By Emman Usman Shehu

On May 28, 2025, the world lost Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, the Kenyan literary titan whose pen was a machete, slicing through the chains of colonialism and cultural erasure. At 87, Ngũgĩ left a legacy that redefined African literature, blending fierce political conviction with poetic brilliance. His novels—Weep Not, Child (1964), A Grain of Wheat (1967), Petals of Blood (1977)—and plays like The Trial of Dedan Kimathi (1976, co-authored with Micere Githae Mugo) gave voice to the oppressed, reimagined African heroes, and challenged the world to see Africa through African eyes. Through the Kamirithu Community Education and Cultural Centre, he empowered communities to tell their stories, inspiring grassroots theatre from Nairobi to Harlem. For me, Ngũgĩ’s work is a personal touchstone, etched in a transformative moment at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka (UNN), where I became Dedan Kimathi and felt the pulse of history.

In the mid-1980s, I arrived at UNN for postgraduate studies, not expecting to tread the boards. My acting portfolio—spanning stage, radio, and television from primary school to post-undergraduate years—was no secret, and it exposed me to the Dramatic Arts Sub-Department’s radar. Cast as the lead in The Trial of Dedan Kimathi, directed by the visionary Dr. Ossie Enekwe, I faced the daunting task of embodying a Mau Mau revolutionary while juggling academic demands. The role demanded immersion: I pored over accounts of the Mau Mau uprising, studied Kimathi’s defiance against British colonial rule, and let his spirit guide me. The dreadlocks I grew were more than a costume; they earned me the nickname “Dedan Kimathi” on campus, a badge of honor reflecting the production’s near-mythic status.

Under Enekwe’s meticulous direction, the 1984 UNN production became a cultural phenomenon. Staged as a convocation play, it was lauded for its “artistic excellence” and “positive lessons in patriotism and nationalism,” as noted in a UNN report to a visitation panel led by Justice Robert Okara. The play’s blend of Kikuyu songs, dances, and mime with Ngũgĩ’s searing narrative brought Kimathi’s struggle to life, countering colonial portrayals of him as a terrorist. The theme song, Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika, rang out fervently each night, its soaring notes uniting cast and audience in a shared spirit of defiance, a pan-African anthem that ignited our resolve.

The production’s success, supported by UNN’s Vice-Chancellor, Prof. Frank Nwachukwu Ndili, and Pro-Chancellor, Alhaji Ali Mungono, sparked a nationwide tour. We performed at the University of Benin, Obafemi Awolowo University, the University of Ibadan, the University of Lagos, and the University of Port Harcourt, among others. The tour’s crowning moment came in Abuja, Nigeria’s fledgling capital, at the invitation of General Mamman Jiya Vatsa, a poet-soldier and Minister of the Federal Capital Territory.

Billed as Abuja’s first modern professional theatre production, our performance electrified audiences, the stage pulsing with Kikuyu rhythms as sweat-soaked actors channeled Kimathi’s fire. Vatsa, fresh from a writing program at the University of Iowa, offered effusive praise, particularly for Enekwe, his friend through the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA).

Vatsa’s ANA connection was profound. He organized workshops, funded the Children’s Literature Association of Nigeria, and published eight poetry collections for adults and eleven for children, including Tori for Geti Bow Leg (1981). His literary passion forged bonds with Nigeria’s giants—Wole Soyinka, Chinua Achebe, and John Pepper Clark. Tragically, this network led to a heart-wrenching moment in 1986 when Vatsa was accused of plotting a coup against his childhood friend, General Ibrahim Babangida.

Despite their bond—forged at Government College, Bida, and cemented when Vatsa was best man at Babangida’s wedding—the tribunal convicted him of treason. On March 5, 1986, Soyinka, Achebe, and Clark, representing ANA, visited Dodan Barracks to plead for Vatsa’s life, a mission born of their belief in his literary and human value.

Hours later, Vatsa was executed, a decision Babangida called “the most traumatic” of his life, citing a youthful rivalry. Vatsa’s tragedy, like Kimathi’s, mirrored Ngũgĩ’s warnings of power’s betrayal of truth.

At UNN, Vatsa’s execution shook the creative community. In a defiant act, we staged a poetry reading in his honor, a cathartic outpouring that birthed The Anthill Readings, a UNN tradition that nurtured new voices, echoing Ngũgĩ’s call for creative resistance.

The production’s impact was amplified by rave reviews, none more memorable than Niyi Osundare’s in the now-defunct West Africa magazine. Osundare called it a “fiery anthem of African resilience,” capturing its revolutionary spirit, though the review remains elusive in digital archives.

We hoped Ngũgĩ would attend a UNN conference during the production, eager for the playwright to see our tribute. As an aspiring playwright, I was curious about his collaboration with Mugo, which matured The Trial beyond his earlier The Black Hermit. His absence—likely due to exile after his 1977 imprisonment for Ngaahika Ndeenda—underscored the risks he took. Emerging from Kamiti Prison, Ngũgĩ wrote Decolonising the Mind (1986), a manifesto for linguistic liberation, and novels like Caitaani Mũtharaba-inĩ (Devil on the Cross, 1980) in Gikuyu, reclaiming African languages from colonial margins.

The Trial of Dedan Kimathi was Ngũgĩ’s reclamation of history. Co-written with Mugo, it reframed Kimathi as a symbol of unyielding resistance, its minimalist staging amplifying its universal cry for justice. At UNN, it was a mirror to Nigeria’s post-colonial struggles. Playing Kimathi, I felt his courage and sacrifice, each performance a reincarnation that transformed me as it captivated audiences. Ngũgĩ’s broader oeuvre—essays like Homecoming (1972), memoirs, and Wizard of the Crow (2006)—challenged the global canon, inspiring writers like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, whose post-colonial narratives echo his vision.

As we mourn Ngũgĩ, I return to that Nsukka stage, where his words made me a “cult-hero,” where dreadlocks symbolized defiance, and where a play became a movement. Ngũgĩ’s words forged me into Kimathi, and Africa into a dream of freedom. His legacy lives in The Anthill Readings, the Mamman Vatsa Writers’ Village, and every story that dares to resist. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o was a warrior for Africa’s soul, and his voice, now stilled, endures in every reader, actor, and dreamer.

*Dr Shehu, Director of the International Institute of Journalism, Abuja, is a writer, activist and educator.

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o: The Unyielding Voice of African Resistance

By Emman Usman Shehu*

On May 28, 2025, the world lost Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, the Kenyan literary titan whose pen was a machete, slicing through the chains of colonialism and cultural erasure. At 87, Ngũgĩ left a legacy that redefined African literature, blending fierce political conviction with poetic brilliance. His novels—Weep Not, Child (1964), A Grain of Wheat (1967), Petals of Blood (1977)—and plays like The Trial of Dedan Kimathi (1976, co-authored with Micere Githae Mugo) gave voice to the oppressed, reimagined African heroes, and challenged the world to see Africa through African eyes. Through the Kamirithu Community Education and Cultural Centre, he empowered communities to tell their stories, inspiring grassroots theatre from Nairobi to Harlem. For me, Ngũgĩ’s work is a personal touchstone, etched in a transformative moment at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka (UNN), where I became Dedan Kimathi and felt the pulse of history.

In the mid-1980s, I arrived at UNN for postgraduate studies, not expecting to tread the boards. My acting portfolio—spanning stage, radio, and television from primary school to post-undergraduate years—was no secret, and it exposed me to the Dramatic Arts Sub-Department’s radar. Cast as the lead in The Trial of Dedan Kimathi, directed by the visionary Dr. Ossie Enekwe, I faced the daunting task of embodying a Mau Mau revolutionary while juggling academic demands. The role demanded immersion: I pored over accounts of the Mau Mau uprising, studied Kimathi’s defiance against British colonial rule, and let his spirit guide me. The dreadlocks I grew were more than a costume; they earned me the nickname “Dedan Kimathi” on campus, a badge of honor reflecting the production’s near-mythic status.

Under Enekwe’s meticulous direction, the 1984 UNN production became a cultural phenomenon. Staged as a convocation play, it was lauded for its “artistic excellence” and “positive lessons in patriotism and nationalism,” as noted in a UNN report to a visitation panel led by Justice Robert Okara. The play’s blend of Kikuyu songs, dances, and mime with Ngũgĩ’s searing narrative brought Kimathi’s struggle to life, countering colonial portrayals of him as a terrorist. The theme song, Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika, rang out fervently each night, its soaring notes uniting cast and audience in a shared spirit of defiance, a pan-African anthem that ignited our resolve.

The production’s success, supported by UNN’s Vice-Chancellor, Prof. Frank Nwachukwu Ndili, and Pro-Chancellor, Alhaji Ali Mungono, sparked a nationwide tour. We performed at the University of Benin, Obafemi Awolowo University, the University of Ibadan, the University of Lagos, and the University of Port Harcourt, among others. The tour’s crowning moment came in Abuja, Nigeria’s fledgling capital, at the invitation of General Mamman Jiya Vatsa, a poet-soldier and Minister of the Federal Capital Territory.

Billed as Abuja’s first modern professional theatre production, our performance electrified audiences, the stage pulsing with Kikuyu rhythms as sweat-soaked actors channeled Kimathi’s fire. Vatsa, fresh from a writing program at the University of Iowa, offered effusive praise, particularly for Enekwe, his friend through the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA).

Vatsa’s ANA connection was profound. He organized workshops, funded the Children’s Literature Association of Nigeria, and published eight poetry collections for adults and eleven for children, including Tori for Geti Bow Leg (1981). His literary passion forged bonds with Nigeria’s giants—Wole Soyinka, Chinua Achebe, and John Pepper Clark. Tragically, this network led to a heart-wrenching moment in 1986 when Vatsa was accused of plotting a coup against his childhood friend, General Ibrahim Babangida.

Despite their bond—forged at Government College, Bida, and cemented when Vatsa was best man at Babangida’s wedding—the tribunal convicted him of treason. On March 5, 1986, Soyinka, Achebe, and Clark, representing ANA, visited Dodan Barracks to plead for Vatsa’s life, a mission born of their belief in his literary and human value.

Hours later, Vatsa was executed, a decision Babangida called “the most traumatic” of his life, citing a youthful rivalry. Vatsa’s tragedy, like Kimathi’s, mirrored Ngũgĩ’s warnings of power’s betrayal of truth.

At UNN, Vatsa’s execution shook the creative community. In a defiant act, we staged a poetry reading in his honor, a cathartic outpouring that birthed The Anthill Readings, a UNN tradition that nurtured new voices, echoing Ngũgĩ’s call for creative resistance.

The production’s impact was amplified by rave reviews, none more memorable than Niyi Osundare’s in the now-defunct West Africa magazine. Osundare called it a “fiery anthem of African resilience,” capturing its revolutionary spirit, though the review remains elusive in digital archives.

We hoped Ngũgĩ would attend a UNN conference during the production, eager for the playwright to see our tribute. As an aspiring playwright, I was curious about his collaboration with Mugo, which matured The Trial beyond his earlier The Black Hermit. His absence—likely due to exile after his 1977 imprisonment for Ngaahika Ndeenda—underscored the risks he took. Emerging from Kamiti Prison, Ngũgĩ wrote Decolonising the Mind (1986), a manifesto for linguistic liberation, and novels like Caitaani Mũtharaba-inĩ (Devil on the Cross, 1980) in Gikuyu, reclaiming African languages from colonial margins.

The Trial of Dedan Kimathi was Ngũgĩ’s reclamation of history. Co-written with Mugo, it reframed Kimathi as a symbol of unyielding resistance, its minimalist staging amplifying its universal cry for justice. At UNN, it was a mirror to Nigeria’s post-colonial struggles. Playing Kimathi, I felt his courage and sacrifice, each performance a reincarnation that transformed me as it captivated audiences. Ngũgĩ’s broader oeuvre—essays like Homecoming (1972), memoirs, and Wizard of the Crow (2006)—challenged the global canon, inspiring writers like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, whose post-colonial narratives echo his vision.

As we mourn Ngũgĩ, I return to that Nsukka stage, where his words made me a “cult-hero,” where dreadlocks symbolized defiance, and where a play became a movement. Ngũgĩ’s words forged me into Kimathi, and Africa into a dream of freedom. His legacy lives in The Anthill Readings, the Mamman Vatsa Writers’ Village, and every story that dares to resist. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o was a warrior for Africa’s soul, and his voice, now stilled, endures in every reader, actor, and dreamer.

*Dr Shehu, Director of the International Institute of Journalism, Abuja, is a writer, activist and educator.

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o: The Unyielding Voice of African Resistance

By Emman Usman Shehu*

On May 28, 2025, the world lost Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, the Kenyan literary titan whose pen was a machete, slicing through the chains of colonialism and cultural erasure. At 87, Ngũgĩ left a legacy that redefined African literature, blending fierce political conviction with poetic brilliance. His novels—Weep Not, Child (1964), A Grain of Wheat (1967), Petals of Blood (1977)—and plays like The Trial of Dedan Kimathi (1976, co-authored with Micere Githae Mugo) gave voice to the oppressed, reimagined African heroes, and challenged the world to see Africa through African eyes. Through the Kamirithu Community Education and Cultural Centre, he empowered communities to tell their stories, inspiring grassroots theatre from Nairobi to Harlem. For me, Ngũgĩ’s work is a personal touchstone, etched in a transformative moment at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka (UNN), where I became Dedan Kimathi and felt the pulse of history.

In the mid-1980s, I arrived at UNN for postgraduate studies, not expecting to tread the boards. My acting portfolio—spanning stage, radio, and television from primary school to post-undergraduate years—was no secret, and it exposed me to the Dramatic Arts Sub-Department’s radar. Cast as the lead in The Trial of Dedan Kimathi, directed by the visionary Dr. Ossie Enekwe, I faced the daunting task of embodying a Mau Mau revolutionary while juggling academic demands. The role demanded immersion: I pored over accounts of the Mau Mau uprising, studied Kimathi’s defiance against British colonial rule, and let his spirit guide me. The dreadlocks I grew were more than a costume; they earned me the nickname “Dedan Kimathi” on campus, a badge of honor reflecting the production’s near-mythic status.

Under Enekwe’s meticulous direction, the 1984 UNN production became a cultural phenomenon. Staged as a convocation play, it was lauded for its “artistic excellence” and “positive lessons in patriotism and nationalism,” as noted in a UNN report to a visitation panel led by Justice Robert Okara. The play’s blend of Kikuyu songs, dances, and mime with Ngũgĩ’s searing narrative brought Kimathi’s struggle to life, countering colonial portrayals of him as a terrorist. The theme song, Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika, rang out fervently each night, its soaring notes uniting cast and audience in a shared spirit of defiance, a pan-African anthem that ignited our resolve.

The production’s success, supported by UNN’s Vice-Chancellor, Prof. Frank Nwachukwu Ndili, and Pro-Chancellor, Alhaji Ali Mungono, sparked a nationwide tour. We performed at the University of Benin, Obafemi Awolowo University, the University of Ibadan, the University of Lagos, and the University of Port Harcourt, among others. The tour’s crowning moment came in Abuja, Nigeria’s fledgling capital, at the invitation of General Mamman Jiya Vatsa, a poet-soldier and Minister of the Federal Capital Territory.

Billed as Abuja’s first modern professional theatre production, our performance electrified audiences, the stage pulsing with Kikuyu rhythms as sweat-soaked actors channeled Kimathi’s fire. Vatsa, fresh from a writing program at the University of Iowa, offered effusive praise, particularly for Enekwe, his friend through the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA).

Vatsa’s ANA connection was profound. He organized workshops, funded the Children’s Literature Association of Nigeria, and published eight poetry collections for adults and eleven for children, including Tori for Geti Bow Leg (1981). His literary passion forged bonds with Nigeria’s giants—Wole Soyinka, Chinua Achebe, and John Pepper Clark. Tragically, this network led to a heart-wrenching moment in 1986 when Vatsa was accused of plotting a coup against his childhood friend, General Ibrahim Babangida.

Despite their bond—forged at Government College, Bida, and cemented when Vatsa was best man at Babangida’s wedding—the tribunal convicted him of treason. On March 5, 1986, Soyinka, Achebe, and Clark, representing ANA, visited Dodan Barracks to plead for Vatsa’s life, a mission born of their belief in his literary and human value.

Hours later, Vatsa was executed, a decision Babangida called “the most traumatic” of his life, citing a youthful rivalry. Vatsa’s tragedy, like Kimathi’s, mirrored Ngũgĩ’s warnings of power’s betrayal of truth.

At UNN, Vatsa’s execution shook the creative community. In a defiant act, we staged a poetry reading in his honor, a cathartic outpouring that birthed The Anthill Readings, a UNN tradition that nurtured new voices, echoing Ngũgĩ’s call for creative resistance.

The production’s impact was amplified by rave reviews, none more memorable than Niyi Osundare’s in the now-defunct West Africa magazine. Osundare called it a “fiery anthem of African resilience,” capturing its revolutionary spirit, though the review remains elusive in digital archives.

We hoped Ngũgĩ would attend a UNN conference during the production, eager for the playwright to see our tribute. As an aspiring playwright, I was curious about his collaboration with Mugo, which matured The Trial beyond his earlier The Black Hermit. His absence—likely due to exile after his 1977 imprisonment for Ngaahika Ndeenda—underscored the risks he took. Emerging from Kamiti Prison, Ngũgĩ wrote Decolonising the Mind (1986), a manifesto for linguistic liberation, and novels like Caitaani Mũtharaba-inĩ (Devil on the Cross, 1980) in Gikuyu, reclaiming African languages from colonial margins.

The Trial of Dedan Kimathi was Ngũgĩ’s reclamation of history. Co-written with Mugo, it reframed Kimathi as a symbol of unyielding resistance, its minimalist staging amplifying its universal cry for justice. At UNN, it was a mirror to Nigeria’s post-colonial struggles. Playing Kimathi, I felt his courage and sacrifice, each performance a reincarnation that transformed me as it captivated audiences. Ngũgĩ’s broader oeuvre—essays like Homecoming (1972), memoirs, and Wizard of the Crow (2006)—challenged the global canon, inspiring writers like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, whose post-colonial narratives echo his vision.

As we mourn Ngũgĩ, I return to that Nsukka stage, where his words made me a “cult-hero,” where dreadlocks symbolized defiance, and where a play became a movement. Ngũgĩ’s words forged me into Kimathi, and Africa into a dream of freedom. His legacy lives in The Anthill Readings, the Mamman Vatsa Writers’ Village, and every story that dares to resist. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o was a warrior for Africa’s soul, and his voice, now stilled, endures in every reader, actor, and dreamer.

*Dr Shehu, Director of the International Institute of Journalism, Abuja, is a writer, activist and educator.

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o: The Unyielding Voice of African Resistance

By Emman Usman Shehu*

On May 28, 2025, the world lost Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, the Kenyan literary titan whose pen was a machete, slicing through the chains of colonialism and cultural erasure. At 87, Ngũgĩ left a legacy that redefined African literature, blending fierce political conviction with poetic brilliance. His novels—Weep Not, Child (1964), A Grain of Wheat (1967), Petals of Blood (1977)—and plays like The Trial of Dedan Kimathi (1976, co-authored with Micere Githae Mugo) gave voice to the oppressed, reimagined African heroes, and challenged the world to see Africa through African eyes. Through the Kamirithu Community Education and Cultural Centre, he empowered communities to tell their stories, inspiring grassroots theatre from Nairobi to Harlem. For me, Ngũgĩ’s work is a personal touchstone, etched in a transformative moment at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka (UNN), where I became Dedan Kimathi and felt the pulse of history.

In the mid-1980s, I arrived at UNN for postgraduate studies, not expecting to tread the boards. My acting portfolio—spanning stage, radio, and television from primary school to post-undergraduate years—was no secret, and it exposed me to the Dramatic Arts Sub-Department’s radar. Cast as the lead in The Trial of Dedan Kimathi, directed by the visionary Dr. Ossie Enekwe, I faced the daunting task of embodying a Mau Mau revolutionary while juggling academic demands. The role demanded immersion: I pored over accounts of the Mau Mau uprising, studied Kimathi’s defiance against British colonial rule, and let his spirit guide me. The dreadlocks I grew were more than a costume; they earned me the nickname “Dedan Kimathi” on campus, a badge of honor reflecting the production’s near-mythic status.

Under Enekwe’s meticulous direction, the 1984 UNN production became a cultural phenomenon. Staged as a convocation play, it was lauded for its “artistic excellence” and “positive lessons in patriotism and nationalism,” as noted in a UNN report to a visitation panel led by Justice Robert Okara. The play’s blend of Kikuyu songs, dances, and mime with Ngũgĩ’s searing narrative brought Kimathi’s struggle to life, countering colonial portrayals of him as a terrorist. The theme song, Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika, rang out fervently each night, its soaring notes uniting cast and audience in a shared spirit of defiance, a pan-African anthem that ignited our resolve.

The production’s success, supported by UNN’s Vice-Chancellor, Prof. Frank Nwachukwu Ndili, and Pro-Chancellor, Alhaji Ali Mungono, sparked a nationwide tour. We performed at the University of Benin, Obafemi Awolowo University, the University of Ibadan, the University of Lagos, and the University of Port Harcourt, among others. The tour’s crowning moment came in Abuja, Nigeria’s fledgling capital, at the invitation of General Mamman Jiya Vatsa, a poet-soldier and Minister of the Federal Capital Territory.

Billed as Abuja’s first modern professional theatre production, our performance electrified audiences, the stage pulsing with Kikuyu rhythms as sweat-soaked actors channeled Kimathi’s fire. Vatsa, fresh from a writing program at the University of Iowa, offered effusive praise, particularly for Enekwe, his friend through the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA).

Vatsa’s ANA connection was profound. He organized workshops, funded the Children’s Literature Association of Nigeria, and published eight poetry collections for adults and eleven for children, including Tori for Geti Bow Leg (1981). His literary passion forged bonds with Nigeria’s giants—Wole Soyinka, Chinua Achebe, and John Pepper Clark. Tragically, this network led to a heart-wrenching moment in 1986 when Vatsa was accused of plotting a coup against his childhood friend, General Ibrahim Babangida.

Despite their bond—forged at Government College, Bida, and cemented when Vatsa was best man at Babangida’s wedding—the tribunal convicted him of treason. On March 5, 1986, Soyinka, Achebe, and Clark, representing ANA, visited Dodan Barracks to plead for Vatsa’s life, a mission born of their belief in his literary and human value.

Hours later, Vatsa was executed, a decision Babangida called “the most traumatic” of his life, citing a youthful rivalry. Vatsa’s tragedy, like Kimathi’s, mirrored Ngũgĩ’s warnings of power’s betrayal of truth.

At UNN, Vatsa’s execution shook the creative community. In a defiant act, we staged a poetry reading in his honor, a cathartic outpouring that birthed The Anthill Readings, a UNN tradition that nurtured new voices, echoing Ngũgĩ’s call for creative resistance.

The production’s impact was amplified by rave reviews, none more memorable than Niyi Osundare’s in the now-defunct West Africa magazine. Osundare called it a “fiery anthem of African resilience,” capturing its revolutionary spirit, though the review remains elusive in digital archives.

We hoped Ngũgĩ would attend a UNN conference during the production, eager for the playwright to see our tribute. As an aspiring playwright, I was curious about his collaboration with Mugo, which matured The Trial beyond his earlier The Black Hermit. His absence—likely due to exile after his 1977 imprisonment for Ngaahika Ndeenda—underscored the risks he took. Emerging from Kamiti Prison, Ngũgĩ wrote Decolonising the Mind (1986), a manifesto for linguistic liberation, and novels like Caitaani Mũtharaba-inĩ (Devil on the Cross, 1980) in Gikuyu, reclaiming African languages from colonial margins.

The Trial of Dedan Kimathi was Ngũgĩ’s reclamation of history. Co-written with Mugo, it reframed Kimathi as a symbol of unyielding resistance, its minimalist staging amplifying its universal cry for justice. At UNN, it was a mirror to Nigeria’s post-colonial struggles. Playing Kimathi, I felt his courage and sacrifice, each performance a reincarnation that transformed me as it captivated audiences. Ngũgĩ’s broader oeuvre—essays like Homecoming (1972), memoirs, and Wizard of the Crow (2006)—challenged the global canon, inspiring writers like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, whose post-colonial narratives echo his vision.

As we mourn Ngũgĩ, I return to that Nsukka stage, where his words made me a “cult-hero,” where dreadlocks symbolized defiance, and where a play became a movement. Ngũgĩ’s words forged me into Kimathi, and Africa into a dream of freedom. His legacy lives in The Anthill Readings, the Mamman Vatsa Writers’ Village, and every story that dares to resist. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o was a warrior for Africa’s soul, and his voice, now stilled, endures in every reader, actor, and dreamer.

*Dr Shehu, Director of the International Institute of Journalism, Abuja, is a writer, activist and educator.

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o: The Unyielding Voice of African Resistance

By Emman Usman Shehu*

On May 28, 2025, the world lost Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, the Kenyan literary titan whose pen was a machete, slicing through the chains of colonialism and cultural erasure. At 87, Ngũgĩ left a legacy that redefined African literature, blending fierce political conviction with poetic brilliance. His novels—Weep Not, Child (1964), A Grain of Wheat (1967), Petals of Blood (1977)—and plays like The Trial of Dedan Kimathi (1976, co-authored with Micere Githae Mugo) gave voice to the oppressed, reimagined African heroes, and challenged the world to see Africa through African eyes. Through the Kamirithu Community Education and Cultural Centre, he empowered communities to tell their stories, inspiring grassroots theatre from Nairobi to Harlem. For me, Ngũgĩ’s work is a personal touchstone, etched in a transformative moment at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka (UNN), where I became Dedan Kimathi and felt the pulse of history.

In the mid-1980s, I arrived at UNN for postgraduate studies, not expecting to tread the boards. My acting portfolio—spanning stage, radio, and television from primary school to post-undergraduate years—was no secret, and it exposed me to the Dramatic Arts Sub-Department’s radar. Cast as the lead in The Trial of Dedan Kimathi, directed by the visionary Dr. Ossie Enekwe, I faced the daunting task of embodying a Mau Mau revolutionary while juggling academic demands. The role demanded immersion: I pored over accounts of the Mau Mau uprising, studied Kimathi’s defiance against British colonial rule, and let his spirit guide me. The dreadlocks I grew were more than a costume; they earned me the nickname “Dedan Kimathi” on campus, a badge of honor reflecting the production’s near-mythic status.

Under Enekwe’s meticulous direction, the 1984 UNN production became a cultural phenomenon. Staged as a convocation play, it was lauded for its “artistic excellence” and “positive lessons in patriotism and nationalism,” as noted in a UNN report to a visitation panel led by Justice Robert Okara. The play’s blend of Kikuyu songs, dances, and mime with Ngũgĩ’s searing narrative brought Kimathi’s struggle to life, countering colonial portrayals of him as a terrorist. The theme song, Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika, rang out fervently each night, its soaring notes uniting cast and audience in a shared spirit of defiance, a pan-African anthem that ignited our resolve.

The production’s success, supported by UNN’s Vice-Chancellor, Prof. Frank Nwachukwu Ndili, and Pro-Chancellor, Alhaji Ali Mungono, sparked a nationwide tour. We performed at the University of Benin, Obafemi Awolowo University, the University of Ibadan, the University of Lagos, and the University of Port Harcourt, among others. The tour’s crowning moment came in Abuja, Nigeria’s fledgling capital, at the invitation of General Mamman Jiya Vatsa, a poet-soldier and Minister of the Federal Capital Territory.

Billed as Abuja’s first modern professional theatre production, our performance electrified audiences, the stage pulsing with Kikuyu rhythms as sweat-soaked actors channeled Kimathi’s fire. Vatsa, fresh from a writing program at the University of Iowa, offered effusive praise, particularly for Enekwe, his friend through the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA).

Vatsa’s ANA connection was profound. He organized workshops, funded the Children’s Literature Association of Nigeria, and published eight poetry collections for adults and eleven for children, including Tori for Geti Bow Leg (1981). His literary passion forged bonds with Nigeria’s giants—Wole Soyinka, Chinua Achebe, and John Pepper Clark. Tragically, this network led to a heart-wrenching moment in 1986 when Vatsa was accused of plotting a coup against his childhood friend, General Ibrahim Babangida.

Despite their bond—forged at Government College, Bida, and cemented when Vatsa was best man at Babangida’s wedding—the tribunal convicted him of treason. On March 5, 1986, Soyinka, Achebe, and Clark, representing ANA, visited Dodan Barracks to plead for Vatsa’s life, a mission born of their belief in his literary and human value.

Hours later, Vatsa was executed, a decision Babangida called “the most traumatic” of his life, citing a youthful rivalry. Vatsa’s tragedy, like Kimathi’s, mirrored Ngũgĩ’s warnings of power’s betrayal of truth.

At UNN, Vatsa’s execution shook the creative community. In a defiant act, we staged a poetry reading in his honor, a cathartic outpouring that birthed The Anthill Readings, a UNN tradition that nurtured new voices, echoing Ngũgĩ’s call for creative resistance.

The production’s impact was amplified by rave reviews, none more memorable than Niyi Osundare’s in the now-defunct West Africa magazine. Osundare called it a “fiery anthem of African resilience,” capturing its revolutionary spirit, though the review remains elusive in digital archives.

We hoped Ngũgĩ would attend a UNN conference during the production, eager for the playwright to see our tribute. As an aspiring playwright, I was curious about his collaboration with Mugo, which matured The Trial beyond his earlier The Black Hermit. His absence—likely due to exile after his 1977 imprisonment for Ngaahika Ndeenda—underscored the risks he took. Emerging from Kamiti Prison, Ngũgĩ wrote Decolonising the Mind (1986), a manifesto for linguistic liberation, and novels like Caitaani Mũtharaba-inĩ (Devil on the Cross, 1980) in Gikuyu, reclaiming African languages from colonial margins.

The Trial of Dedan Kimathi was Ngũgĩ’s reclamation of history. Co-written with Mugo, it reframed Kimathi as a symbol of unyielding resistance, its minimalist staging amplifying its universal cry for justice. At UNN, it was a mirror to Nigeria’s post-colonial struggles. Playing Kimathi, I felt his courage and sacrifice, each performance a reincarnation that transformed me as it captivated audiences. Ngũgĩ’s broader oeuvre—essays like Homecoming (1972), memoirs, and Wizard of the Crow (2006)—challenged the global canon, inspiring writers like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, whose post-colonial narratives echo his vision.

As we mourn Ngũgĩ, I return to that Nsukka stage, where his words made me a “cult-hero,” where dreadlocks symbolized defiance, and where a play became a movement. Ngũgĩ’s words forged me into Kimathi, and Africa into a dream of freedom. His legacy lives in The Anthill Readings, the Mamman Vatsa Writers’ Village, and every story that dares to resist. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o was a warrior for Africa’s soul, and his voice, now stilled, endures in every reader, actor, and dreamer.

*Dr Shehu, Director of the International Institute of Journalism, Abuja, is a writer, activist and educator.

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o: The Unyielding Voice of African Resistance

By Emman Usman Shehu*

On May 28, 2025, the world lost Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, the Kenyan literary titan whose pen was a machete, slicing through the chains of colonialism and cultural erasure. At 87, Ngũgĩ left a legacy that redefined African literature, blending fierce political conviction with poetic brilliance. His novels—Weep Not, Child (1964), A Grain of Wheat (1967), Petals of Blood (1977)—and plays like The Trial of Dedan Kimathi (1976, co-authored with Micere Githae Mugo) gave voice to the oppressed, reimagined African heroes, and challenged the world to see Africa through African eyes. Through the Kamirithu Community Education and Cultural Centre, he empowered communities to tell their stories, inspiring grassroots theatre from Nairobi to Harlem. For me, Ngũgĩ’s work is a personal touchstone, etched in a transformative moment at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka (UNN), where I became Dedan Kimathi and felt the pulse of history.

In the mid-1980s, I arrived at UNN for postgraduate studies, not expecting to tread the boards. My acting portfolio—spanning stage, radio, and television from primary school to post-undergraduate years—was no secret, and it exposed me to the Dramatic Arts Sub-Department’s radar. Cast as the lead in The Trial of Dedan Kimathi, directed by the visionary Dr. Ossie Enekwe, I faced the daunting task of embodying a Mau Mau revolutionary while juggling academic demands. The role demanded immersion: I pored over accounts of the Mau Mau uprising, studied Kimathi’s defiance against British colonial rule, and let his spirit guide me. The dreadlocks I grew were more than a costume; they earned me the nickname “Dedan Kimathi” on campus, a badge of honor reflecting the production’s near-mythic status.

Under Enekwe’s meticulous direction, the 1984 UNN production became a cultural phenomenon. Staged as a convocation play, it was lauded for its “artistic excellence” and “positive lessons in patriotism and nationalism,” as noted in a UNN report to a visitation panel led by Justice Robert Okara. The play’s blend of Kikuyu songs, dances, and mime with Ngũgĩ’s searing narrative brought Kimathi’s struggle to life, countering colonial portrayals of him as a terrorist. The theme song, Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika, rang out fervently each night, its soaring notes uniting cast and audience in a shared spirit of defiance, a pan-African anthem that ignited our resolve.

The production’s success, supported by UNN’s Vice-Chancellor, Prof. Frank Nwachukwu Ndili, and Pro-Chancellor, Alhaji Ali Mungono, sparked a nationwide tour. We performed at the University of Benin, Obafemi Awolowo University, the University of Ibadan, the University of Lagos, and the University of Port Harcourt, among others. The tour’s crowning moment came in Abuja, Nigeria’s fledgling capital, at the invitation of General Mamman Jiya Vatsa, a poet-soldier and Minister of the Federal Capital Territory.

Billed as Abuja’s first modern professional theatre production, our performance electrified audiences, the stage pulsing with Kikuyu rhythms as sweat-soaked actors channeled Kimathi’s fire. Vatsa, fresh from a writing program at the University of Iowa, offered effusive praise, particularly for Enekwe, his friend through the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA).

Vatsa’s ANA connection was profound. He organized workshops, funded the Children’s Literature Association of Nigeria, and published eight poetry collections for adults and eleven for children, including Tori for Geti Bow Leg (1981). His literary passion forged bonds with Nigeria’s giants—Wole Soyinka, Chinua Achebe, and John Pepper Clark. Tragically, this network led to a heart-wrenching moment in 1986 when Vatsa was accused of plotting a coup against his childhood friend, General Ibrahim Babangida.

Despite their bond—forged at Government College, Bida, and cemented when Vatsa was best man at Babangida’s wedding—the tribunal convicted him of treason. On March 5, 1986, Soyinka, Achebe, and Clark, representing ANA, visited Dodan Barracks to plead for Vatsa’s life, a mission born of their belief in his literary and human value.

Hours later, Vatsa was executed, a decision Babangida called “the most traumatic” of his life, citing a youthful rivalry. Vatsa’s tragedy, like Kimathi’s, mirrored Ngũgĩ’s warnings of power’s betrayal of truth.

At UNN, Vatsa’s execution shook the creative community. In a defiant act, we staged a poetry reading in his honor, a cathartic outpouring that birthed The Anthill Readings, a UNN tradition that nurtured new voices, echoing Ngũgĩ’s call for creative resistance.

The production’s impact was amplified by rave reviews, none more memorable than Niyi Osundare’s in the now-defunct West Africa magazine. Osundare called it a “fiery anthem of African resilience,” capturing its revolutionary spirit, though the review remains elusive in digital archives.

We hoped Ngũgĩ would attend a UNN conference during the production, eager for the playwright to see our tribute. As an aspiring playwright, I was curious about his collaboration with Mugo, which matured The Trial beyond his earlier The Black Hermit. His absence—likely due to exile after his 1977 imprisonment for Ngaahika Ndeenda—underscored the risks he took. Emerging from Kamiti Prison, Ngũgĩ wrote Decolonising the Mind (1986), a manifesto for linguistic liberation, and novels like Caitaani Mũtharaba-inĩ (Devil on the Cross, 1980) in Gikuyu, reclaiming African languages from colonial margins.

The Trial of Dedan Kimathi was Ngũgĩ’s reclamation of history. Co-written with Mugo, it reframed Kimathi as a symbol of unyielding resistance, its minimalist staging amplifying its universal cry for justice. At UNN, it was a mirror to Nigeria’s post-colonial struggles. Playing Kimathi, I felt his courage and sacrifice, each performance a reincarnation that transformed me as it captivated audiences. Ngũgĩ’s broader oeuvre—essays like Homecoming (1972), memoirs, and Wizard of the Crow (2006)—challenged the global canon, inspiring writers like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, whose post-colonial narratives echo his vision.

As we mourn Ngũgĩ, I return to that Nsukka stage, where his words made me a “cult-hero,” where dreadlocks symbolized defiance, and where a play became a movement. Ngũgĩ’s words forged me into Kimathi, and Africa into a dream of freedom. His legacy lives in The Anthill Readings, the Mamman Vatsa Writers’ Village, and every story that dares to resist. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o was a warrior for Africa’s soul, and his voice, now stilled, endures in every reader, actor, and dreamer.

*Dr Shehu, Director of the International Institute of Journalism, Abuja, is a writer, activist and educator.

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o: The Unyielding Voice of African Resistance

By Emman Usman Shehu*

On May 28, 2025, the world lost Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, the Kenyan literary titan whose pen was a machete, slicing through the chains of colonialism and cultural erasure. At 87, Ngũgĩ left a legacy that redefined African literature, blending fierce political conviction with poetic brilliance. His novels—Weep Not, Child (1964), A Grain of Wheat (1967), Petals of Blood (1977)—and plays like The Trial of Dedan Kimathi (1976, co-authored with Micere Githae Mugo) gave voice to the oppressed, reimagined African heroes, and challenged the world to see Africa through African eyes. Through the Kamirithu Community Education and Cultural Centre, he empowered communities to tell their stories, inspiring grassroots theatre from Nairobi to Harlem. For me, Ngũgĩ’s work is a personal touchstone, etched in a transformative moment at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka (UNN), where I became Dedan Kimathi and felt the pulse of history.

In the mid-1980s, I arrived at UNN for postgraduate studies, not expecting to tread the boards. My acting portfolio—spanning stage, radio, and television from primary school to post-undergraduate years—was no secret, and it exposed me to the Dramatic Arts Sub-Department’s radar. Cast as the lead in The Trial of Dedan Kimathi, directed by the visionary Dr. Ossie Enekwe, I faced the daunting task of embodying a Mau Mau revolutionary while juggling academic demands. The role demanded immersion: I pored over accounts of the Mau Mau uprising, studied Kimathi’s defiance against British colonial rule, and let his spirit guide me. The dreadlocks I grew were more than a costume; they earned me the nickname “Dedan Kimathi” on campus, a badge of honor reflecting the production’s near-mythic status.

Under Enekwe’s meticulous direction, the 1984 UNN production became a cultural phenomenon. Staged as a convocation play, it was lauded for its “artistic excellence” and “positive lessons in patriotism and nationalism,” as noted in a UNN report to a visitation panel led by Justice Robert Okara. The play’s blend of Kikuyu songs, dances, and mime with Ngũgĩ’s searing narrative brought Kimathi’s struggle to life, countering colonial portrayals of him as a terrorist. The theme song, Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika, rang out fervently each night, its soaring notes uniting cast and audience in a shared spirit of defiance, a pan-African anthem that ignited our resolve.

The production’s success, supported by UNN’s Vice-Chancellor, Prof. Frank Nwachukwu Ndili, and Pro-Chancellor, Alhaji Ali Mungono, sparked a nationwide tour. We performed at the University of Benin, Obafemi Awolowo University, the University of Ibadan, the University of Lagos, and the University of Port Harcourt, among others. The tour’s crowning moment came in Abuja, Nigeria’s fledgling capital, at the invitation of General Mamman Jiya Vatsa, a poet-soldier and Minister of the Federal Capital Territory.

Billed as Abuja’s first modern professional theatre production, our performance electrified audiences, the stage pulsing with Kikuyu rhythms as sweat-soaked actors channeled Kimathi’s fire. Vatsa, fresh from a writing program at the University of Iowa, offered effusive praise, particularly for Enekwe, his friend through the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA).

Vatsa’s ANA connection was profound. He organized workshops, funded the Children’s Literature Association of Nigeria, and published eight poetry collections for adults and eleven for children, including Tori for Geti Bow Leg (1981). His literary passion forged bonds with Nigeria’s giants—Wole Soyinka, Chinua Achebe, and John Pepper Clark. Tragically, this network led to a heart-wrenching moment in 1986 when Vatsa was accused of plotting a coup against his childhood friend, General Ibrahim Babangida.

Despite their bond—forged at Government College, Bida, and cemented when Vatsa was best man at Babangida’s wedding—the tribunal convicted him of treason. On March 5, 1986, Soyinka, Achebe, and Clark, representing ANA, visited Dodan Barracks to plead for Vatsa’s life, a mission born of their belief in his literary and human value.

Hours later, Vatsa was executed, a decision Babangida called “the most traumatic” of his life, citing a youthful rivalry. Vatsa’s tragedy, like Kimathi’s, mirrored Ngũgĩ’s warnings of power’s betrayal of truth.

At UNN, Vatsa’s execution shook the creative community. In a defiant act, we staged a poetry reading in his honor, a cathartic outpouring that birthed The Anthill Readings, a UNN tradition that nurtured new voices, echoing Ngũgĩ’s call for creative resistance.

The production’s impact was amplified by rave reviews, none more memorable than Niyi Osundare’s in the now-defunct West Africa magazine. Osundare called it a “fiery anthem of African resilience,” capturing its revolutionary spirit, though the review remains elusive in digital archives.

We hoped Ngũgĩ would attend a UNN conference during the production, eager for the playwright to see our tribute. As an aspiring playwright, I was curious about his collaboration with Mugo, which matured The Trial beyond his earlier The Black Hermit. His absence—likely due to exile after his 1977 imprisonment for Ngaahika Ndeenda—underscored the risks he took. Emerging from Kamiti Prison, Ngũgĩ wrote Decolonising the Mind (1986), a manifesto for linguistic liberation, and novels like Caitaani Mũtharaba-inĩ (Devil on the Cross, 1980) in Gikuyu, reclaiming African languages from colonial margins.

The Trial of Dedan Kimathi was Ngũgĩ’s reclamation of history. Co-written with Mugo, it reframed Kimathi as a symbol of unyielding resistance, its minimalist staging amplifying its universal cry for justice. At UNN, it was a mirror to Nigeria’s post-colonial struggles. Playing Kimathi, I felt his courage and sacrifice, each performance a reincarnation that transformed me as it captivated audiences. Ngũgĩ’s broader oeuvre—essays like Homecoming (1972), memoirs, and Wizard of the Crow (2006)—challenged the global canon, inspiring writers like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, whose post-colonial narratives echo his vision.

As we mourn Ngũgĩ, I return to that Nsukka stage, where his words made me a “cult-hero,” where dreadlocks symbolized defiance, and where a play became a movement. Ngũgĩ’s words forged me into Kimathi, and Africa into a dream of freedom. His legacy lives in The Anthill Readings, the Mamman Vatsa Writers’ Village, and every story that dares to resist. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o was a warrior for Africa’s soul, and his voice, now stilled, endures in every reader, actor, and dreamer.

*Dr Shehu, Director of the International Institute of Journalism, Abuja, is a writer, activist and educator.

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o: The Unyielding Voice of African Resistance

By Emman Usman Shehu*

On May 28, 2025, the world lost Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, the Kenyan literary titan whose pen was a machete, slicing through the chains of colonialism and cultural erasure. At 87, Ngũgĩ left a legacy that redefined African literature, blending fierce political conviction with poetic brilliance. His novels—Weep Not, Child (1964), A Grain of Wheat (1967), Petals of Blood (1977)—and plays like The Trial of Dedan Kimathi (1976, co-authored with Micere Githae Mugo) gave voice to the oppressed, reimagined African heroes, and challenged the world to see Africa through African eyes. Through the Kamirithu Community Education and Cultural Centre, he empowered communities to tell their stories, inspiring grassroots theatre from Nairobi to Harlem. For me, Ngũgĩ’s work is a personal touchstone, etched in a transformative moment at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka (UNN), where I became Dedan Kimathi and felt the pulse of history.

In the mid-1980s, I arrived at UNN for postgraduate studies, not expecting to tread the boards. My acting portfolio—spanning stage, radio, and television from primary school to post-undergraduate years—was no secret, and it exposed me to the Dramatic Arts Sub-Department’s radar. Cast as the lead in The Trial of Dedan Kimathi, directed by the visionary Dr. Ossie Enekwe, I faced the daunting task of embodying a Mau Mau revolutionary while juggling academic demands. The role demanded immersion: I pored over accounts of the Mau Mau uprising, studied Kimathi’s defiance against British colonial rule, and let his spirit guide me. The dreadlocks I grew were more than a costume; they earned me the nickname “Dedan Kimathi” on campus, a badge of honor reflecting the production’s near-mythic status.

Under Enekwe’s meticulous direction, the 1984 UNN production became a cultural phenomenon. Staged as a convocation play, it was lauded for its “artistic excellence” and “positive lessons in patriotism and nationalism,” as noted in a UNN report to a visitation panel led by Justice Robert Okara. The play’s blend of Kikuyu songs, dances, and mime with Ngũgĩ’s searing narrative brought Kimathi’s struggle to life, countering colonial portrayals of him as a terrorist. The theme song, Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika, rang out fervently each night, its soaring notes uniting cast and audience in a shared spirit of defiance, a pan-African anthem that ignited our resolve.

The production’s success, supported by UNN’s Vice-Chancellor, Prof. Frank Nwachukwu Ndili, and Pro-Chancellor, Alhaji Ali Mungono, sparked a nationwide tour. We performed at the University of Benin, Obafemi Awolowo University, the University of Ibadan, the University of Lagos, and the University of Port Harcourt, among others. The tour’s crowning moment came in Abuja, Nigeria’s fledgling capital, at the invitation of General Mamman Jiya Vatsa, a poet-soldier and Minister of the Federal Capital Territory.

Billed as Abuja’s first modern professional theatre production, our performance electrified audiences, the stage pulsing with Kikuyu rhythms as sweat-soaked actors channeled Kimathi’s fire. Vatsa, fresh from a writing program at the University of Iowa, offered effusive praise, particularly for Enekwe, his friend through the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA).

Vatsa’s ANA connection was profound. He organized workshops, funded the Children’s Literature Association of Nigeria, and published eight poetry collections for adults and eleven for children, including Tori for Geti Bow Leg (1981). His literary passion forged bonds with Nigeria’s giants—Wole Soyinka, Chinua Achebe, and John Pepper Clark. Tragically, this network led to a heart-wrenching moment in 1986 when Vatsa was accused of plotting a coup against his childhood friend, General Ibrahim Babangida.

Despite their bond—forged at Government College, Bida, and cemented when Vatsa was best man at Babangida’s wedding—the tribunal convicted him of treason. On March 5, 1986, Soyinka, Achebe, and Clark, representing ANA, visited Dodan Barracks to plead for Vatsa’s life, a mission born of their belief in his literary and human value.

Hours later, Vatsa was executed, a decision Babangida called “the most traumatic” of his life, citing a youthful rivalry. Vatsa’s tragedy, like Kimathi’s, mirrored Ngũgĩ’s warnings of power’s betrayal of truth.

At UNN, Vatsa’s execution shook the creative community. In a defiant act, we staged a poetry reading in his honor, a cathartic outpouring that birthed The Anthill Readings, a UNN tradition that nurtured new voices, echoing Ngũgĩ’s call for creative resistance.

The production’s impact was amplified by rave reviews, none more memorable than Niyi Osundare’s in the now-defunct West Africa magazine. Osundare called it a “fiery anthem of African resilience,” capturing its revolutionary spirit, though the review remains elusive in digital archives.

We hoped Ngũgĩ would attend a UNN conference during the production, eager for the playwright to see our tribute. As an aspiring playwright, I was curious about his collaboration with Mugo, which matured The Trial beyond his earlier The Black Hermit. His absence—likely due to exile after his 1977 imprisonment for Ngaahika Ndeenda—underscored the risks he took. Emerging from Kamiti Prison, Ngũgĩ wrote Decolonising the Mind (1986), a manifesto for linguistic liberation, and novels like Caitaani Mũtharaba-inĩ (Devil on the Cross, 1980) in Gikuyu, reclaiming African languages from colonial margins.

The Trial of Dedan Kimathi was Ngũgĩ’s reclamation of history. Co-written with Mugo, it reframed Kimathi as a symbol of unyielding resistance, its minimalist staging amplifying its universal cry for justice. At UNN, it was a mirror to Nigeria’s post-colonial struggles. Playing Kimathi, I felt his courage and sacrifice, each performance a reincarnation that transformed me as it captivated audiences. Ngũgĩ’s broader oeuvre—essays like Homecoming (1972), memoirs, and Wizard of the Crow (2006)—challenged the global canon, inspiring writers like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, whose post-colonial narratives echo his vision.

As we mourn Ngũgĩ, I return to that Nsukka stage, where his words made me a “cult-hero,” where dreadlocks symbolized defiance, and where a play became a movement. Ngũgĩ’s words forged me into Kimathi, and Africa into a dream of freedom. His legacy lives in The Anthill Readings, the Mamman Vatsa Writers’ Village, and every story that dares to resist. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o was a warrior for Africa’s soul, and his voice, now stilled, endures in every reader, actor, and dreamer.

Dr Shehu, Director of the International Institute of Journalism, Abuja, is a writer, activist and educator.