COMMENTARY

A Conversation with
NgUgI wa Thiong’o
D. Venkat Rao

N
gUgI wa Thiong’o is a much admired writer in India. More signifi-
cantly, and quite appropriately, his admirers exceed the “reformed
Indians” (to adopt NgUgI’s phrase) of the Englit academy. Grass-
roots activists, civil rights defenders, journalists, and writers in various lan-
guages are in communication with his work. Several of his works have been
translated into the South Indian language of Telugu.1 Not surprisingly,
some of these translations were done by the well-known activist poet in
Telugu, Varavara Rao—when he was himself in prison.
NgUgI’s visit to India was occasioned by an international conference on
the Nationality Question. The conference, organized by the All India
People’s Resistance Forum (an activist front), was held in Delhi in February
1996. In his two-week visit NgUgI made two presentations at the conference
and traveled to other Indian linguistic regions to give talks and meet peo-
ple.2 As a small testimony to his reception in India it could be pointed out
that during his visit everyday several newspapers published articles on him,
translations from his work (in Indian languages), and interviews with him.
From being a trenchant and persistent critic of colonial and neocolo-
nial regimes, NgUgI’s concerns today seem to be with the work of culture
in the shadow of global, financial capital (or “capitalist fundamentalism,” as
he calls it). The culture of his concern now ranges from the most elemen-
tal to the highly rarefied, from the language of voice and song to that of
music and film. The term he uses to map this range is “technology” in the
widest sense. In our efforts to decolonize our minds from the devastating
effects of colonial and neocolonial control, NgUgI argues, we must begin to
gather and grasp our resources and means of imagination: “Technology is
certainly one of the means of production of images. But once one has
acquired the technology, what stories does one tell with one’s pen, what pic-
tures does one draw with one’s camera, and what song does one sing with
one’s microphone? This depends to a certain extent on the degree to which
we have decolonized the languages of image making the film language and
the languages of sound.”
NgUgI describes the activity of “decolonizing the means of imagina-
tion” as an ongoing struggle to “move the center” of culture not only from
its assumed location in the West, but also from the privileged groups in var-
ious societies to other domains “that are other linguistic centers through
which we all can look at the globe.” The task of the critical intellectual
today, NgUgI argues, is to make possible communication or dialogue
between languages that have been marginalized by the assumed centrality
of the West. In order to move the work of culture in this direction, NgUgI
and his wife Njeeri have started the journal Mutiìri—a journal devoted
entirely to publishing in Gikuyu language. The journal encourages transla-

Vol.30, No. 1, Spring 1999

 D. Venkat Rao 163

tions from any language in the world into Gikuyu: “This is only a tiny step
in a long journey.” He said that the conference on the Nationality Question
itself exemplified a move toward such a dialogue and hoped that “this
will be followed by more steps so that we can intensify the dialogue.”
DV: Interestingly, there
appears to be an unbroken
continuity of themes you deal
with in your writings—con-
cerning modern institutions
such as education, religion,
political system, etc.—but the
forms in which these are
explored vary from novel to
novel (detective thriller, oral/
folk narratives, political
fables, realistic narratives,
etc.). In other words, docu-
mentary themes prevail but
formal experimentation con-
tinues. Given your position
that content must eventually
determine form, how would
one explain this discontinuity
of form and content, on the
one hand, and continuity of
documentary themes, on the
other?
NG: The themes are created
by historical situation in
NgUgI wa Thiong’o, photo by and with per-
Africa—colonialism and resis-
mission of D. Venkat Rao.
tance against colonialism are
persistent themes; in the present, neocolonialism—they are constant
themes, part of history against which I am writing. A writer changes also in
terms of how he or she approaches the same historical moment. One
becomes more and more aware because one is evaluating the themes. In
Weep Not, Child and The River Between, the form is linear, the narrative
unfolds from point A to point B to point Z. When we come to A Grain of
Wheat, we get multiple narratives and time frames shift . . . . It’s like I wanted
to see how the same events looked at different times . . . looked at by dif-
ferent characters located in different times, from multiple centers. I con-
tinue the same technique in Petals of Blood . . . . When I came to The Devil on
the Cross, two things have happened. I change language . . . I had to shift the
language to Gikuyu . . . . When you use a language, you are also choosing
an audience . . . . When I used English, I was choosing English-speaking
audience . . . . Now I can use a story, a myth, and not always explain because
I can assume that the [Gikuyu] readers are familiar with this . . . . I can play
with word sounds and images, I can rely more and more on songs, proverbs,
164 Research in African Literatures

riddles, anecdotes . . . . I maintain multiple centers, in a sense, simplify

structures . . . . For instance, The Devil on the Cross is based on a series of
journeys.
DV: You believe that “every writer is a writer in politics. The only question
is what and whose politics.”
Do you think that there is a necessary continuity between thematized
(consciously held views) sentiments or convictions of “political” intent or
broad generalities such as oppressed must unite, the writer should be on
the side of the exploited, etc. (a large part of middle-class Telugu writing
today is sloppily sentimental and unreadably didactic) and the possible
politics of practice in literary writing itself? That is, is there some kind of
politics specific to formal concerns of literary writing?
NG: First of all let me say [that] writing out of ideological convictions, of
course, is very important. One has important ideas that arouse one’s anger,
passion [and] commitment . . . . But of course when one is actually writing
fiction or poetry and so on it is very important that one lets those ideas
emerge from concrete reality . . . . In other words, to try and not necessar-
ily impose those ideas on the situation. But rather examine concretely those
ideas [that] emerge from the concrete historical or social situation. So
when you are writing a narrative it must be clear, at least it must appear
interesting and to the reader a character must be alive and interesting.
There is no reason why one wants to read a fiction as opposed to a political
pamphlet. . . . So you go to a fictional narrative for a different kind of expe-
rience than you go to an essay of political problems. So the fictional narra-
tive has to be artistically compelling to the reader and I would say this is a
challenge to fiction writers. Because there is no way we can simply impose
your views, your ideology, no matter how much you are convinced of that
ideology on to a situation. Rather the situation concretely should be the
one that generates those ideas.
DV: Would you agree that it is possible to segregate the “politics in writing”
from the thematized political sentiments? As you know, literary histories get
written and they in turn canonize texts and movements for their formal
avant-gardism. At the other extreme we could have writings which proclaim
their political rightness by pouring out motifs, themes, which are already
identified as politically correct ones. Consequently, the latter takes recourse
to populist narrative recountings (adventure thrillers, event-centered nar-
rative episodes, etc.—once again I am thinking of political writing in
Telugu), thus formally remaining filiated to consumerist modes of writing.
How do you negotiate this paradox? Would you ask, in the context of
writers in radical politics, to consider the question of form itself as a model
of thought and practice?
NG: One has to be careful not to write one’s own convictions [as if they]
are controlling the narrative. Obviously one wants to go to fictional narra-
tive for something different than what makes him go to a piece in a news-
paper or in a book about politics.
It boils down to two: (1) the question of language and (2) how you use
words, imagery. How you let the event unfold, and particularly language.
Otherwise, in my view there is nothing wrong in the writer experimenting
 D. Venkat Rao 165

with different forms. I myself use in Petals of Blood very popular thriller
structure, a mix of thriller and detective structure . . . or the investigative
detective structure and I use that for different reasons . . . . One can use
popular forms and subvert their ideology those popular forms have been
serving in the past . . . . So you can experiment with forms, there is nothing
wrong with that. The question for the writer in Telugu or Gikuyu language
or any . . . it is very important [to engage with] the question of language.
You can actually learn a lot from how words are used in our oral narratives
because when we listen to our oral narratives we will find some very strong
imagery, very strong characters, very interesting situations and, for instance
when you listen to our proverbs, they are memorable because of the struc-
ture of the words, the rhythms that make them stick to the head. So words
are very important. In my view, the more political the narrative is, the more
it needs to meet certain artistic standards in the usage of words, imagina-
tion. One should care very much about the language so that it becomes
interesting.
[The question of form] is very important . . . . That’s why I say it is like
when you are convinced, you have certain convictions, then it is important
to express those convictions in a best form possible, in the most effective
way possible . . . . However, we have to be very careful we do not get
obsessed with the form, we forget the content . . . .
DV: No, I don’t mean formalism in any way . . . .
NG: The key thing is one has a story one feels strongly about, one has pas-
sion, one is writing because of passion. Writing is not mental . . . it comes
from passion, something about which the person feels very strongly.
DV: You know the academic institutions are obsessed with classifying, label-
ing, and neatly packaging literary works for consumption. There is a lot of
dishonesty in this kind of work, as you know. In the context of such an
industrious dishonesty what are the ways available to the politically inter-
ested literary critic to listen, to reflect upon genuinely alternative literary
efforts coming from the fringes of our worlds? I thought your point about
the remarkable phrase “moving the center” (as opposed to Naipaul’s “find-
ing the center”) has something to tell us in this context.
NG: I use the phrase “moving the center” in the context of moving the
center from its assumed centrality in the West to where it should be in a
multiplicity of centers all over the world. Because each of our own experi-
ences can be a center from which you look at the world—our language, our
social situations become very important as bases of looking at the world. I
was also thinking about this moving the center from its assumed location
within a nation or nationality from its assumed place among a minority class
strata into what I mean is its creative base among the people. But once hav-
ing said that, we must be prepared to learn. Quite frankly, one of the most
important things is how we must be prepared to self-renew ourselves by
interacting even with the thoughts which are hostile to our own situation.
Because one can learn more from hostility at times than from friendly
advice. So even when conditions are hostile to ours, we can learn
from them. It is the same for literature. We must be prepared to learn from
different literary inheritances of our and other people . . . . We must be
166 Research in African Literatures

prepared to learn from criticism . . . Sometimes hostile critical evaluations,

sometimes friendly, imaginative and sympathetic interpretations of our own
work.
DV: You write that the exploitative systems of capitalism and imperialism
must be overcome—and countries which were exploited, instead of reject-
ing the evil of capitalism have simply adopted it. Now the point as a general
truth has validity, but how does one translate it into a course of action?
What does this mean and what does this involve in the everyday life of indi-
viduals who are caught in this system?
The strength of that system is in producing us in the ways we would
reproduce ourselves in ways regulated by the system. The strength and
reach of the system seems more powerful as it works through and by means
of us. Now what does it mean to challenge or break with such system? Is
there something extraterritorial to this system?
NG: How do I approach this? . . . See my own practice as a writer . . . . I
must look at everything from the standpoint of the most oppressed center
in society . . . . In other words, I try and judge the progress of any society
from that standpoint. So evaluate capitalism from that standpoint. I even
evaluate post-cold war changes that are taking place in terms of that stand-
point . . . . What we see is after independence—even after post-cold war
situation—is, quite frankly, the continued deprivation of people, more
misery, in fact, the gulf between the poorer nations and richer nations of
the West is widening and within each of those nations, particularly Africa,
the gulf between the poor and rich is becoming really enormous. When I
travel from New York to other parts of the world I see that the whole world
is connected—but in the image of the beggar . . . . You see the beggar and
the homeless persons in every capital city in the world.
I say, in a system that is not able to cope with that reality there is some-
thing amiss about it. Because development for me is really about develop-
ment of human beings—not a few human beings but human beings that
constitute an even society. I know that many people who have been now
educated into saying “But what can we do, what could be done, this is
human nature . . . . There have always been problems . . . . Oh, nothing can
be done.” THIS IS WRONG. In my view the key thing is continuing strug-
gle all the time and not to be educated into accepting defeat, into accept-
ing that very negative view of human nature that things never change.
DV: Actually, I wanted to ask a question about your fascination for Conrad,
especially your fascination for the defeat or failure as a theme in Conrad’s
writings. Failure is in fact an important theme in your own work. Take
Waiyaki (in The River Between), for instance: he is educated, he knows . . . but
he fails . . . but I want to ask you another . . . . .
NG: No. I can talk briefly about Conrad. It is true there was time when I
was fascinated by Conrad. I am still fascinated by him. He is one of the few
writers for whom imperialism was one of their central themes in their
works. But there are shortcomings in Conrad . . . his critique of imperialism
becomes impaired by his attachment with British imperialism. He comes to
assume that one type of imperialism is better than the other . . . this impe-
rialism is slightly better than that . . . . I feel that this impairs his vision. He
 D. Venkat Rao 167

does not actually have faith in those forces which can change imperialism,
he is very despondent when he comes to portraying workers’ efforts to over-
throw it or when he portrays people over racists in Africa in the Heart of
Darkness or Asians in Lord Jim and others. There the people are made to
look as if they are waiting for their parents or a white hero would come and
save them.
DV: There is a danger of misreading your work when you write and speak
about imperialism/capitalism as nothing but theft/robbery—and modern
institutions as sanctifying these corrupting practices. Would you, then,
agree with the view that the culture of imperialism did not have complete
success precisely because despite such violence we are still able to talk and
continue to think together? That epistemic violence is also a kind of
enabling violence?
NG: Well, because each phenomenon generates also its opposite . . . . So,
for instance, when there is repression it generates its opposite because of
resistance. So it is not as if to say colonialists were allowed to roam through
the world freely. You know, take the instance of colonization of Africa. Even
the actual colonization, at times military exploitations, were opposed by
Africans; they fought back. Even when you admit colonization and you had
a direct colonial administrator, a new class emerged . . . . We had to orga-
nize differently in urban centers in work-places and so on. So even when
there is capitalism and imperialism you also have the opposite . . . the resis-
tance and forms of organization that embodied values that in fact were a
negation of those of colonialism and imperialism. Hence, for instance, dur-
ing anti-colonial struggle when colonialism came we could also see people’s
dances, people’s literature, songs in areas of culture. What happens during
the struggle—people rediscover their songs, they inject old forms with new
content of anti-colonial struggle. They create new songs, and new narra-
tives. This is really amazing that something new emerging out of the very
negative circumstances, in times of repression.
DV: I want to ask a couple of questions. Could you talk a little about
your current work? Would you suggest some long-term collaborative explo-
rations (institutional) between, say, some Indian academics/writers/
activists and their counterparts in other parts of the world?
NG: Let me start with the second question first . . . . About cooperation
between writers. I believe in this very strongly, particularly when it comes to
struggle to write in non-European languages, in nationality languages.
Sometimes people who write in nationality languages feel a sense of despair
. . . because they think that they are not as well-known internationally as
their counterparts who write in English or French. By that I mean someone
has been writing novels in Telugu for several years and another person one
day writes a novel in English and he becomes known as the writer . . . and
the one who has been writing in Telugu is not even invited to international
conferences. One feels discomfiture about this. That is why it is important
to find ways of cooperating in joint efforts and in exchange of experiences.
I am sure we should be able to find ways we can create international forums
when prison writers writing in different languages can actually sit down and
exchange experiences. I may not be able to read a novel in Telugu [and]
168 Research in African Literatures

you, say, in Gikuyu, but at least I can know the experiences in writing in
Telugu or other nationality languages in India. But apart from that it is as
a cooperation it is important that what is originally written in Telugu can be
translated into African languages directly and those written in African lan-
guages can be translated into Telugu directly. In other words, you can find
ways to making our languages dialogue one another and that is very impor-
tant in terms of our creation and so on.
What am I working on just now? I am working on a few books of essays.
But the more important one that I am doing now is editing a journal in
Gikuyu language. What I am doing in this journal with my wife Jerry is to
have a forum for those who are writing the Gikuyu directly. We don’t have
such journals in our languages. But we also want to try and publish transla-
tions from other African languages, Asian languages, and from European
languages and see how this goes. This is taking a lot of my time because I
do want to succeed. So we put a lot of time to it. We produced three issues
so far and we hope to continue with three more this year . . . . I am inter-
ested in stories and poems originally written in Telugu. Obviously, I cannot
read Telugu just now but we can use English as it facilitates translation.
DV: A quick question. Suppose someone says I don’t understand your writ-
ings. What is your reaction?
NG: Two things: I myself quite don’t understand [what I read sometimes].
But it can also be that they themselves do not take the necessary time some-
times to see the work again. Some people who have read my novels A Grain
of Wheat, Petals of Blood have said, “Oh! I don’t understand them, etc.”
because they are used to linear narrative structure of story telling. I tell
them actually the linear story telling structure is not true to reality. Because
in reality people do not tell each other stories in a linear mode. They con-
stantly interrupt each other. OK? You tell an episode and one of the per-
sons says, “That reminds me of something else,” and they might even tell
either their own story before they come back to the main narrative, and so
on. Also, our minds are always making multiple references and so on.
The conversation was recorded on 22 Feb. 1996 in Hyderabad.

NOTES

1. Telugu is a South Indian language of Dravidian origin, spoken by 68 million

people in the State of Andhra Pradesh. Hyderabad is the State capital of Andhra
Pradesh. Telugu is the first Indian language into which some of NgUgI’s work
has been translated. (So far, Devil on the Cross, Detained, and Matigari have been
translated.)
2. NgUgI’s two presentations in India, “Nationality Question in Africa” and
“Decolonising the Means of Imagination,” are published in the conference pro-
ceedings, Symphony of Freedom : Papers on Nationality Question (Hyderabad: AIPRF,
1996).