Veteran Journalist Odhiambo Orlale shares a personal reflection on a chance encounter, lasting impact, and the enduring legacy of Africa’s literary giant, Prof. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o.
There is no doubt that our fallen hero, Prof. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, touched many of us—directly and indirectly—thanks to his powerful pen, sense of humour, and analytical mind.
There were those, like me, who met him personally and had the honour and privilege of being in his presence—as a lecturer, mentor, and outspoken government critic—while most encountered him through his award-winning novels, plays, and public lectures, both locally and abroad.
As typical Kenyans, unfortunately, we have a habit of sharing the best stories about our relatives, friends, or colleagues only after they are gone—during funerals and burials. Tributes to our fallen hero are no exception.
I say “unfortunately” because, as former Vice President Moody Awori said in his memoir Riding on a Tiger: “Good stories are best said in the presence of the person when he or she is alive. Give the rose when he or she is alive so he or she can smell it.”
And like the Prof. himself believed and promoted, we must not forget our culture and, by extension, our vernacular languages at the expense of foreign ones like English, French, German, Spanish, Mandarin, among others.
I admired the way he stood firm, despite being criticised and called a dissident or tribalist, for promoting his mother tongue through his literary works.
Youthful Ambition
On language, the don had no apology to make. He was once quoted saying:
“Every language has a right to be spoken, even if five people speak it, because it is democratic and a human right.”
It was in that spirit that I first met Prof. wa Thiong’o in the mid-1970s at the home of one of his close friends, Nyandarua North MP J.M. Kariuki, during one of the many birthday parties he held for his children—events he used to invite friends and supporters to gather at a time when the Jomo Kenyatta government had banned him from holding any public or political rallies.
The two-storey, palace-like farmhouse in the middle of nowhere—between Gilgil and Nyahururu—was majestic for us city dwellers. It opened our eyes to the life of the rich, powerful, and famous.
While enjoying the music and soft drinks, I broke away from fellow teenagers to use the washroom and accidentally stumbled into a big family room on the second floor where the MP was entertaining guests—including Prof. wa Thiong’o.
Our eyes met as I opened the door by mistake. I tried to close it and return to where the party was taking place, but the MP beckoned me in to greet them, introduce myself, and get to know them.
The meeting was brief, but the impact has stayed with me for decades. Even today, I still vividly remember J.M. Kariuki’s broadcasting voice and the Prof’s sharp, eagle-like eyes that seemed to penetrate my soul.
“Young man, study hard and one day you will be a success like Prof. wa Thiong’o,” the MP encouraged me.
The following year, in 1975, J.M. was abducted from the Hilton Hotel in Nairobi, tortured, and his mutilated body dumped in a thicket on the Ngong Hills, some 30 km away.
I wept like never before, remembering the earlier assassination of another powerful politician—Tom Joseph Mboya, Cabinet Minister and KANU Secretary General—shot in broad daylight in Nairobi on July 5, 1969.
Reign of Terror
Kenya was never the same again. Government critics, led by the opposition, University of Nairobi students, and lecturers like Prof. wa Thiong’o, openly protested—in the streets, in the media, and through their literary works. In my heart, I was one of their sympathisers.
By then, I was a secondary school student at Ofafa Jericho in Nairobi, where I was influenced to read works by African authors under the African Writers Series—Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, Uganda’s Okot p’Bitek (Song of Lawino), Nigeria’s Chinua Achebe (Things Fall Apart), Wole Soyinka (The Interpreters), Ghana’s Ayi Kwei Armah (The Beautiful Ones Are Not Yet Born), and South Africa’s Peter Abrahams (Mine Boy), among others.
These books—many of which were set texts for the Form Four national examination (KCSE) and A-Level (Forms Five and Six)—had an immense impact on my thinking, life choices, and worldview.
From fighting colonial rule in Weep Not, Child, Grain of Wheat, and The River Between, Ngũgĩ’s writings became increasingly radical, especially with Petals of Blood, Wizard of the Crow, Decolonising the Mind, and the controversial play in his native Gikuyu, Ngaahika Ndeenda (I Will Marry When I Want). The play was banned by President Daniel arap Moi’s regime and led to his detention without trial before his eventual release and self-exile.
Return and Reflection
Our paths crossed again in 2004, when he returned from exile after 22 years. As a senior Nation Media Group reporter, I followed his re-entry closely. I noticed that his radical stance had softened—perhaps due to age, or the influence of life abroad as a university lecturer and resident in the United States.
Yet, his strong stand on “decolonising the mind” remained crystal clear. By then, he had fully embraced writing in his native Gikuyu, just as he had earlier discarded his Western name, John.
What’s in a Name?
That act influenced many Kenyans—including fellow journalists and myself—to abandon our Western or Christian names in favour of our traditional ones.
I was honoured to cover the launch of his book Kenda Muiyuru (The Perfect Nine). Initially, I was apprehensive—unamused, even—to be assigned a story where the event was conducted in a vernacular language.
I literally felt lost. Like we say in Dholuo: “rech ma ogol e pige”—a fish out of water.
But thanks to a translator, I not only enjoyed the event but deeply appreciated the richness of culture expressed through vernacular.
Decolonising the Mind
I once asked him if he saw any contradiction in writing in Gikuyu to an audience in a multicultural nation—and to a foreign audience. His response was cryptic but powerful:
“My message in Kikuyu can and will be translated to those who are interested in it.”
Indeed, by then, the firebrand don had aged—but his arguments remained sharp. He reminded me of his younger self, dreaming with J.M. of a democratic Kenya where ideas, ideologies, and human rights would flow freely like the waters of the Nile.
Now that the Prof. is no more, I take comfort in knowing that his legacy lives on—through his students in local and global universities, the readers whose hearts he touched, and the many friends and colleagues he made along the way.
You have exited the stage, but your baton is firmly in the hands of your mentees in Kenya, across Africa, and throughout the world.
Aluta continua.
Go thee, Prof. Go thee in peace.
About the Author
Odhiambo-Orlale is a veteran journalist with over 30 years of experience in media and communication. He has contributed to major publications including Kenyatta and Moi Cabinet and Beyond the Shadows of My Dream, and has worked regionally and internationally in media advocacy and training.
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