Elegy for Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o - Weep not Africa, the devil is on the cross

the passing of the sage needs an elegy
weaving his works into memory
woven not from sorrow
but from the titles he left us
each a thread in the long cloth of liberation

Weep Not, Child
though Njoroge’s dreams were drowned in betrayal
still he hoped
still he studied
still he believed that books could set a colonised people free 

as the Petals of Blood drift down the River Between
Kamina’s cries echo through the valley
where Waiyaki once stood
torn between tradition and the hunger for change

Devil on the Cross watches from a billboard in Ilmorog
where Wariinga, mother, secretary, warrior
walks tall past the businessmen who sold her country
for a coin and a foreign tongue
through the smoke of the Kenyan stage

we hear The Trial of Dedan Kimathi
his voice unbroken
his spine unbowed
his name restored to the tongues of children
(did I say Kenya? No, belonged to the world)

he spent his life trying to Decolonise the Mind
not just from foreign flags flying through the occupied territories and the Dias
but from self-doubt
from the coloniser who lived behind our eyes
whispering shame in our own languages

he taught us the necessity of Moving the Centre
from empire to earth
from London to Limuru
from ivory towers to village theatres

I Will Marry When I Want, said Gicaamba and Wariinga
not when the landlord says
not when the priest demands
but when freedom rings clear as a blacksmith’s hammer

and for saying so
he was Detained
left with nothing but a Writer’s Prison Diary
pages scribbled in secret
where even silence was written in resistance

yet even in exile
he nurtured Dreams in a Time of War
walking barefoot through his boyhood
while bombs fell
and books were rare as rain

in the House of the Interpreter
he listened to the scriptures of the empire
read aloud by boys in uniform
and asked
what if we spoke of our own prophets instead

the Birth of a Dream Weaver was not painless
it came with betrayal
with exile
with his passport stolen
and his tongue declared dangerous

yet he kept Wrestling with the Devil
not to destroy
but to expose
his weapon not violence
but parable
his armour not hate
but laughter

the sting in his pen
penetrating and shattering tyrants, and masters
the humility in his heart
warming every freedom fighter
in Africa and beyond 

Barrel of a Pen in hand
wa Thiong’o resisted repression
in neo-colonial Kenya
noting that the Mau Mau is Coming Back

out of myth walked Matigari
wrapped in rags and questions
seeking truth in a land
where justice had gone into hiding

on a windy playground
Njamba Nene and the Flying Bus took off
lifting young minds beyond fences and flags
while Njamba Nene’s Pistol reminded us
that courage can be held
even in small hands

his Homecoming was never a return
but a revelation
a replanting
a radical remembering
that the village has always been enough

on every page
he spoke with the Language of Languages
from Gikuyu to Kiswahili to the silence between drums
reminding us
that no language is small
when it carries a people’s soul

he dreamed of The Perfect Nine
daughters of Mũmbi
mothers of a nation
their journey carved in myth and marrow
walking barefoot into legend

from Something Torn and New
he stitched a flag that no coloniser could fold
his ink forming stars
his stories forming skies

weep not Africa
the devil is on the cross
screaming in white houses
the walls of the empire shaking from voices

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o
son of Kenya
father of African letters
fellow traveller of Fanon
comrade of Sankara
brother in resistance to Biko
rooted in Makerere’s red soil
where he stood among a chorus of East African minds

Micere Githae Mugo, fierce and unbending
Okot p’Bitek, singing Lawino into eternity
Ali Mazrui, mapping Africa’s global soul
John Ruganda, building stages of truth
Pio Zirimu, naming orature as power
Grace Ogot, weaving ancestral memory into prose
Taban lo Liyong, sharp as iron in a blacksmith’s fire
Shaaban Robert, a Kiswahili visionary
the South and North African contingents
the Dias, Walter Rodney

and so many others
teachers and poets
farmers and firebrands
the women and men of the people
who did more than write back to empire

they wrote forward
with and among their people
they imagined futures in the ashes of conquest
they held language not as a tool
but as a weapon
as shelter
as seed

Ngũgĩ understood this
he knew that the word could build a nation
he knew the power of stories told in the mother tongue
and like all true cultural workers
he toiled not for applause
but for transformation

now he rests
but Njoroge still dreams
Wariinga still walks
Matigari still searches
Dedan still speaks
Mazrui lives
and children still rise
on buses made of books
he is not gone
his story is not over
a monument built on language, knowledge, culture, history 

this elegy is still becoming. DM