R.I.P prof. NGUNGI wa THIONGO In 1962 a group of writers who were to shape the future of African literature gathered at Makerere University in Kampala, Uganda. Those present included Wole Soyinka , Lewis Nkosi, Kofi Awoonor , and from across the Atlantic, Langston Hughes . One evening, an undergraduate approached a conference participant with drafts of his writing. The student was a young Ngugi, the participant Chinua Achebe, and the manuscript, Weep Not Child, was published two years later as the first new novel in the paperback African Writers Series. Soyinka was the first black writer to win the Nobel prize for literature in 1986. Achebe has notoriously never been granted the Nobel – and Ngugi may join him on the list of those that got away. But 50 years after that momentous conference, the reasons for inviting the Kenyan author to accompany at least one of his Nigerian colleagues into the Nobel hall of fame are compelling. Soyinka and Ngugi both lived through colonialism as children, were shaped by the promise of decolonisation, protested their subsequent political disillusionment and paid dearly for their writing in prison. Both were deeply committed to public engagement through performances of their plays; both have written movingly about the consequences of their beliefs. But what separates Ngugi from his Nobel predecessor is his brave and polemical decision to write in his first language, Gikuyu. Ngugi renounced writing in English in July 1977 at the Nairobi launch of Petals of Blood, saying that he wished to express himself in a language that his mother and ordinary people could understand. The announcement didnt come out of the blue. He had previously campaigned to change the name of his academic home at the University of Nairobi from the department of English to the department of literature – a deeply political move still relevant, inspiring and indeed uncomfortable for literature scholars around the world today. But the decision to write primarily in Gikuyu was both groundbreaking and ridiculously brave. As James Currey points out in his memoir, Africa Writes Back, Ngugi was one of the first African writers to attempt to make a living from his words. To limit your immediate audience to Gikuyu speakers must have looked like commercial suicide. Contemporary writers such as Helon Habila, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Binyavanga Wainaina and Brian Chikwava, often cite the desire to reach wider audiences as the reason for writing their (albeit linguistically innovative) texts in English. This veteran, 30- odd years ago, flying in the face of political and financial reason, proved an alternative might be possible. Ngugi dedicated his 1987 novel Matigari to all those who love a good story. It was the infectiousness of his stories, their accessibility in Gikuyu and swift absorption into popular culture that frightened the authorities. When then-president Daniel arap Moi heard that a man called Matigari was wondering around Kenya asking difficult questions, he gave orders for his arrest. On the realisation the man was in fact one of Ngugis fictional characters, copies of the book were seized and destroyed. As Ngugi explains in Moving the Centre this formed the first case in our history of a fictional character being forced into exile to join its creator. Still living in exile and writing primarily in Gikuyu, Ngugi continues to spin captivating tales. Anyone unfamiliar with his work might do well to start by dipping into his long- awaited and much-acclaimed 2006 novel Wizard of the Crow . Dont be intimidated by its 700-odd pages. Its opening – an exploration of the five possible reasons for the illness of the second Ruler of the Free Republic of Aburria (a fictional country) – is hilarious and utterly absorbing. At the launch reading in London the (largely student) audience cried with laughter. And yet behind this all is a serious point. Ngugi begins his most recent publication Dreams in a Time of War with a childhood memory. Dawdling along the six-mile walk home from school one day, the narrator comes across a crowd of people near the Bata Shoe factory, animatedly discussing the daring escape of a young man from a police truck on the road. Fascinated by the story and excited by events so close by, Ngugi returns home for dinner, eager to pass on the news. The family are strangely quiet. His mother explains that afternoon that their elder brother had narrowly escaped death and joined the anti-colonial struggle in the mountains. The story moves from being entertaining to deeply, horrifyingly personal. In a 1963 edition of Transition, the Nigerian scholar Obiajunwa Wali remarked that the key realisation of the Makerere conference was that African literature as now defined and understood, leads nowhere. Claiming it was overly dependent on European models, he asserted that it lacked any blood and stamina and had no means of self- enrichment. Fifty years on, Ngugi has shown just how enriching the turn away from Eurocentrism could be. Ironically, of course, Im lamenting the lack of recognition by a Swedish prize. At a recent African Studies Association conference in Oxford (yes: Europe again) a panel of publishers gathered to discuss the (in)visibility of African cultures. Walter Bgoya from Mkuki na Nyota Publishers in Tanzania and Solani Ngobeni from the Africa Institute in Pretoria both expressed their concern that African-language publishing is facing difficult times. Its market share remains in the educational sector, where there is extreme competition from multinationals publishing discounted texts in English. There appears to be limited space for the publication of innovative fiction in African languages, but pioneering firms do persist: Ngugi published Murogi wa Kagogo (Wizard of the Crow) with Henry Chakavas East African Educational Publishers. Of course there is only one Ngugi, and other African writers with such political and commercial traction are few and far between. But if the Nobel committee had chosen to honour him this year it would have renewed the African literary communitys belief in the possibility, and indeed necessity, of change. Naguib Mafouz won the Nobel for his work in Arabic in 1988. If Ngugi had won he would have been the first author writing primarily in an indigenous sub-Saharan African language to win the prize. It would have been a reminder to us all of his resistance to the hegemony of European languages. English departments across the world might have sat up to take note.
Posted on: Fri, 12 Dec 2014 11:45:54 +0000
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