Published July 29, 2025
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By The Diaspora Times Literary Desk

In that novel, a tyrannical ruler presides over a corrupt African state, intoxicated by power, obsessed with the West, and spiritually shielded by a mystical First Lady—named Rachel. That same year, in the nonfictional Kenya, a young William Ruto was embroiled in the Gong Forest land scandal. And now, twenty years later, that same Ruto sits in State House—beside a First Lady named Rachel.

“Time does not pass. It circles back.”
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o (paraphrased from his works)

In the corridors of power and in the silence of graves, history sometimes speaks—not with the trumpet of certainty, but with the whisper of patterns. It is in such patterns that we find Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o—not only as a literary giant, but as a reluctant prophet whose fiction seems to have breached the gates of fact.

When Mũrogi wa Kagogo (Wizard of the Crow) was published in 2004, it was an allegory so absurd, so grotesque, so daring, that it was dismissed by some as surreal satire. Yet two decades later, the fictional universe Ngũgĩ created seems less like a parody and more like a premonition.

In that novel, a tyrannical ruler presides over a corrupt African state, intoxicated by power, obsessed with the West, and spiritually shielded by a mystical First Lady—named Rachel. That same year, in the nonfictional Kenya, a young William Ruto was embroiled in the Gong Forest land scandal. And now, twenty years later, that same Ruto sits in State House—beside a First Lady named Rachel.

What are we to make of this? Coincidence? Satire fulfilled? Or did Ngũgĩ, like the griots of old, tap into a deeper current of truth—truth disguised as fiction?

The Echo of Dates

On May 28, 2024, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o wrote an open letter to President Ruto. A searing lament. A patriot’s cry. A rebuke wrapped in historical memory:

“Ruto, you have chosen to betray that history of pride.
Ruto, you have chosen to sell your country cheap.
Why, oh, why?”

One year later, to the very day—May 28, 2025—Ngũgĩ died.

Call it chance if you must. But poets and prophets would call it omen. A final punctuation mark on a life lived at the dangerous intersection of memory, resistance, and moral responsibility.

And still, the ghost speaks.

On July 28, 2024, exactly two months after his letter to Ruto, Ngũgĩ wrote once more—this time to Reverend Timothy Njoya, the iconic dissident cleric. In Kikuyu, the name “Njoya” means lift me. In that letter, Ngũgĩ wrote: “Njoya, Njoya.” Read aloud, it becomes a whispered prayer: Lift me, lift me.

One year and two months later, on May 28th, 2025, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o breathed his last.

What is this if not sacred syntax? The kind of rhythm only history and mystery can compose?

A trilogy of dates. A farewell letter to power, a spiritual plea to truth, and then silence. Not accidental—but ritualistic.

Art as Oracle

Ngũgĩ’s fiction was never mere storytelling. It was an indictment. It was an invocation. And sometimes— yes-revelation.

In Mũrogi wa Kagogo, Rachel is no ordinary First Lady. She is the high priestess of state hypocrisy—masking violence in virtue, and tyranny in prayer. Today, Kenya’s Rachel—its real First Lady—leads public fasts, casts national prayers, and speaks of divine mandates. Meanwhile, the country teeters on economic collapse, youth rebellion, and the militarization of despair.

This is not to vilify. It is to illuminate.

Ngũgĩ warned us that African tyranny wears masks: the general’s uniform, the bishop’s robe, the development blueprint, the democracy label. The names change. The scripts are edited. But the play remains the same.

And perhaps that’s why the lines between art and life now blur. When fiction begins to forecast reality, when names and dates align with eerie precision, we are no longer in the realm of coincidence. We are in the realm of the revealed.

A Question for the President—and for Us All

Did you read Ngũgĩ’s letter, Mr. President? Did you grasp its weight?

It is no longer about whether you did. The real question now—haunted by his death—is whether you will heed it. For Ngũgĩ was not warning just a man. He was warning a nation.

His pen, dipped in exile and memory, called Kenya back to its soul.

He called out the betrayal of Kenya’s revolutionary heritage, the puppeteering by Western powers, the sending of Kenyan police to Haiti—the cradle of Black liberation—to police a people whose only crime was defeating colonialism.

He asked: What shall history say?

And now, in death, he compels us to answer.

Epilogue: When Fiction Becomes Scripture

Ngũgĩ once wrote that writers do not prescribe; they provoke. But perhaps, in the end, Mũrogi wa Kagogo did both.

In naming the tyrant’s wife “Rachel,” he did not just create a character. He foretold a symbol.
In writing letters dated with poetic symmetry, he did not just protest. He performed a ritual.
In dying exactly one year to the day of his final plea to power, he did not just pass on. He left a curse—or perhaps a covenant.

Kenya must now decide: Was Ngũgĩ a mere novelist? Or a prophet whose fiction was a final scripture?

Disclaimer: This literary reflection is not intended to promote conspiracy, but to explore the poetic and political interplays between fiction, history, and the moral responsibilities of leadership. The views expressed are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Diaspora Times. This article is a reflective opinion and not an indictment of any individual’s faith or personal choice. It is meant to stir national discourse on the role of the Church in Kenya’s democratic journey.
© The Diaspora Times | Arch. Dr. D.K. Gitau

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