HENRY INDANGASI: The arguments Ngugi sparked on his way to fame

In 1967, when A Grain of Wheat was published by then James Ngugi, I was in Form Four at Friends School Kamusinga. Richard Pettit, our English teacher, praised the work. “Now,” he said, “James Ngugi has written a novel for adults. The earlier ones were meant for children.” I was curious because, as I have said elsewhere, I had read Weep Not, Child two years earlier. So, when I joined Form Five, I looked for A Grain of Wheat and read it. I honestly felt, after reading it, that African literature had come of age.

In this novel, I encountered a powerful psychological exploration. Mugo, the central character, betrays his friend Kihika to the colonial authorities, and Kihika is executed. Mugo is then haunted by a sense of guilt until, at the end of the story, he confesses to Mumbi, the sister of the man he betrayed. Kamusinga was a Quaker school, and our British teachers believed in and even preached the values of peace and nonviolence.

So, yes, I had reservations about what I perceived as the glorification of violence in the book. But on the whole, I thought Ngugi had given the world a penetrating insight into human experience. Kikulacho kinguoni mwako, he quoted the wise Kiswahili proverb.

I dreamt of meeting the author one day, and this finally materialised in 1972 when he returned to the university he had resigned from back in 1969. I don’t know of another organisation that can rehire you after your resignation, but this is what happened. I was in the third and final year at the University of Nairobi when he returned and taught us a course called The African Novel.

Because I had graduated with a first-class honours degree in literature in 1973, I was admitted directly to the PhD program at the University of California, Santa Cruz, in 1974, through an exchange programme between the University of Nairobi and its American counterpart. In addition to the scholarship, I was awarded a teaching assistantship that paid $500 per month.

One day, UC Santa Cruz asked me to give a public lecture on a subject of my choice. The topic I came up with, as I recollect, was The Dynamics of Insurgency in Kenyan Literature. As you might guess, I used Ngugi’s A Grain of Wheat as my springboard. The lecture was well received, partly because I was passionate about the work. I remember an African American student asking to borrow my copy of the novel.

The year was 1976. I had completed my PhD coursework, passed the qualifying exam, and been advanced to doctoral candidacy. What remained was the writing of a dissertation. I chose to research Joseph Conrad, the Polish-born English writer. What drew me to him was his tendency to question the morality of European imperialism. I discovered this stemmed from his personal experience under Russian oppression in his native Poland. His own father died in the struggle against foreign domination.

As I was reading Conrad’s works, I made a striking discovery. In his novel Under Western Eyes, I encountered a character called Razumov who betrays his friend Haldin to Russian authorities. Haldin is executed, and Razumov is haunted by guilt until, towards the end, he confesses to Haldin’s sister. Conrad died in 1924, long before Ngugi was born, yet the resemblance to A Grain of Wheat was unmistakable. I was left grappling with the implications.

In 1977, upon my return to Kenya, an American Fulbright professor at the then Kenyatta University College published an article in the departmental journal Kucha, highlighting the similarities between A Grain of Wheat and Under Western Eyes. I have since forgotten his name and lost my copy of the journal. However, when the article reached the Department of Literature at the University of Nairobi, Ngugi was already held in very high regard. I remember some colleagues dismissing the article, viewing it as an underestimation of African literary ingenuity.

In a lecture I gave in the late 1980s at the University of Nairobi, I discussed these parallels. Afterwards, a student visited my office.

“Mwalimu, were you serious about the resemblance between Conrad’s novel and Ngugi’s A Grain of Wheat?” he asked. He was my kind of student, curious and inquisitive.

“The way to confirm it is to read the two novels side by side. I know you have A Grain of Wheat. Borrow Under Western Eyes from the library and use the long vacation to look for the answer,” I told him.

He didn’t wait for the end of the vacation. He wrote to me and said:

“Mwalimu, you were so right. I even came across whole passages that seem to echo Conrad’s novel.”

This observation sparked debate, but others framed it differently, using the term “intertextuality” to explain the parallels.

Let me now address the issue of writing in our mother tongues.

Ngugi has described his choice to write in Kikuyu as a revolutionary act. However, those of us who were educated during the colonial era were taught in our mother tongues from Standard One to Four. We read storybooks in our local languages. The national examination in Standard Four — the Common Entrance Examination (C.E.E.), was also taken in African languages.

Moreover, Kiswahili is widely considered one of our mother tongues, and its written literature stretches back over three centuries. In Form Four, we studied Shaaban Robert’s Kusadikika and Henry Kuria’s Nakupenda, Lakini? Where, then, is the revolution?

Ngugi was not detained by the Kenyatta administration simply for writing in Kikuyu. When members of the Department of Literature raised concerns with then Vice Chancellor Dr. Josphat Karanja in early 1978, we were told that Ngugi had been detained over a politically subversive play. His use of Kikuyu was not the issue. Indeed, President Kenyatta frequently addressed the nation in Kikuyu.

Now to the question of why Ngugi never received the Nobel Prize for Literature. Barrack Muluka speculated on the reasons, and I agree with some of his points. Alfred Nobel intended the prize to honour contributions to peace and human welfare. Has Ngugi’s body of work fulfilled this intention? That is a question worth exploring.

The 1967 edition of A Grain of Wheat included a controversial scene in which Mau Mau fighters commit an act of sexual violence against a white woman. The narrator appeared to imply a sense of poetic justice. However, some readers, progressive and well-meaning, voiced their concern: “Bwana Ngugi, rape is rape, regardless of the victim’s race.” In 1987, a revised edition altered the scene: the fighters now kill a dog rather than assault the woman.

Kenyans may also recall debate surrounding The River Between when it was recommended as a KCSE set book. At the Kenya Institute for Curriculum Development, concerns were raised over depictions that could be interpreted as supportive of female circumcision. Ngugi was asked to revise certain sections dealing with Muthoni’s choice and fate.

Ngugi’s Kikuyu-language children’s books are titled Njamba Nene. I do not read Kikuyu and therefore cannot comment on their contents. However, one cover illustration features a child carrying a rifle, raising questions about the values conveyed to young readers.

A recurring theme in Ngugi’s work is the portrayal of violence. This emphasis can create the impression that Kenya’s independence was achieved solely through armed struggle. Yet historians are clear: our independence was the result of negotiations. Kenyan leaders participated in constitutional conferences in Britain after the Mau Mau uprising had been suppressed.

Based on this, I argue that an author whose works are perceived to glorify violence may not align with the Nobel Committee’s vision of promoting peace and human welfare.

Let me conclude by reflecting on Ngugi’s literary legacy. Some years ago, he acknowledged having been a member of the underground movement known as Mwakenya. According to Maina wa Kinyatti, one of its objectives was to produce literature in service of revolutionary goals.

In 1972/73, when Ngugi returned to teach at the University of Nairobi, he gave us an assignment: compare Achebe’s A Man of the People with Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth. One is fiction; the other is political theory. In hindsight, the assignment seemed more political than literary — an attempt to position Achebe as representing bourgeois values and Fanon as a champion of the masses.

Back then, English language and literature were compulsory subjects under the Cambridge School Certificate. We studied literary works for both moral insight and stylistic excellence. Today, commentary on Ngugi tends to focus on his political activism and resilience. While these are valid perspectives, I personally believe literature should serve to cultivate empathy, critical thinking, and aesthetic appreciation, not merely political agitation.

William Shakespeare, writing over 400 years ago, exemplified this vision. His works transcended ethnicity and nationality, exploring the human condition with compassion, imagination, and linguistic brilliance. He even wrote about a black man — Othello — and sought to humanise rather than dehumanise.

Shakespeare expanded our moral and intellectual horizons. I would have loved to say the same about Ngugi wa Thiong’o. But, with due respect, I cannot.

Henry Indangasi is a Professor Emeritus, Department of Literature at the University of Nairobi