He disregarded the toilet paper scrap, meant to silence him behind bars. Each word, a rebellion. Each line, refusal to disappear. Ngũgĩ wa thiong'o-reality, disgruntled, and silent prison cells, state monitoring, and forced sounds. Nevertheless, his pen was never trembling. In a country, wrestling with freedom of expression is still wrestling, he remained a luster for the truth, burning bright from the margin.
Now, his voice is still from death - but his words are unknown. Blood petals, decomposing the mind, devil on the cross - text that disturbs the rule and shape generations. His books are not just literature; They cry the fight, preserved in ink. They are the conscience of Kenya, stitched together with pain, memory and incredible hope.
Shame does not relax on ngũgĩ. It rests on those in power - which is and currently - who were afraid of the clarity of his vision more than any armed danger. A president may command soldiers, but cannot be out of truth. The heritage of NgũGĩ exposes the state more frightened than ideas than the rebels, which is more stunning by metaphors than the crowd. This is the right prosecution.
