Muthoni Thangwa

Tag: books

  • She Spoke German without History

    She thought there are Africans who look upon colonisation with nostalgia!

    I thought I had heard it all—until, in 2024! We were in Germany as part of the MuseumLab programme, a curated platform that brings together African and European heritage practitioners for dialogue, collaboration, and critique on museums and the heritage sector in both continents. 

    During one session, a young African woman spoke proudly of her German heritage. That made me physically wince. However, what followed cut even deeper: she stated that some people in Cameroon recall the German colonial period with nostalgia. The room stiffened with various reactions. Some looked at the floor; others started searching in their bags, as if for lost treasure, while a number stood and headed for the coffee table. The discomfort was palpable. Her words bruised my spirit, as if I had lived through that colonial experience myself. I looked at her for the first time – looked at her.

    Many wild thoughts were running through my mind, scrambling around like restless feet on a tin roof. But one kept rising above the noise: I wanted to lock this African somewhere, to isolate her, but to give her light, sunshine, until she could think again. It wasn’t disdain. It was heartbreak. Because what she had just said was not an opinion, it was evidence of brainwashing. Evidence of historical amnesia, of how colonisation not only stole land and bodies but rewrote memory itself.

    It was a painful reminder of how deeply manufactured memoryhas burrowed into our consciousness, convincing some among us that the oppressor brought order, when in fact he brought rupture. Romanticizing colonization is not just a travesty, a betrayal of historyandancestors, it is also forgetting oneself, in the quest to be like ‘those others’. It speaks to the danger of a people who no longer recognise the chains that still shackle Africa culturally, economically and socially. Such people have trained their minds to call the chains bracelets.

    The speaker came to Germany as a child. It was clear that the country doesn’t teach any African history. Fair enough – until recently, the history that was taught in Kenyan schools was often stripped of its messiness and violence. Children were told of explorers who ‘discovered’ mountains and rivers that Kenyan communities had interacted with for millennia.  But here, the silence felt heavier.

    I wondered what takes root in a historical vacuum? How do people, like that speaker, Africans raised in Europe, without the tools to interrogate or process historical facts presented through the lens of someone else?. People who speak with certainty, but from a place of omission. Her nostalgia for German colonization didn’t seem rooted in malice. It sounded almost pitiful, like it came from an emptiness, an absence where something vital should have been.

    As she spoke, I watched the room. No one said a word. Not the Germans, not the Africans. There was no applause, no challenge, only a silence so heavy it felt complicit. This was the saddest part. Because silence, in moments like this, is not neutrality – it is endorsement. The presenter, who had spoken of cassettes as if they were some prehistoric discovery, may have walked away thinking she had delivered a successful talk. She may have believed she had represented the African voice with clarity. But the truth was quieter, and more haunting: the Africans in the room decided not to engage. She had gone too far, too far from truth, too far from self, for any meaningful recourse. And we, out of weariness or protection, chose not to waste precious hours trying to bring her back.

    We were visiting African heritage practitioners; she was going to remain in Germany. We could not save her, and we knew it. Her mind had already been claimed by another story, one we could not rewrite in a single afternoon. So we chose to save ourselves. The irony is that even the Germans remained silent. The organisers had probably anticipated a spirited resistance, at least some reaction. As for the Germans, I’m still not sure what was expected of them. And I’ve always wondered what, if anything, was said among them once the event ended. If silence held any discomfort. Or if it, too, was just routine.

    Colonialism does not simply vanish over time – it mutates, hides in school curricula, reappears in street names, and sometimes, finds voice in those it once oppressed. What happened in that room was not a debate about historical nuance; it was the echo of a violent erasure. And when we fail to teach African children their own histories, whether in Europe or in Africa, we raise generations fluent in the language of their colonisers, but illiterate in the truths of their nations and people.

  • The Day the Road Forgot My Name

    The Day My Father Forgot—Caregiving and Memory Loss in an African Family

    Prof. Bwisa was afraid. Not in the immediate, frantic way one fears fire or falling, but in the quiet, creeping manner of something unnamed—something the mind touches, then recoils from. He could not quite say what unsettled him. Perhaps it was the sudden stillness that accompanied retirement. Or the unnerving way days now folded into each other without the familiar structure of lectures, student consultations, and senate meetings.

    Back in 1982, when he first joined Kenyatta University as a young lecturer, the notion of retirement at seventy had sounded almost comedic. A distant line on the horizon. He had watched colleagues peel away—some to chase business ventures, others to write books they never finished, or tend to farms they had long neglected. To Prof. Bwisa, their departure had seemed premature, even indulgent. “I have found my calling,” he would say, with the characteristic certainty of a man for whom work was identity. “What could be nobler than moulding young minds at the summit of intellectual pursuit?”

    But now, seated in a small, unfamiliar restaurant with sunlight streaming in through grimy windows, that certainty felt as brittle as the rim of his teacup.

    Five months earlier, he had paid a courtesy visit to Dr. Wanguyu, his old colleague and long-time friend, on the eve of his retirement. “I’m leaving the university next week,” he had said with a casual smile. “Thought I’d get a full medical check-up before they cut off the staff insurance.” He had chuckled at his own foresight.

    Dr. Wanguyu had obliged. The tests had been routine—until they weren’t. At the tail end of the consultation, the good doctor had taken off his spectacles and looked at him with that unsettling mixture of compassion and caution reserved for delivering news that changes the axis of a life.

    “Prof,” he’d said gently, “I believe you may be experiencing the onset of dementia.”

    “Me?” Bwisa had laughed, incredulous.

    “Yes, you,” Wanguyu had replied, not unkindly.

    What the professor hadn’t realised was that during their conversation, he had repeated the same questions—word for word—several times. He would ask about his blood pressure, be answered, and then a few minutes later ask again. And again.

    Wanguyu had remained jovial, careful not to injure his pride. “I’m not putting you on anything heavy just yet,” he’d said. “But here’s a dietary recommendation that may help slow the process. Omega-3s, memory-friendly greens, hydration. Keep the mind stimulated, you know the drill.”

    The professor had folded the list without a glance and never spoke of it again—not to his wife, not to his children, not even to the trusted house help who had known him since the children were in primary school.

    Now here he was, five months on, staring into a half-empty cup of tea in a town he did not recognise.

    He had no idea how he had arrived here. The name of the place escaped him. He remembered leaving the house early that morning, briefcase in hand, intending to visit the post office. But somewhere along the way, his sense of direction, usually reliable to the point of arrogance, had betrayed him.

    Still, not wanting to look confused, he had walked confidently into the small café, taken a seat by the window, and ordered chapati and tea. The waitress had asked him something he hadn’t quite caught, and rather than admit it, he had simply smiled and nodded. It was only when she left that the cold panic set in.

    He did not know the name of this restaurant.
    He did not know the street outside.

    He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, placed it on the table like an offering. Maybe it would ring. Maybe a familiar voice would reset his mind, remind him who he was, why he was here.

    But the phone stayed silent.

    What arrived instead was tea and two chapatis.

    “I didn’t ask for two,” he muttered.

    He forgot he was lost and bit into one chapati. It was excellent. Flaky, warm. He finished it and ordered another helping. But when it came, a strange heaviness anchored itself in his stomach. He couldn’t eat. He stared at the food, unsettled.

    The waitress eventually came over with the bill. He looked at her sharply.

    “I didn’t eat your chapati. My wife, Eva, feeds me well. I don’t need chapati from strangers.”

    Two young men, seated nearby, had been watching. One of them, curious and a little concerned, came over. After listening quietly, he took out his wallet and paid the bill without fuss.

    Then he turned to the older man, gently:
    “Is there someone I can call for you, sir?”

    Professor Bwisa’s face twitched.

    “I don’t know, James. I have to get home before your mother starts worrying.”

    The young man paused, a lump forming in his throat. He looked down at the phone left on the table and pressed redial.

    “Dad, where are you?” a voice answered, on the first ring, urgent. I have been trying to reach you.

    “Dad, where are you?”
    A voice picked up on the first ring—urgent, breathless.
    “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
    “I’m not your father,” the young man said gently. “There’s an elderly gentleman here. He says his name is Professor Bwisa. He seems… confused.”
    “And where is here?”
    “A restaurant in Nanyuki.”
    There was a pause, then:
    “Do me a favour, please. My name is James Bwisa—his son. My father left home this morning to visit the post office in Lower Kabete. I have no idea how he ended up in Nanyuki. Would you stay with him? I’m driving up from Nairobi now to fetch him.”
    “Of course. My grandfather had the same problem before he passed last year,” said the young man. “I’m happy to help.”

    He turned back to the professor, pulled out a chair, and smiled.
    “My name is Oluoch—but everyone calls me Simba.”
    Something about that amused the professor.
    “Simba, as in lion?” he chuckled, suddenly at ease, as if Simba were an old friend.

    Simba called over his companion, and the three sat together.
    “So, Professor—what do you do?”
    That lit the match. The professor launched into stories—hilarious, winding tales about students who butchered grammar in exams, half-baked PhD theses, missing punctuation that had caused academic catastrophes. The boys roared with laughter.

    One and a half hours later, James arrived—having driven at record speed from Nairobi.
    His father looked up, eyes bright, face alive with animation.
    “James! Meet my students—the clever ones.”

    James watched them laughing — his father, animated, his arms slicing through the air as he recounted the tale of a student who once defined “epistemology” as a stomach condition. The two strangers were in stitches, encouraging him, prompting more. There was something heartbreakingly dignified about it all — a once-brilliant man slipping into confusion, yet still masterful in the realm he knew best. The world had shifted beneath his father’s feet, but his voice still carried authority, still lit up a room.

    He thanked Oluoch—Simba—and his friend. The handshake was firm, their eyes warm. “It’s nothing,” Simba said. “It’s what we do.”

    What we do.

    As he helped his father into the car, James felt the weight of inheritance—not land or wealth, but responsibility. And tenderness. On the drive back to Nairobi, the old man dozed off mid-sentence, his head tilting towards the window. James gripped the steering wheel tighter, unsure whether to cry or laugh.

    How strange, he thought, that forgetting could reveal a man so clearly. That in the unraveling, you see the threads that held him together all along.

    He reached for the volume knob, turned the music low, and whispered, “ I’ll remember for the both of us, baba.

  • Saba saba!

    Kamukunji Grounds at peace!

    Today is Saba Saba.

    Funny how it only stirs something when you say it in Swahili. Say “the seventh of July,” and most people will blink and move on. But say Saba Saba—and something activates. The air stiffens. Memory stirs. Passions rise. It’s not just a date. It’s a scar. A story. A mirror.

    But this year feels… different.

    No placards. No sirens. No leaders bellowing into aging microphones.

    Just Kamukunji Grounds, wide and waiting under the Nairobi sun. And four strangers—young, unarmed, unbothered—walking in from the far corners of the country, like an accidental compass pointing to something new.

    Amina, a tech innovator from Garissa, is here to install an open-source WiFi node for schoolchildren—just one part of a dream she calls ShujaaHub.

    Kimani, grandson of a Mau Mau general, comes every year to this ground to remember. This time, he’s brought a drum.

    Chebet, a spoken word artist from Kericho, carries only her voice. She’s debuting a piece called We Are Not the Lines Drawn On a Map.

    And Odhiambo? A culinary artist from Kisumu. He’s lugged a pot of mbuta stew and enough ugali to feed whoever comes hungry—physically or otherwise.

    None of them were invited. None needed to be.

    The Convergence

    They meet at the old fig tree. The one elders say heard the first whispers of resistance. There’s no programme. No emcee. Just offerings.

    Amina sets up the WiFi and waves a small device at a group of kids chasing a flat ball across the dust. “Free Internet!” she calls out. They abandon the match without a second thought. Soon they’re gathered around her, learning how to upload stories to ShujaaHub.

    Kimani sits cross-legged, eyes closed, and begins to beat the drum. Not in protest—but in memory. In rhythm. His feet trace slow movements from long ago—the kind the resistance once danced in caves and forests. A few children try to mimic him, limbs flailing in joy. The sound carries.

    When he stops, Chebet rises. Tall. Graceful. Her voice slices through the air like truth:

    “We came from the Rift and the Coast and the Mountain and the Lake
    But what bound us was not land—it was longing.”

    Silence falls. Not out of reverence—out of recognition.

    Then Odhiambo ladles out stew, chatting up a boda boda rider from Kathonzweni who chuckles, “Aki, if I’d known this was happening, I’d have brought mangoes. Historic occasion, bana!”

    People begin to gather. Not for a march. Not for a spectacle. But because it feels right. A girl types out her grandmother’s story—about how she survived the Emergency—then uploads it to ShujaaHub.

    A teenage boy records Kimani’s drumbeat and makes it his ringtone. Then he airdrops it to anyone within Bluetooth range.

    A city council cleaner joins Chebet’s chorus with an old hymn. Two uniformed police officers stop—not to disperse—but to listen. No slogans. No t-shirts. No hierarchy.

    Just people. Just Kenyans.

    Memory. Possibility. Stew.

    On this day at Kamukunji, the ground remembered.

    And maybe—just maybe—so does the country.

    That the future of Kenya will not be shouted into existence.

    It won’t be forced through manifestos or fists.

    It will be made—quietly, defiantly, and together.

    But that is vision 2030 – what happened to that blueprint by the way? On this saba saba day, we are on the edge of hope. Hoping that the memories from today will part of the poems in 2030 and beyond.

    For now, I’m gobsmacked by Kenyans—and how much we mirror our politicians. We defy order like it’s a national sport. Last Friday, I was at the bank, ticket number in hand like a passport to the pearly gates, waiting my turn like a decent human being. Then in waddles a certain Kenyan—of notable presence—straight to the cheque counter. No ticket. No line. No shame.

    I wasn’t going to let that fly.

    I marched up to the counter and said, “Excuse me, I have a number. I’m in line.” Then I waved my hand across the banking hall like a prophet with a shepherd’s staff and declared, “All of us are waiting. One of us does not get to skip the wilderness.”

    The woman looked at me calmly and said, “I’m only here to check my balance.”

    “And I’m only here to shepherd my flock,” I replied. “But I’m ahead of you.”

    She opened her mouth for a retort, but the people nearest the counter burst out laughing. I hadn’t meant to be funny—only to make a point. About ethics. About respect. About manners. About the kind of order that doesn’t need a uniform to enforce it.

    Because weeh! This madness isn’t just at the top. It starts in the queues.