 25 anniversary, I got a smart phone. I did it the week after cops showed up at my little brother’s place. Albert Ojwang hadn’t yet been laid to rest. It was around 7 in the morning. My older brother called me to tell me he was on his way. When I switched back to the kid I kept my voice steady. I asked questions, I told him he was right not to let them in and to wait for us to get there. I told him he would be fine, that it probably had nothing to do with the protests. I did this while folded on the floor with the scarf our mother hand-knit for my birthday pressed to my chest. I called to her even though I don’t believe in any afterlife. I made promises to heaven and hell while puking in my bathroom sink. 

 It turned out to be a shakedown. Apparently they feel the same way about dreadlocks in Rongai as they did during the Emergency. Collaborators collaborate, I guess. 

It is not that I thought we were immune to state violence. I grew up in Kahawa in the Michuki era so we did not stay out after dark. I remember watching the night time swearing-in as reports of deaths across the country rolled across the bottom of the screen. I’ve tasted teargas, been homeless and known the shattering despair of losing a loved one because of our broken healthcare system. I would be delighted to quit training for a marathon in solidarity. “Uber who?” That’s me since the boycott. So I really shouldn’t feel like Mugo was looking directly into my soul when he said,

“I wanted to live my life. I never wanted to be involved in anything. Then he came into my life, here, a night like this, and pulled me into the stream. So I killed him.”  (AGOW p172)

There’s still a brick-shaped hole in the upstairs display glass of Naivas Kawangware when I go up there looking for a grater. I’m starting to brew tea again because I’m taking a break from alcohol. The police drove marchers back from Ngong road but the crowd would not let up and kept regrouping further down the road. KJ may have cabroed every inch he’s allowed to but Satellite and 46 are still a confusing mess for the uninitiated. I wonder if Waiyaki’s spirit nudged the marchers towards safety, still representing his hometown in the struggle (Dagoretti massive!! *airhorn*airhorn *airhorn*). I take a nduthi back and agree with the rider when he says that it is time to pull back. Between the goons and the fact that Wantam does not seem to have ever met a line he would not cross, the GenZs would lose. I do not agree agree. I’ve just got used to nodding along with whatever political opinion is spoken to me in the hopes that I can do what I need to do and keep it moving. The apathy shield grows less and less reliable with each day. I’ve been walking new paths, ranging further and deeper into things. 

Days then weeks pass before I feel I know what the book is about. One evening after work I write down ‘Mugo as a confessor, an omen.’ because he is consistently the last thing people see before they die. I get up to dance to Shad Mziki, stepping away from my notes to think. It comes to me like the painkiller finally kicking in. Mugo is the dead dream, killed by his disconnection from the people. It was glorious. It was terrible. 

Is there anything worse than starting to work on a project shingo upande and then realizing that not only do you have to keep going, you’re obligated to make it good? 

In a show of unearned generosity, my editor tells me to forget Ngugi and write the article I want to write. I refuse but later I think about getting another one out as I work through this one. The trash heap on Gatanga road grows in size every day. The sight and stench of it is horrible but I only deal with it on my commute. Earlier in the year I assumed the neighbouring businesses would block the road or something to get council’s attention. The trash is from Kawangware market so it is the county’s job. It is going to make people sick and the road impassable. You cannot have a landfill there. Isn’t it enough that the people here are being squeezed out by yuppies (it’s me, I am yuppies) willing to pay 18k for a ‘studio’ ? Each time I passed it, I was freshly outraged and yes, irritated by the people going about their business like everything was fine. In the long struggle to crack the book’s meaning, I turned my thoughts to writing about the heap. Some part of me, unexpected but forceful, demands that if I do go ahead with the writing I’ll have to talk to some people in the community about the trash. 

I was never a great athlete. In case you missed it, I would be over the moon to give up any physical exercise for the cause. Unfortunately, instead of bathing in the self-righteous glow afforded by my instinctive disdain for banks, corporate philanthropy and organized fun, my attention keeps drifting toward the races I intend to run but hardly prepare for. Writing is not my passion and books cannot be my lovers. They are the shape that my work will take, the vein that connects me to the living dream. 

Now I think I’m just going to talk to people about the heap and be as useful as I can be. For the first time since that March day at the parking lot in KU referral so long ago, I think that maybe it is not about dying for something, but living. 

*If you’re interested, Chinua Achebe has much more to say on Conrad.