It is quite a while since Ngugi wa Thiong'o decided in 1977 to abandon writing in English - the linguistic vehicle which had propelled him to the global podium of eminent writers - in favour of his native Gikuyu, a language spoken and read by a tiny sprinkling of the world's population.
As a genre outsider intruding into a topic about which many acres of commentaries have been written by the big names in the business, I feel the apprehension of a tenor performing in a major opera attended by dignitaries. I could accidentally crack a note and ruin the show.
However, I share my mother tongue with Prof Ngugi, which places me on the ground zero where his pan-Africanist vision should have had the most impact, and gives me some legitimacy to comment from the grassroots.
Ngugi's remarkable instrumentality in helping mainstream the African and African-diaspora literature on the global arena is beyond dispute. I remember proudly watching him give his acceptance speech for the 2020 Premi Internacional Catalunya Prize in Gikuyu, while being congratulated by a large and obviously enthralled European audience.
Unfortunately, anecdotal demographics do not reveal a corresponding increase in interest in Gikuyu literature locally. In fact, during my entire adulthood, I've not encountered a single soul leisurely reading a Gikuyu book besides Ibuku ria Ngai (Bible), which seems to validate the cliched epithet that loosely claims that to hide something from a Kenyan, remove it from magazines and smartphones and put it in a book.
Vernacular radio stations have proved to be surprisingly resilient allies in the efforts to keep indigenous languages at the centre of our public life. They have returned words lost in antiquity into regular use, and could soon become the de facto custodians of linguistic standards if only they would stop spending disproportionate airplay in hawking irritating gambling services.
Who bears the blame of making it so difficult to mainstream African languages in the academe? Is it the masses hopelessly brainwashed by a vestigial post-colonialist worldview which projects Western culture and languages (and the renouncement of one's own) as the ultimate measure of personal refinement?
Or is the villain the proliferation of hand-held gadgets that were expected to bring the classics to the palms of avid readers, but instead introduced cheap videos, gaming platforms and other instant-gratification detritus that hog all the users' time?
The answer may even be found in the way different languages adapt with variable efficiency to different tasks. German is reportedly ideal for barking military commands as French is for culinary matters. And if Spanish, as alleged, tops the list of the most romantic languages, then so should Dholuo for all its mellifluous, dramatic and energetic intonation!
Even in the world of tech, different programming languages find different application. The 'C' language is best where execution speed is crucial, 'R' where statistics are involved and Python for most general purposes in between.
In that connection, although Ngugi's mother tongue can create spectacular tomes such as Murogi wa Kagogo (The Wizard of the Crow) in the hands of a seasoned wordsmith, I aver that its general lacklustre uptake is due to its being naturally ill-disposed for use as a medium of serious literary engagement. (Okay. My bias could be the result of my own relative incompetence in this language, which requires regular interspersion with some English and Kiswahili to bring out the intended meaning).
A light-hearted corollary which might rile some readers is that this language likewise does not automatically lend itself to affectionate conversations. If such laborious sentences as 'Githeremende giakwa kia Ngoro' are the closest synonyms of the English word 'sweetheart', the hopes of successfully melting anyone's heart in Gikuyu expire on arrival.
There is a redeeming feature, though. Even if the tongue fails to distinguish itself as the serious literary medium that Ngugi envisioned, it is remarkably adaptable to the patois of the trade and transport sectors.
Meanwhile, an extensive interview the famous author granted a journalist from The Guardian at his California residence revealed a significantly mellowed Ngugi who now lounges in the patio, reads sheet music while playing classical melodies on a grand piano! He even light-heartedly muses about performing at the Carnegie Hall one day! Black Hermit no more, I must say! The erstwhile fiery author of Ngahika Ndeenda and related revolutionary literature was glaringly missing.
Nevertheless, I was pleasantly impressed by his adeptness at online research and other modern technologies, a great transformation for someone who once wrote secretly on toilet paper while incarcerated in a Kenyan prison.
What I will need time to comprehend, however, is why Ngugi so adamantly strains at the gnat of publishing in English while at the same time joyfully relishing other quintessentially Western accoutrements.
Perhaps in a world so irredeemably dominated by the Western social-cultural DNA, a vehemently pan-African language stance does not have to be a way of life. It serves sufficiently a statement of patriotism.
