I was in my upper primary school when I first encountered what felt like a serious “reading culture.” Back then, reading for pleasure wasn't common for many of us in rural schools—not because we lacked the desire, but because books beyond our school textbooks were so hard to come by.
So, when the government launched a certain initiative to make reading materials accessible, especially in remote, under-resourced areas where books were rare, we had the chance to explore written literature from a variety of authors for the first time. This program had been spearheaded by Kenya’s Ministry of Education, in partnership with international organisations such as USAID, World Vision, and the Canadian Organization for Development through Education (CODE).
I can't quite remember what might have triggered the anticipatory buzz throughout the school, but I vividly recall the day a small pickup truck arrived, carrying the books from the ministry. We rushed towards it, cramming around the truck bed in a disorderly scramble for copies. Guided perhaps by the covers and titles, each of us picked a book from the piles, eagerly setting a timeline for reading. That was when I first held Ngumi Kibera’s Regi—a YA novela that, I believe, became the first work I read with genuine passion and emotional attachment.
African literature’s reflection on society
I was able to get access to other writers like Remi Adedeji’s Stories My Mother Told Me, David Mitchuki’s Kaka Sungura na Wenzake, Kalu Okpi’s Kidnapped, among many others. Through this reading experience, I noticed a couple of important things: first, a significant percentage of the authors I encountered were African, and second, most of the narratives reflected the everyday life of Africa. Ngumi Kibera’s Regi, for example, was the first book that provided me with a nuanced portrayal of Kenyan society.
Regi, a young girl born into a family facing economic hardship, must navigate a world that intertwines modern aspirations with traditional expectations. As she progresses through her education, she begins to envision possibilities beyond what her family and society have traditionally expected of her. Consequently, she finds herself torn between fulfilling her family’s expectations—such as marriage and a conventional career—and pursuing her own aspirations. In general, if these books were not depicting the struggles of families trying to meet basic needs like food, clean water, shelter and healthcare, they were portraying characters grappling with the challenge of balancing traditional African heritage with the allure of modern life. At the very least, these stories often presented allegories, fables or folklore with underlying educational themes, as I noticed in David Mitchuki’s Kaka Sungura na Wenzake.
And so, from here I think I got a first-hand indication of what exactly an African writer should focus on. Although I had no aspirations of becoming a writer then, the books I read gradually shaped my perspective on the society around me. I became convinced, through the reflective postulates of these books, that any compelling story must portray a form of “suffering”, with catharsis achieved only when the “sufferer” attains a hard-won triumph.
In most of these stories the “sufferer” was invariably the protagonist, the “good guy” with whom we had to empathise. On the other hand, the antagonist, the “bad guy”, was in every form the antithesis of the “sufferer”; the one who inflicted pain and suffering on others. This antagonist, paradoxically, possessed some aspirations that the “sufferer”, and by extension we readers, longed for. The point here is that these childhood stories were tied to themes of social inadequacy that we knew too well, and considering the condition in which we lived, we found ourselves not only empathising but also idolising these characters and the struggles they endured.
This reality became even clearer as I advanced into high school literature. Back then, as students, our reading was largely motivated by exams and good grades; we rarely felt the need or even the desire to unearth the layered messages these works held. Yet even without our full awareness, these stories quietly influenced us.
Wrestling with cultural identity and legacy
When I first began studying Ngugi’s works, particularly his 1965 novel The River Between, which then was our prescribed literature text, I found myself questioning the role of literature in Africa’s education system. In this novel, the protagonist Waiyaki is cast in a “messiah-like” role, tasked with saving his community from destruction. To fulfil this duty, he must first understand Christianity—a foreign influence shaping his people’s lives.
However, as he immerses himself in his mission to educate the “two” ridges, Waiyaki becomes so consumed by this pursuit that he overlooks the immediate struggles his community faces. His intelligence and vision set him apart, elevating him above his tribesmen, who grow to admire him. Meanwhile, Kabonyi, a staunch defender of traditional tribal values who fights against the encroaching influence of Christianity, is depicted not as a heroic figure but as a bitter, jealous man—a "loser" unable to create real change and ultimately seen as an enemy by his own people. At that epoch, one would have expected Kabonyi’s defiance against colonial culture to be celebrated, but he instead becomes a symbol of stagnation.
Hence, Ngugi’s works gave me that undeniable pull to adopt the attitude his stories seemed to covey: that it isn’t those who stand firm in their traditional values who are celebrated, but rather those who embrace foreign influence and customs. Our ancestral values—the principles that once grounded our people—are, in a flash, portrayed as backward or even depraved. I began to think that those who resist this imposed transformation, who dare to champion their culture, may be destined to face rejection like Kabonyi, to be labelled as an embarrassment to the very people they seek to protect. Is there a “superior” culture, one deemed more important, more enlightening, than our own?
Perhaps Ngugi’s crime as a writer was his bold depiction of reality — a reality that was then, and remains, both complex and uncompromising. Literature, after all, is the voice of a community’s inner struggle. It reflects, on the imaginative planes, a community wrestling with its total environment to find meaning in life. It is simply a mechanistic reflection of social reality. Thus, I could have not expected Ngugi to paint an unrealistic picture of African communities triumphing over cultural imperialism.
It is the same thing Achebe did with his debut, Things Fall Apart, in which the protagonist, Okonkwo — first seen as a pillar of strength and is deeply committed to his culture — succumbs to despair, with his suicide a bleak acquiescence to colonial dominance. The same fate befalls Ezeulu, the chief priest in Arrow of God, whose steadfast devotion to Ulu — his god and the heart of his people’s spiritual identity — is no match for the allure of Christianity, which eventually wins over his own community. The chief priest ends up broken and defeated when those he cherished and fought to protect turn their backs on the very customs that once held them together.
Most postcolonial writers who took up the pen to examine Africa's post-independence reality have not made any difference either. Consider how independent Africa is portrayed in works of imaginative art like Achebe’s A Man of the People, Ngugi’s Petals of Blood, Kwei Armah’s The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born, and Sembène’s Xala, among others. These works only expose the moral and social decay plaguing leadership across the continent — something we readily recognise. Yet in these stories, it is rare to find one that embodies values and visions for a future society. Stories where the cathartic experience leaves something hopeful for the reader—particularly for Africans, who are the primary consumers of African literature—are few and far between.
We can therefore see clearly that African literature, from the very beginning, has had this tendency to create two opposing classes: the oppressive minority who revels in a cathartic sense of victory, and the majority—us—struggling against this oppression, but ultimately left in a dejected, almost inevitable state of lowliness. One can thus tell that while African literature tries to air the reality of the intimidating complexity of African life, it seldom offers a way to overcome these challenges. It therefore begs the question: what is our role as African readers and consumers of African literature? Are we, as the audience of our own art, simply becoming victims of its acrimony?
Towards a visionary literature
Inasmuch as books are meant to provoke thought, to shed light on truths mostly left unsaid, how their messages resonate with and subtly mould audiences is something often overlooked. Literature is attitudinal. I say this because the stories we read, along with poems, songs and other forms of literary art, shape our attitudes, beliefs and perspectives towards themes they explore. Readers, and in general people, possess their behavioural norms by observing and modelling the actions of others, even if those ‘others’ are fictional. Storybooks, in this case, are foundational blueprints for social modelling. They shape how we see the world, how we choose to move within it.
When a story aims to remind me of the ills of my society through its regular artistic fashion, it must offer a level of respect that allows space for self-reflection and distance from any potential bitterness it may invoke. When we Africans read the African narratives, we are first transported into the world of these narratives, and then we experience it as if we are part of it. It is this immersive experience that makes readers more likely to adopt the attitudes and beliefs presented in the story. This, combined with the fact that we live the reality of these narratives, can adversely affect us.
I am not suggesting that one should conceal the historical realities of what has wounded them. No, that's not what writers do. Indeed, a writer’s task is to engage with the essence of real life, to extract art from the abstract and make it resonate in the lives of society’s members. And once we speak of making things resonate within society, we're already choosing a side. Writers, of course, aren't bound by any rule to write in a specific way; they are free to follow their own voice. But if a writer must choose a side, it is only sensible to stand with the powerless. How outrageous would it be to write in defence of the powerful? Art, from time immemorial, has served as the voice of the oppressed. It has defended cultures, religions and histories, worked to heal ailing societies, and exposed the evils of imperialism and all forms of inhumanity. Art has forged nations and sparked revolutions.
But art, with its unique capacity to shape emotions, imagination and public consciousness, can serve as a powerful tool for marketing a nation too. Notice how colonial Britain leveraged the legacy of its finest writers as cultural ambassadors: Shakespeare, Orwell, Austen and Dickens are revered worldwide, not only for their literary brilliance but also as symbols of British culture. This admiration stems from a deliberate imperialist strategy to win goodwill and promote an idealised national image. What, then, is the image portrayed by our literature? What attitudes and values does it instil in its readers?
Storytelling is a creative component of the human experience. It can't be that, in Africa, we are only meant to write about hardships and suffering as if there’s nothing positive to share. We have the ability to show the world what Achebe calls “beneficent fiction”— stories that aim to do good and bring positive effects on readers in society. Wasn’t this what we were doing long before European cultural imperialism? I still remember the stories told in my Luo culture—stories with purpose, meant to benefit society and passed down through generations.
Protest writers like Achebe, Ngugi and their contemporaries have provided us with a sense of self-definition and pioneered a platform that didn’t exist before. Their stories have inspired and enlightened us. Now, it’s time to build on their legacy by shaping this art to reflect a vision for future generations; to foster a positive attitude and influence societal perception.
Literature is dynamic, and we have the power to create a new form that speaks to our evolving needs.
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Kwach Abonyo is an educator and writes on thematical issues.
