Before I understood theory, I knew their stories. Before I could articulate postcolonialism, I felt its weight in their words.
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, Camara Laye, Ayi Kwei Armah, Wole Soyinka, Chinua Achebe —these were not just authors on my childhood bookshelf, but the architects of my consciousness.
From the revolutionary sorrow of *Weep Not, Child* to the searing satire of *The Beautiful Ones Are Not Yet Born*, from the lyrical innocence of *The African Child* to the unflinching truth of *The Man Died*, and from the mythical resonance of *The Gods Are Not to Blame* to the earth-shaking impact of *Things Fall Apart*—their works were my first mirrors, my first windows, my first maps to navigating history and humanity.
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, in particular, taught me that language is not just a tool but a battleground. His defiant transition from English to Gikuyu was more than literary—it was an act of reclamation, a lesson in how stories can either colonize or liberate.
When I first read *Weep Not, Child*, I didn’t just see Kenya’s struggle for independence; I saw how narratives shape nations, how the pen truly wages war against oppression.
These writers gifted me more than plots and prose. They gave me a compass—one that pointed unwaveringly toward justice, memory, and the unbreakable spirit of a people rewriting their own story.
Their words were my first rebellion, my first understanding that literature is not merely art, but a living, breathing force of change. To them, I owe the fire that still fuels me today.
Their legacies are not just in books, but in every reader they’ve awakened, every mind they’ve set ablaze. And for that, my gratitude knows no bounds.
“Until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.”* — Chinua Achebe But because of these lions, we now have our history. And our future.
Rest in peace Ngugi wa Thiong’o
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