When English writer Neil Gaiman said, “A book is a dream you hold in your hand,” he had a point that, on a metaphysical plane, could be viewed through at least two lenses. One is that a book, a physical and tangible object—in other words, a reality—is a transmutation of the author’s dreams, which are themselves reflections of the subconscious mind. Authors pour their dreams, ideas and inner worlds into books, and readers, in turn, hold these “dreams” and bring them to life through their interpretation and imagination. The second lens is metaphorical: a book as the physical manifestation of a dream tells us that a dream is a world far beyond human reach—a subconscious realm that readers are invited to explore vicariously through its characters and settings.
Literarily, and borrowing a little from Gaiman’s aforementioned adage, reading any text is immersing yourself into an otherworldly experience, consciously or not. When, hence, we speak of experience—I mean, with the author’s work—we refer to the enmeshment of our consciousness with the world created or described by the author; a deeper exploration of the author’s mind flow and collection of thoughts. Thoughts themselves are intangible; they are abstract constructs generated by the brain to represent ideas and emotions. Writing is an expression of thought. For readers, and similarly for consumers of other forms of media, these thoughts are typically expected to be filtered and organised, so that the task of the reader becomes one of seamlessly exploring them, unhindered and undistorted. Such writing, considering the efficaciousness of its own bearing, can be classified as ‘realist writing’. Writing like this, you can guess, is grounded on logic and reason, and pays much detail to accuracy and the straightforwardness of its conveyance. This is the style we most commonly encounter and expect in our literary consumption.
But where does this leave other parts of the author’s thought, that which is raw and unfiltered? There is no denying that before a realist writes he has to collect his thoughts from all the frames of his mind—rational, subconscious, reflective, creative, etc. Thoughts from all these frames are then subjected to rational tests, critical evaluations and a series of eliminations before they can be presented as well-refined, true expressions of minds. What, then, becomes of the residue, the untamed ideas that defy this process? Why is this otherness buried deep in the sand of our minds and denied the chance to breathe and shine? We must ask this question because thought, whether conscious or not, is always about something—an experience. And experience is, one way or another, tied to how we exist in this world, how we cope with our environment, how we relate to one another. Thoughts that are consciously processed by realists are, hence, expected to solve the problems of the world, to enhance harmony and understanding. But have they? Has the consciousness, this rational state of the human mind which the realists have so much venerated and regarded as the ultimate tool for exploring the human condition, actually brought about the promised resolutions?
Questions like these emerged in the early 20th century when the thinkers of that era, shaken by the horrors of World War 1, became disillusioned by traditional values and rational thought. How could rationalism and the perceived progress of reason of the era allow a war of such unprecedented death, destruction and technological brutality? Seeking alternative ways to process this grim reality, these thinkers turned to the unconscious mind, dreams and fantasy for refuge.
Relying majorly on the works of Australian neurologist Sigmund Freud, particularly his theories on the unconscious mind, repressed desires and dreams, they began to view rationality and logic as restrictive constructs that suppressed the full scope of human imagination, emotions and experiences. By their own account—and supported by Freudian psychoanalysis—all the human desires, fears and creativity reside deep within the unconscious mind. By merging dreams, imagination and real-world experiences, they sought to achieve something higher, a superior reality. This union of the conscious and unconscious ultimately gave birth to what we now call Surrealism.
And so, surrealism as a cultural movement soon found its way into the world of art. The artist allowed the unconscious mind to express itself freely. Writers, in particular, began to challenge conventional logic and norms by incorporating dreamlike imagery and irrational or fantastical ideas into their works. Known as automatic writing, thoughts were allowed to flow freely here without conscious control. One of the leading proponents of Surrealism at the time, the French writer Andre Breton, believed this to be a pure and unfiltered form of expression. Surrealist artists revealed hidden truths and liberated creativity. Simply, they merged dreams and reality.
It is this literary movement that inspired the Kenyan thinker and author, Eric Rugara, to write a book that carries the echoes of that 20th-century artistic revolution. His book, A Surreal Journey of Discovery, is a collection of 21 short stories, most of which harbour the themes of surrealism. While some of these stories explore themes of realism, they still cannot escape the subtle elements of the surreal. In the following discussion, I will explore this book in detail, using a few of the stories that particularly captivated me to discuss the topic of interest here. But before that, let us ask ourselves why, in this day and age, should a young Kenyan writer be so deeply drawn to a cultural and artistic movement born in the early 20th century when the world seemed to be breaking under the weight of war and existential disillusionment. What is it about surrealism that inspires Rugara, that keeps urging him to pass its torch to his readers in a time when the world appears to be hurtling toward a future dominated by rational thought and logical reasoning? What is this hidden force, this unspoken truth, that Rugara is attempting to convey, and why surrealism, of all movements, when so much of contemporary thought is anchored in the concrete, the measurable, and the tangible?
To address these questions, we must first examine the world today with a truthful eye. Modernity struggles with serious challenges, each bearing immense significance. Among these is the question of cultural identity, as globalisation increasingly homogenises diverse cultures. There is also the phenomenon of technological alienation, marked by growing tensions between human intimacy and the abstracting forces of technology. Furthermore, the mental health crisis is on the rise, with humanity succumbing to widespread issues such as anxiety, depression, and trauma. On top of these are other pressing concerns, such as the environmental crisis and pervasive social inequalities. These challenges, by the degree of their impact on humanity and their undeniable relevance in the contemporary world, demand our urgent attention. Yet, even with our conventional approaches these issues only seem to escalate with time. What, then, could happen if we embraced a paradigm shift? What might unfold if we dared to question the very limits of reality and identity?
I believe Rugara had in mind these questions when he decided to take up his pen and direct his art towards this theme. Here, in what appears to be a modern yet unconventional approach to writing, Rugara looked beyond rigid structures. He placed his subconscious self before a mirror, asked it a series of probing questions, processed the complex emotions and societal issues it revealed to him, put them onto paper, and left the conscious world to decipher the rest.
The question that has hitherto been of greatest literary interest is how having read surrealist writers like Rugara, we should approach their works. Must we too subject our minds to the subconscious, and if so, how do we address the issues raised by this subconscious exploration? Should the resolution of these issues be subjected to analysis and coherence? I must admit, from the outset, that addressing surrealistic issues through coherence and consciousness—if such an approach is even possible—poses a significant challenge for me when discussing Rugara’s work. Instead, I will simply share the experience I encountered and the feelings it evoked in me as a reader.
Out of the twenty-one stories, I have chosen to begin with one which particularly spoke to my soul and transported me to a world of its making. The story in question is Let Me Go. Perhaps it’s because, as readers, we form a transcendental connection with characters and their traits; but if I had to choose a story that embodied surrealist ideals, it would be this one. In this short story, Elias is tormented by recurring dreams in which he embodies his late lover, Chep, and engages in an intimate union with a dream version of himself. I see, through the surrealistic lens, the dream merging the boundaries between identity and reality, allowing Elias to experience both his own and Chep’s sensations simultaneously. Just think about it; and as Rugara describes it, it’s as though someone can consciously feel themselves in another body, and even interact with it. How strange! As the dreams progress, Chep emerges as a manifestation of Elias’s unresolved grief, urging him to accept her death and move on.
By this—if you should allow me to call it— “consciousness duality”, we can see Rugara trying to capture perfectly grief and the human psyche’s coping mechanisms. How does the use of subconscious elements help us solve real-life issues? Can merging our conscious thoughts with our unconscious mind provide us with the emotional catharsis we need in life? We see this dynamic in the conversation between the two personas, where Chep tells Elias:
“No. I am dead. And this is not me you are talking to. You are talking to yourself. I am a representation of your idea of me. And if I am telling you to accept your fate and go on with your life, it means this is what you want deep down, but a part of you won’t let you…”
That conversation culminates when Elias wakes up, realises that Chep is dead and skips work that day. This begins his journey towards acceptance.
Closely related to this story, which also carries a deeply surreal tone with a touch of existential angst, is Mona. Rugara uses this story to make the reader’s mind waver between sanity and madness. The narrator, a lonely reveller who takes an evening walk to a bar to enjoy his day, is unexpectedly joined at his table by a strange girl. She seems to know the narrator’s thoughts and begins to playfully engage with his mood. As a reader or observer, Mona may seem—or sound—crazy, or what could more acceptably be called "madness." However, as she continues to ask him a series of zany, almost bizarre questions, we begin to like her; even the narrator starts to warm to her. Her funny but quick-witted responses carry an underlying sense, a deep, existential meaning, which draws the narrator in:
“How can anyone be sure of anything? How do we know that this world even exists?.... What if your whole life is something you dream, and you are actually lying down somewhere in a machine, in a coma?”
Just think about it. In one moment, this seemingly nonsensical girl, with her chaotic conversation, suddenly begins to make sense. We hear this from the narrator when he admits, “I must be really drunk. You are making more sense than you should.”
Everything Rugara includes in this story seems absurd, but somehow, within that absurdity, we find a connection to the pure consciousness of the world. Mona’s suggestions of pelting roofs with avocado seeds, the midnight swimming in the river, the inconsistent, fabricated stories about her father, her critique of societal systems like jobs and paying bills, her philosophical reflections and how she manages to trap the narrator into her own world—all these reveals the absurdity of social norms. Mona, in this case, is a symbol of chaos and liberation, and she represents defiance against societal expectations. The narrator, on the other hand, is “us”; those who are trapped in societal routine but yearning for escape. In another way, and as we see towards the end of the story when the bartender confirms to the narrator that she has not seen him with any girl, the story as a whole represents “consciousness duality”—a character at war with another version of himself, who is trying to strike a balance between compliance and rebellion. Indeed, it is very easy to deduce that this story itself might be a mental construct reflecting the character’s inner turmoil, especially considering Mona’s claim that she is a figment of the narrator’s imagination.
Absurdity, to speak a little about this, is a very respected phenomenon in the surrealist world. French writer Andre Breton, in his Manifesto of Surrealism, argues that madness is often misunderstood. People labelled as mad (insane) are usually confined not because of their inner thoughts or imagination, but because of a few actions society considers unacceptable or dangerous. Society expects everyone to follow rules and maintain order, but mad people tend to ignore these rules, making others feel uneasy or threatened. However, madness, by Breton’s account, stems from a person’s vivid imagination, which allows them to live in a reality of their own making, detached from social norms. This imagination, though seen as a problem, can bring immense joy and comfort to the individual.
Therefore, when Rugara brings about a character who in our reflection sounds or looks mad, he is trying to break free from the rigidity of logical reasoning. As seen in Mona above, absurdity is not merely a lack of meaning, but a deliberate subversion of it. Through this, we are invited to explore the fertile landscape of the human mind, where imagination offers us a new perspective on the world.
The case of dreams and imagination does not end here. In For a Drink of Your Water, Karanja mysteriously wakes up on a park bench in an unfamiliar, desolate town. With a two-litre water bottle in hand, he encounters a series of bizarre and unsettling characters—a woman who offers to sleep with him for a drink of the water, a wealthy MP who offers a briefcase full of money, and finally, a monstrous snake. Both the woman and the MP insist they will die if denied a drink, and yet they refuse the water when Karanja offers it freely.
Something we can see in this story, if we ignore the surrealistic and inscrutable themes, is how humans often complicate their pursuit of what is essential, be it happiness, peace, or spirituality. The woman and the MP exemplify how society frequently trades its values—dignity in her case, and power or wealth in his— in a misguided effort to attain what it perceives to lack. The MP’s reactions to Karanja offering the water freely reflect society's struggle to accept simple solutions, preferring to attach transactional costs.
“…This just doesn’t add up. What if I just decide to give you the water for free?”—Karanja said to the MP.
The man’s eyes were big with disbelief. “Are you insane?”
Rugara is perfectly capturing the contemporary decay of our society through this surrealistic allegory. Modern society, particularly those of Africa, have normalised corruption and other unethical behaviours to the point where individuals trying to uphold integrity are often seen as insane; they are outcasts for refusing to conform to the status quo. And so, in this story, Karanja waking up first in a “ghost town” symbolises social and moral exclusion. This barren, lifeless space represents a society where reality and morality have been stripped away, leaving behind only emptiness and decay. It is a liminal realm, a place that exists between what was and what has been lost.
The “water”, central to this story, is Rugara's symbol of integrity and morality. Essential, pure, and naturally abundant. Yet, in this decaying society, the water cannot be freely taken without a perceived “price.” This absurdity shows how integrity—something that should be inherent, accessible, and priceless—has been corrupted and commodified. Integrity is no longer a given; it is seen as a rare treasure, obtainable only through desperate sacrifices, such as the woman’s offer of her body or the MP’s briefcase of money. How sad!
In Waitherero, Rugara explores themes of existential emptiness and obsession with striking intensity. Mwangi’s repeated encounters with Clara, a woman he discovers is already dead, is a metaphor for clinging to things that no longer exist. The surrealistic undertones are particularly evident in a conversation between Clara and Mwangi, where the writer portrays a character struggling with his soul, merging the lines between reality and illusion.
Mwangi’s promiscuous behaviour of sleeping around highlights the psychological toll of unprocessed grief and obsession. His descent into madness becomes disturbingly clear when he begins to derive twisted pleasure from his delusions. In a chilling moment, he fantasises about having live sex with Clara, only to open his eyes and realise he is alone, surrounded by people who assume he is masturbating. Instead of feeling shame, he bursts into laughter, even as they beat him.
How, then, should we confront loss and emptiness? What responsibility does society have toward individuals who act in ways we perceive as absurd? Rather than judging or condemning those struggling with psychological trauma, the story urges us to consider compassion over ridicule. Though the narrative ends abruptly, it powerfully highlights how often trauma goes unrecognised and misunderstood. In the face of grief and mental suffering, society’s judgment only isolates those most in need of help.
There are numerous other themes expressed in this book which, given the time, I would gladly explore in greater detail. However, the stories discussed so far clearly illustrate how surrealism, a movement founded in the early 20th century but often overlooked by contemporary artists, remains deeply relevant in addressing the complexities of the modern world.
While not all the stories in this collection explicitly align with the central tenets of surrealism—namely, the exploration of the raw, unfiltered mind—they still carry subtle surrealistic elements within them. Rugara seems intentional in this, like he is inviting the reader’s conscious mind to connect the dots and uncover deeper truths beneath the surface. Even so, Rugara has demonstrated how surrealism can serve as a lens through which we confront existential dilemmas, emotional fragmentation, and the absurdity of the human condition. It is a reminder that the subconscious, with all its unpredictability and chaos, can offer insights that our rational minds often overlook.
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NOTE: You can purchase a copy of A Surreal Journey of Discovery from Nuria Bookstore.
