Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o is dead. And with his death, the global literary community has erupted into a chorus of tributes praising his courage, his political clarity, his commitment to language, and his rejection of colonial systems that defined his literary career.
For over half a century, Ngũgĩ occupied a central place in African intellectual life. He was a novelist, playwright, essayist, and public thinker who believed in the power of storytelling to challenge structures of oppression.
Ngũgĩ’s fiction laid bare the violence of colonialism and the failures of post-independence leadership. Petals of Blood, Matigari, and Devil on the Cross were indictments on the negative implications of colonial exploitation.
Ngugi was not like any other resistance writer. His works were birthed from a deep engagement with the lives of the rural poor, the exploited, and the forgotten. His vision of a literature rooted in the realities of African people, not in the aesthetics of Western literary tradition, made him a symbol of resistance and uncompromising political thought. For many, he stood as one of the last living links to the radical intellectual movements of postcolonial Africa, a figure whose life traced the arc of the continent’s long and unfinished struggle with freedom.
But public figures are not only their public deeds. In March 2024, Ngũgĩ’s son, Mukoma wa Ngũgĩ, accused his father of physically abusing his late mother, Nyambura. He wrote on social media:
“My father @NgugiWaThiongo_ physically abused my late mother – he would beat her up. Some of my earliest memories are me going to visit her at my grandmother’s where she would seek refuge. But with that said it is the silencing of who she was that gets me. Ok- I have said it.”
Mukoma further expressed distress over the erasure of his mother’s contributions, stating:
“It hurts to see my late mother, Nyambura (my daughter is named after her) being systemically erased from the @NgugiWaThiongo_ story. We literally (of course) and figuratively would not be here if it was not for her keeping us glued together through the political persecutions.” premiumtimesng.com+1allafrica.com+1
Mukoma’s statement sent shockwaves through the literary community and beyond. Ngũgĩ’s reputation had been built on his powerful critique of colonialism, his eloquent defense of African languages, and his outspoken advocacy for social justice. However, the picture that had been painted of Ngũgĩ as a heroic figure was now being complicated by his son’s revelations.
The abuse Mukoma spoke of was not new; it had long been rumored, but this was the first time someone from within the family had publicly confirmed it. The allegations were corroborated by those close to the family, who had witnessed the family’s turbulent dynamics. They spoke of a man who, despite his public image as a fierce critic of oppression, perpetuated a different kind of violence in his private life.
It is difficult to reconcile the private life of Ngugi to his public image. How can a man who championed social justice also be a progenitor of patriarchal misogyny in African literature? We will never be able to fully comprehend this other than to acknowledge that to be a human is to be a paradox. However, the more important question is, what should be the legacy of such a man who was both a resistor of violence and a perpetrator of the same?
Sadly, but not surprisingly, the (African) literary community has provided an answer: ignore his failures and focus on his success, even though—and particularly because—these failures revolve around women.
In many African societies, the stories of women are often marginalized, their experiences either silenced or minimized in favor of more dominant male narratives. In our literary context, The allegations against Ngugi reflect the deep entrenchment of this patriarchal silencing within the African literary canon.
This is not just a problem in Africa; it is a pattern that exists globally. We see this in the case of famous American writer William Styron, who faced little criticism for the treatment of women in his life and work. Despite being a major figure in the literary canon, Styron’s own wife, Rose, suffered from mental health issues that were ignored by those around her, and Styron’s portrayal of women in his novels often leaned on stereotypes or neglect.
In the same way, we see this with figures like Gabriel García Márquez, whose monumental work One Hundred Years of Solitude immortalized him as a patriarch of Latin American literature. Despite his literary fame, García Márquez’s personal relationships, especially with women, have often been glossed over or downplayed. His misogyny, both in his personal life and in his portrayal of women in his works, is often excused for the sake of his literary brilliance. It is as though genius must be protected at all costs—even when it involves the silence or suffering of women.
This points to an uncomfortable contradiction in how we construct narratives of greatness. The idea of the “great man” in history often overlooks the messy humanity of these figures, especially when that humanity involves harm against others. This idea of greatness is shaped by a lens that values the contributions of men more than the lived experiences and voices of women. It is a patriarchal framework that elevates male achievements while diminishing female suffering and contributions.
This manifests not only in the legacy of authors but even in the fabric of their works. While his works dealt critically with the issue of colonialism, the treatment of women in Ngugi’s writing reflected deeply entrenched patriarchal views. His novels are filled with women who are more often victims than agents of change.
In A Grain of Wheat, female characters like Mumbi and Gikonyo’s wife are largely defined by their relationships to men, and their internal struggles are not fully explored. Wanja in Petals of Blood is depicted as resilient yet ultimately defined by sexual exploitation, with her descent into prostitution and relationships with male characters framing her primarily as a victim or object of desire, thus reinforcing a male gaze that limits her to a trope of suffering rather than a fully realized individual. Similarly, Mumbi in A Grain of Wheat, while central, is mythologized as a national symbol with her personal agency subsumed under allegorical representations of Kenya’s struggles, which diminishes her individuality.
This is not a coincidence. Ngũgĩ’s writing consistently failed to present women as fully realized individuals with their own voices and desires. His women were often reduced to either tragic figures or embodiments of national struggle.
While his works criticized the exploitation of the working class and the oppression of the masses, they often left out the significant role women played in these struggles. It is a curious silence, considering that women have always been at the forefront of political movements, particularly in post-colonial African contexts. Women fought in liberation wars, organized labor strikes, and faced unique struggles in the fight for independence. Yet in Ngũgĩ’s work, these contributions are almost invisible, as if to say that the politics of revolution and decolonization were matters for men alone.
This oversight can be seen as part of a broader pattern in African literature, where male writers who are involved in the political struggle place their own experiences at the center, neglecting the perspectives of women who were also integral to those struggles.
Ngũgĩ’s refusal to engage with gender issues directly in his work shows the depth of his complicity in the patriarchal structures he so vehemently opposed in the political sphere. It was as if the revolution that he advocated for was one that still upheld traditional gender roles. This reluctance to confront gender dynamics allowed his literary image to remain untarnished, even as women—both in his personal life and in his work—suffered in silence. In this way, Ngũgĩ’s misogyny wasn’t just a private flaw; it was ingrained in the very fabric of his (literary) philosophy.
The canon of African literature, much like the global canon, has been shaped by the voices of men who, knowingly or unknowingly, perpetuate the marginalization of women’s experiences. Ngũgĩ’s legacy cannot be fully understood until we recognize this aspect of his work and his life. Failure to do so results in the “single story” that Adichie critiques. According to Adichie, a single story is a reductive narrative that flattens the complexity of a person or a culture to a singular, often idealized, portrayal. Ngũgĩ’s legacy is now at risk of becoming a single story that excludes the darker aspects of his life, particularly his misogyny.
But the problem with the single story is that it hides the truth. It perpetuates a myth that great men are above reproach in their personal lives. It allows the public to overlook the oppression of women, as long as the man is successful enough to shield himself with the aura of greatness. If we continue to celebrate figures like Ngũgĩ in this way without interrogating the complexities of their lives and the harm they’ve caused, we fail to create a space where women’s voices can be heard. As long as we refuse to confront these uncomfortable truths, the stories of women like Nyambura will continue to be buried under the weight of their husbands’ fame.
Ngũgĩ’s death marks the end of one chapter in the story of African literature, but it also signals the beginning of another. Will the legacy of male writers like Ngũgĩ remain free from the scrutiny of their private lives? Or will we, as readers and critics, finally begin to demand a more complete and honest reckoning with the figures who shape our literary and political worlds? What is the cost of keeping the story whole when it only tells half the truth? And who gets to decide which story is worth telling?
Nnamdi Precious is a final-year student of English and Literature at the University of Benin
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