Let us develop the country's potential for literary tourism

Whenever I am in London, I make a point of stopping by 221B Baker Street, London NW1 6XE, the home of the Sherlock Holmes Museum. This has become something of a personal ritual.

The narrow Georgian house draws visitors from across the world, all eager to step into the imagined world of Arthur Conan Doyle’s detective. They queue patiently, pay an entry fee, buy books and souvenirs, and take photographs. It always strikes me that Sherlock Holmes never existed, and yet he earns Britain millions.

In the United Kingdom, literary tourism is not limited to long-dead canonical writers; it also honours contemporary and diasporic voices.

Khadambi Asalache’s house in London, preserved after his death, has become a quiet but powerful site of literary memory. Asalache, born in Kenya, was a novelist, poet, artist, and interior designer whose home reflected his layered identity and creative imagination. The house is filled with handcrafted objects, artworks, and books. It attracts visitors interested not only in his writing but also in the story of migration, hybridity, and African presence in Britain’s cultural life. It stands as a reminder that literary tourism can be intimate and inclusive, celebrating writers whose lives speak to global connections and postcolonial histories.

What I am talking about is literary tourism at work. This is where memory is turned into place, story converted into experience, and imagination transformed into economic value. Many countries, the world over, understand this instinctively. That is why, on a visit to Russia recently, I deliberately sought out the birthplaces of Fyodor Dostoyevsky and Leo Tolstoy. Their homes are preserved, their stories curated, and their legacies carefully protected. In essence, literary memory outside Africa is treated as national capital.

This brings me to our tragedy as a nation. Allow me to mourn over my experience, a week ago. I spent part of my Christmas holiday savouring the beauty of Kiambu County. Once again, I came away convinced that every county in this country has something special to offer the curious tourist. Kiambu does not disappoint. Its rolling hills and ridges unfold with quiet confidence, landscapes that seem to know their own beauty. As I moved through those green expanses, I could not help thinking of Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o’s The River Between. The scenery is so vividly described in that novel that, at moments, I almost imagined I could see the two ridges of Kameno and Makuyu come alive before my eyes, locked in their eternal struggle over belief, tradition, and change.

Kiambu boasts exclusive hotels and private residences, vast tea and coffee farms, and pockets that still carry the quiet memory of the colonial period. I even indulged in a bit of adventure, zip-lining above endless stretches of green. It was a fulfilling experience. And then I went to Kamirithu. My heart sank.

Kamirithu is not just another village. It is where Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o helped birth community theatre in Kenya. This work was so powerful, so unsettling to the authorities, that it led to his detention without trial. It is where literature stepped off the page and into the lives of ordinary people, performed in their language, reflecting their struggles and aspirations. Yet today, there is nothing to show that one of Africa’s greatest writers was born and nurtured here. No plaque. No memorial. No museum. Nothing at all. Honestly, this is obscene.

I have since written to the county government of Kiambu to immortalise Ngugi through something that can attract literary tourists. My argument is that by failing to honour Ngugi’s work at Kamirithu, we are denying Kenyans access to a vital and inspiring chapter of our own literary history. This should not be the case. Kiambu County can do better. While other nations monetise even fictional characters, we neglect real giants whose works are studied across the world. But this conversation should not end with Kiambu alone.

Every county in Kenya should deliberately create space for literary tourism. Devolution gives us that opportunity. Counties do not need massive budgets, only imagination and will. A small museum, a marked homestead, a writers’ trail, an annual literary festival, a named library, these are modest investments with lasting cultural and economic returns.

I was particularly happy to learn from my friend Prof Ipara Odeo that Kibabii University has started immortalising Ken Walibora through assembling a collection of his writings at the Kitale Museum Library and the Kibabii University Library. More enchanting is that the university is in conversation with the Trans Nzoia County government to do something bigger. This is the way to go.

Literary tourism is big business. Through the efforts of my senator, Boni Khalwale, Kakamega County is already attracting visitors through culture. Bullfighting and cockfighting draw crowds from far and wide. They are expressions of heritage, performance, and communal memory. Alongside these, a small library named after Prof Francis Imbuga stands quietly as a literary marker and home of the Kakamega Book Club. We are also preparing to break ground for a modest library in honour of Dr Henry Chakava, a giant of Kenyan publishing. These efforts demonstrate one thing: that, in our small way, we can change things and that cultural tourism can work if we take ourselves seriously.

My appeal is that we extend the same seriousness across the country. We need to honour Meja Mwangi, Wahome Mutahi, Ezekiel Alembi, Jonathan Kariara, Marjorie Oludhe Macgoye, David Mulwa, Philip Ochieng, Benson Wanjau (Mzee Ojwang), and many others whose words shaped our national imagination, our cities, our villages, our humour, and our contradictions.

This will restore our cultural pride and signal that Kenya is ready to welcome literary tourism from around the world. Many students, scholars, readers, and travellers are seeking meaning beyond wildlife and beaches.