The pen that defied power: How Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o rewrote the African narrative
Renowned author Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o has passed away at the age of 87, according to her daughter Wanjiku wa Ngugi.
Wanjiku stated that her father rested on Wednesday, May 28, morning, having lived a full life and fought a courageous battle.
“It is with a heavy heart that we announce the passing of our dad, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o this Wednesday morning, 28th May 2025. He lived a full life, fought a good fight. As was his last wish, let’s celebrate his life and his work. Rîa ratha na rîa thŭa. Tŭrî aira!” Wanjiku stated.
Well, the world is mourning not just the death of a literary giant but the loss of a fearless voice that dedicated his entire life to telling Africa’s story – on its own terms, in its own languages, and with uncompromising truth.
Ngũgĩ was more than a novelist. He was a cultural warrior, an intellectual rebel, and a passionate believer in the power of language to shape thought, preserve memory, and ignite liberation. For him, Africa was never just a backdrop—it was the subject, the audience, and the purpose.
Born in 1938 in Limuru, Ngũgĩ grew up during one of the most tumultuous times in the country’s history. The Mau Mau uprising against British colonial rule was raging, and the wounds of dispossession and injustice ran deep. These early experiences of resistance and resilience would later echo through every page he wrote.
Choice for mother tongue
Though educated in English and exposed to British literature, young Ngũgĩ always felt a disconnect. Why were African stories told through foreign voices? Why were his people’s languages, songs, and stories treated as lesser?
Ngũgĩ’s turning point came when he made a rare and radical decision: to stop writing in English and begin writing exclusively in his native language, Gikuyu.
He believed that Africa could never truly decolonize while still thinking, dreaming, and storytelling in the language of its colonizers. His landmark book Decolonising the Mind laid out a clear and defiant argument:
“Language carries culture, and culture carries… the entire body of values by which we come to perceive ourselves and our place in the world.”
For Ngũgĩ, reclaiming the mother tongue was not just a literary choice—it was a political act. It was a return home.
Ngũgĩ arrested
In 1977, Ngũgĩ co-wrote Ngaahika Ndeenda (“I Will Marry When I Want”), a play written in Gikuyu and performed by local peasants. It exposed land exploitation, class divisions, and political corruption. The government responded swiftly—he was arrested and imprisoned without trial.
In the cold walls of Kamiti Maximum Security Prison, stripped of pen and paper, Ngũgĩ wrote his next novel, Devil on the Cross, on toilet paper. Even in silence and confinement, his voice remained unbroken.
Teaching abroad
Exiled from his homeland for many years, Ngũgĩ taught in universities across the world, from the U.S. to Europe. Yet, his mind remained rooted in Africa. His novels—A Grain of Wheat, Petals of Blood, Matigari, Wizard of the Crow—captured the complexities of post-colonial Africa: its betrayal, its dreams, and its fight for justice.
He didn’t write for accolades. He wrote for truth. For the farmer in Nyeri, the student in Nairobi, the grandmother in Kiambu. He wrote for those who had been spoken for—and gave them a voice of their own.
For years, literary circles buzzed with anticipation. “Ngũgĩ deserves the Nobel Prize,” many said. But the call never came.
Yet in every village where his plays were performed, in every classroom where his books are taught, and in every heart that was stirred by his words, Ngũgĩ’s worth was already known.
He didn’t need a medal to validate a lifetime spent lifting up a continent’s soul.
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o leaves behind not just a body of literature, but a movement. He taught us that African stories matter—not when they’re translated into foreign tongues, but when they are told in the language of the people.
He reminded us that storytelling is not just art—it is power, memory, and survival.
Ngũgĩ made Africa his muse. But more importantly, he made it his mission.
