On May 28, 2025, in Buford, Georgia, the world lost one of its most radical storytellers. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o—the Kenyan literary titan, activist, and scholar—passed away at the age of 87. And while his physical presence has left us, his words remain everywhere: in books, in classrooms, in the voices of decolonial thinkers, and in every writer who dares to write in the language of their mother.
For those who read him, Ngũgĩ wasn’t just a writer. He was a revolution.
From Kamiriithu to the World
Born in 1938 in Kamiriithu, near Limuru, Kenya, Ngũgĩ grew up under British colonial rule—a reality that would shape his literary and political consciousness. He attended Kamandura and Kinyogori primary schools, then Alliance High School, graduating in 1958.
He earned his degree in English from Makerere University College in Uganda in 1963 and later studied at the University of Leeds in the UK. But it wasn’t Leeds or London that shaped his mission—it was home. Always home.
A Literary Journey Begins—in English, Then Gikuyu
Ngũgĩ’s early novels—Weep Not, Child (1964), The River Between (1965) and A Grain of Wheat (1967)—were written in English and quickly cemented him as one of East Africa’s literary pioneers. But by the late ’70s, he made a bold, controversial shift: he would no longer write in the language of the coloniser.
From Devil on the Cross (1980)—famously penned on toilet paper while in prison—to Matigari (1986) and The Perfect Nine (2020), he committed to writing in Gikuyu, his native tongue. He argued that African languages were not relics to be pitied but vessels of knowledge, humour, power, and resistance.
In his game-changing book Decolonising the Mind (1986), Ngũgĩ wrote:
“African writers who write in European languages are playing into the hands of the coloniser. Language carries culture, and culture carries history.”
That wasn’t just a quote. It was a call to arms.
Resistance, Repression, and Exile
In 1977, Ngũgĩ co-wrote the politically charged Gikuyu play Ngaahika Ndeenda (I Will Marry When I Want) with Ngũgĩ wa Mĩriĩ. It was performed by peasants and workers in the open-air Kamiriithu Community Education and Cultural Centre—and it was such a powerful indictment of post-colonial corruption that the government shut it down and threw him in prison. No charges. No trial. Just silence—and resistance.
He emerged from jail even more committed. But Kenya’s ruling powers weren’t done with him. Facing continued threats, Ngũgĩ went into self-imposed exile in 1982, first to the UK, then to the US.
Scholar, Teacher, Global Voice
Though exiled, Ngũgĩ never stopped teaching. From the University of Nairobi to Northwestern, Yale, NYU, and finally the University of California, Irvine, where he served as Distinguished Professor of English and Comparative Literature, he challenged generations of students to think beyond borders—and beyond English.
Honours, Awards & Almost the Nobel
Ngũgĩ was nominated multiple times for the Nobel Prize in Literature and received numerous honorary doctorates and global accolades. In 2021, he was nominated for the International Booker Prize for The Perfect Nine, the first Gikuyu-language book to receive such recognition.
But for Ngũgĩ, the ultimate award wasn’t global praise. It was getting African writers to write in African languages. That was his revolution.
His Voice Lives On
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o didn’t just write books. He rewrote the rules. He gave us language, not just as a tool for storytelling, but as an act of rebellion and reclamation.
He taught us that the fight for freedom doesn’t end with political independence—it begins with cultural and linguistic sovereignty. He challenged writers to honour their roots, even if the world rewarded conformity.
“We must reconnect with the base—the language of the people—because the soul of a nation lives in its language.”
—Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o
His words will live wherever people fight to be heard in their own voice. In every grassroots theatre, every protest poem, every book written in Gikuyu, Yoruba, Zulu, or Igbo—not to impress, but to express.
Ngũgĩ may be gone, but the revolution is still writing.
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