Karua: Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, the flame that lit our conscience

Ngũgĩ was not just a writer. To those of us who came of age through his books — The River Between, Caitani Mutharaba-ini, Petals of Blood, Ngaahika Ndeenda and more — he was a mirror, a mentor, a moral force. 

In many Kenyan homes, his works were not just read; they were studied, debated, and cherished. In our household, his stories shaped our political consciousness. Around dinner tables, his characters sparked conversations about justice, identity, and freedom.

Ngũgĩ taught us that language is power — and to speak in one’s mother tongue was not an act of regression, but one of rebellion. He showed us that to write, teach, and organise under repression was a higher form of leadership than any political title.

When I visited him in Atlanta this April, it was not as a politician seeking advice, but as a daughter returning to a father. He welcomed us with warmth and joy that only a homecoming can summon. The occasion was joyous. The moment sacred.

It brought back memories of my college days in Nairobi, when I would travel back home to Kimunye. Each time when I arrived home, my father would let his friends in the neighborhood to know his daughter was home and many would come to greet me. He was then, and is still proud of me. 

Like my father often did, Ngũgĩ immediately began calling his friends from his “village” which included people from all over the world. Yes, those who he felt were walking with him in the struggle for justice for Kenya’s workers, smallholder farmers, and the marginalised. I spoke through his phone to Professor Peter Ndiang’ui in Florida, friends in Sweden, other professors and activists across the diaspora. In every call, he reminded them — and reminded me — to stay rooted in the cause.

Then he turned to me, his voice soft but unwavering:

Wangari, never stray from the issues you have always stood for. Positions are temporary. Conviction is permanent. Stay with the people.

That moment clarified everything. My political journey has never been about seeking power for its own sake. It has always been, and must always remain, about justice for the forgotten, for the exploited, for the silenced. Ngũgĩ reminded me that the real battleground is not in Parliament or palaces, but in the classroom, the village, the factory, and above all  the mind.

I left that visit renewed — not just politically, but spiritually. It gave rise to a deeper clarity about my role in this moment in history. It was in that clarity, that the vision for the Wamunyoro return visit emerged — a collective rather than a singular rebuke of the betrayal and oppression by the current regime, solidifying unity of purpose by people from all corners of the republic.

I realised it had to be more than symbolic. A call to action, an invitation to all to join forces and build a shared transformation platform to liberate our nation. To fight for a Kenya that values truth, language, justice, freedom and dignity.

Ngũgĩ’s words echoed in my mind: It is not about us. It is about the cause. This struggle is not about individual ambition. It is a continuation of the long walk our forebearers began — the struggle for liberation, for mental emancipation, for shared prosperity and African dignity. 

It energieed me to be unwavering in fight against oppression not just in our motherland Kenya, but also in our immediate East African neighbours. Like Ngugi, before us, we endure the challenges of being profiled, obstructed, humiliated and even denied our basic right as East Africans to travel to some parts of our Jumuiya. 

But they cannot stop us because we Shall Never Surrender To Oppression.  We are committed to our resolve which was refreshed and energised by the Ngugi visit. Seeing the commitment and resolve of this father figure and sage gave me new energy. New resolve to continue with the struggle. New spirit to endure the humiliation that comes with it.

Ngũgĩ may be gone physically, but his spirit is alive — fierce, burning, and more urgent than ever.

He lives in the smallholder farmer in Kirinyaga. In the student who dares to write in Kikuyu, Kiswahili, Dholuo, or Kalenjin. In the domestic worker organising her peers in Mathare. In the teacher who introduces Ngũgĩ’s works to the next generation. In all of us who refuse to be cowed into silence.

To mourn Ngũgĩ is not to cry. It is to act. To organise. To speak boldly. To educate, to resist, and to create. He does not need hollow tributes or politicised eulogies. He needs us to carry the torch forward — with courage, integrity, and unwavering love for the people.

He once told me, during my 2022 campaign as a presidential running mate;  “I will be there for your inauguration.”

When that didn’t happen, he did not turn away. Instead, he said:

“Justice does not require a title. It requires commitment.” That commitment remains in me. And I know it lives in many of us.

So go well, Mwalimu.

Go well, my mentor and mentor of many, my inspiration, my unwavering conscience.
You did not walk gently. And you did not walk alone.
Your footprints are etched into the heart of a continent.
And now, we must walk on.
We will not offer you tears.
We will offer you truth.
We will not send you off with staged grief.
We will continue the revolution you began.
Farewell, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o — the flame that lit our conscience.
Your light shall never dim.
And your struggle shall not be in vain.

Martha Karua is a Senior Counsel and leader of the People's Liberation Party (PLP)