There are writers one reads and then, rather disturbingly, there are those by whom one finds oneself read. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, it seems to me now, belonged from the outset to the latter category, though I only came to that recognition through prolonged resistance. It was in the summer of 2011, a liminal period for me and for South Sudan—a season of provisional awakenings, when our nation had only just been born and we had not yet learned how to be postcolonial—that I first encountered his work.

I was a university student then, home from America for the summer, shaped intellectually by the contradictions of my condition: a colonial subject belatedly emancipated, but educated in the refinements of Western literary sensibility; a reader steeped in Nabokov’s fastidious irony and Baldwin’s tragic humanism, tutored in the belief that the literary ought to elude, or at least subvert, political prescription.

By these standards, Ngũgĩ’s novels—Petals of Blood, Devil on the Cross—seemed aggressive, almost propagandistic. Their characters declaimed rather than spoke, their plots surged forward not with psychological inevitability but ideological purpose, and their metaphors functioned less as vessels of mystery than as delivery systems for slogans. What I took then to be their greatest fault was their lack of ambivalence. He wrote, it seemed, not to flirt with complexity but to expose betrayal.

And yet I could not put him aside. Even then, I suspected that what vexed me was not the unbridled earnestness but clarity—an implacable vision that refused to make the compromises to which we, in our seminar rooms and literary circles, had grown accustomed. It was only in 2012, as South Sudan began its descent into internecine strife, that Ngũgĩ’s work began to acquire a different weight. The revolutionary rhetoric that had animated our early independence soured into the tribal arithmetic of appointments and resource capture. It was amid these disillusions, by candlelight during the city’s now-frequent blackouts, that I returned—almost reflexively—to Decolonising the Mind. What had once seemed dogmatic now appeared diagnostic.

Ngũgĩ’s central claim—that language is not merely a medium of communication but the architecture of consciousness, and hence of domination—no longer struck me as theoretical extravagance. It was, I saw then, the description of an epistemic violence I had witnessed daily in the schools of our nascent republic. Children, taught to think in tongues foreign to their inheritance, fell silent—not from ignorance but from dispossession. The pedagogy of the empire had not ended; it had merely changed its flag. 

And I thought again of The River Between. This powerful novel is not merely a parable of colonial disruption; it is a formal autopsy of the ways in which empire fractures thought. Set among the Gikuyu, the novel stages a crisis not merely between cultures but within syntax itself—the codes by which meaning, legitimacy, and power are constructed and enforced. Waiyaki, the ostensible unifier, is educated by missionaries under the premise that knowledge is a path to empowerment. Yet what he acquires is less a tool than a schism. “Learn all the wisdom of the white man,” he is told—an injunction that renders him inarticulate in his own tongue. His education produces alienation, not agency. His schools, conceived as instruments of liberation, become colonial simulacra—mechanisms of stratification disguised as enlightenment.

The novel’s central symbol, the Honia River, is both dual in meaning and duplicitous in structure. It is called the river that “never dries,” a source of life, and yet it becomes a fault line. It offers no resolution, only reflection: what flows through it is not reconciliation but recursive opposition. When Waiyaki falls in love with Nyambura, Ngũgĩ dramatizes a failure of translation—not between English and Gikuyu, but between ideological regimes. Their intimacy cannot be sustained because it is grammatically impossible within the colonial lexicon. Joshua, Nyambura’s father, speaks the King James idiom with evangelical violence. Circumcision is framed as sin, not because of inherent moral weight, but because the colonial church has rendered Kikuyu rites linguistically criminal. The tragic synthesis of Muthoni, a young girl who insists on remaining Christian while undergoing initiation, is not an act of rebellion but of fidelity to both her worlds. It is the system that cannot bear her, and so she dies. By the novel’s end, the Kiama—a body meant to preserve Gikuyu tradition—mirrors the authoritarianism of the very missionaries they resent. Waiyaki is condemned not for apostasy but for ambiguity. In Ngũgĩ’s vision, justice is impossible in a world where even the means of expression—schools, rituals, rivers—have been co-opted by imperial design. Language itself becomes betrayal. There is no revolution, only recursion.

Where once I had accused Ngũgĩ of ideological overreach, I now began to perceive instead a kind of consistency, the rigor of a writer who refused the division, beloved by privileged literati, between aesthetic subtlety and moral clarity. Ngũgĩ’s fiction did not flatter the reader’s intelligence with ambiguity for its own sake. It confronted one with the burden of truth-telling in contexts where equivocation had long passed for sophistication. Ngũgĩ was not attempting to redeem history through art, as so many of our idols had attempted, but to insist upon literature as the record of history’s cost. Not the decorous gesture of memory, but its reckoning. Not sentiment, but responsibility.

Even his later works—Wizard of the Crow, for example. It is often mistaken for whimsical allegory, but its exaggerations reveal, with clinical precision, the deformities of postcolonial power. Set in Aburĩria—a caricature only in name—the novel dissects tyranny through grotesque realism rather than conventional psychological nuance. Kamĩtĩ, an accidental mystic, and Nyawĩra, a quiet revolutionary, resist a regime so bloated it plans to “march to heaven” via a skyscraper. The Ruler, afflicted with literal inflation and diagnosed as “pregnant,” embodies the self-consuming absurdity of autocracy. These are not flourishes but diagnoses—power portrayed not as ideology, but as disease.

Ngũgĩ’s satire is not escapist; it records the surreal logic of dictatorship, where buttocks become protest and court flatterers chant nonsense with liturgical zeal. In such a world, absurdity becomes the most faithful mode of realism. That the novel remains free of bitterness is its most withering critique. It laughs not to soothe, but to expose. In its grotesque clarity, Wizard of the Crow speaks more truthfully of African postcolonial life than realism bound to interior psychology ever could.

Ngũgĩ wrote in Kikuyu, a choice I had once thought to be a kind of atavistic purism. What good, I had asked, is a literature unreadable to the very youth it seeks to awaken? But that too was a misreading. It is no more strange to write in Kikuyu than in Irish or Hebrew. Ngũgĩ was not attempting to isolate himself from his readership; he was attempting to re-found the very conditions of readership. To write in the language of one’s colonizer, he argued, was to dream with someone else’s symbols. To write in Kikuyu was not a rejection of others but an insistence on starting from home. And what, after all, could be more generative?

There are, to be sure, places where Ngũgĩ’s political judgments seem too categorical, too bound to the certainties of Marxist analysis. He can, at times, appear to reduce the infinite intricacies of African existence to the binaries of class struggle. But to dwell on this is to miss the essential generosity of his work. Ngũgĩ did not write to be agreed with. He wrote to equip. His books are not blueprints but permissions— permissions to think in the idiom of our own experience, to treat the oral as philosophical, the local as literary, the African as a subject of history, not merely its object.

To read him seriously is to be reminded that literature, particularly in postcolonial societies, is not an indulgence but a duty. Ngũgĩ gives us no refuge in cleverness. He demands, rather, that we remember. That we mourn. That we articulate our condition not to explain it away but to expose it to light.

He is, I now see, not a writer one outgrows, but a writer to whom one returns—chastened, wiser, more exposed. The kind of figure who, like an elder too easily dismissed in youth, proves with time to have been speaking the truest language all along.