Betrayal to his ideals led Ngugi to choose cremation

Prof Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s cremation wish is not just personal—it’s political. Like Wangarĩ Maathai, Matiba, and others before him, his final act is a protest against a nation that betrayed its ideals and heroes.

In death, they chose to disappear, leaving Kenya to reckon with its silence. Their vanished graves mark not absence, but indictment. Even in cremation, they burn with defiance.

So, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o is not coming home. Not because of financial constraints or religious conviction, but because of personal resolve expressed in his will. This could fall under a subject I would like to refer to as a "Reflection on the Parting".

Decades ago, the father of the late Titus Adungosi gave instructions to his family on how his remains were to be handled upon death:

"When I die, bury me, but do not put any mark on my grave or that of my son Titus Adungosi. Let me and my son disappear from this world completely, as though we never lived here."
As I have often written, when I visited Tito's grave after my imprisonment, it had no cement on it. A homestead of grass-thatched houses and naked children, who held hope for a better future encapsulated in the promise of their only university student, Titus. In his year of graduation, that hope was crushed by his imprisonment—10 years under Moi, Ruto’s mentor.

Even worse, just as in university, he died in his final year—in prison. His burial was a nightmare. His body lay in the mortuary for almost a month. It had begun to rot. His burial was swarmed with police—no politician in sight. Afterwards, a roadblock was erected, interfering with the family's freedoms. The old man’s daughters fled to Uganda for marriage, escaping state terror. To this day, none holds a government job.

Clearly, these traumatic experiences shaped the will of Titus Adungosi’s father regarding how his remains should be handled.

Kenneth Njindo Matiba, too, must have had a grievance with society. A privileged son of Njindo, he was well educated and, by virtue of this and his wealth, secured a place in Kenya’s ruling elite.

"Unfortunately", he heeded the people's call for change and sided with them. He was jailed alongside Charles Rubia. While in Kamiti Prison, he suffered a stroke. Moi denied him medication. Though later released, his condition worsened until he eventually died, a shadow of himself. He too left a will. We can imagine what it might have said:

“When I die, no one should see my grave. I would like to disappear completely from the face of the earth. Moi destroyed my health and wealth, and Kenyans kept him in power, ignoring my pain. Burn my body and scatter the ashes so that no one can ever locate me again.”
Wills are written not with pens, but with lives.

Prof Wangarĩ Maathai seems to have walked a similar path. She spent her life fighting for political reform. Notably, she chaired the Middle Ground Group (MGG) in 1992, tasked with uniting the opposition to remove Moi through elections.

She committed herself to the environment, planting millions of trees and defending Karura Forest with her body. Her hair was pulled out by police. She bled from their beatings, but kept the struggle alive until land-grabbers surrendered Karura to the people.

The world recognised her with the coveted, lucrative Nobel Peace Prize. Meanwhile, Kenyans elected Mwai Kibaki—ironically, the man who had sabotaged her efforts to unite the opposition against Moi in 1992.

A professor, reformist, and Nobel laureate, she was humiliated by Kibaki—relegated to an Assistant Minister for Environment under Kalonzo Musyoka.

A professor, led by a "Mister". Later, the Kikuyu political elite actively campaigned against her until she lost the Tetu parliamentary seat. One imagines her final reflection:

“Just burn me into ashes. The people of Tetu rejected me. I don’t want to lie among them. Kenyans revere agents of neocolonialism. The leaders they elect are traitors. I have suffered more humiliation than honour in Kenya. Let me vanish through cremation.”
Adolf Hitler, too, chose a dramatic exit. After igniting the Second World War and causing millions of deaths, he could not face the world. His imagined final words might have been:

“Citizens of the world! I have wreaked immense havoc. I know that, alive, you'd tear me apart. Let me spare you the trouble by disappearing in a way that leaves no trace.”
His disposal remains a mystery.

These individuals represent a broader pattern: those who, in death, protested through the manner of their burial.

Biblical Isaac took a different approach. He died and was buried in Egypt, but left instructions that his remains be returned to the Promised Land on Liberation Day. He desired the warmth and company of his people in death.

To him, his remains were a monument—meant to inspire future generations and symbolise Jewish unity in the face of existential threats, as later exemplified in the wars for survival.

One cannot say that Ngũgĩ, Adungosi’s father, Prof Wangarĩ, or Matiba were unaware of the grave’s symbolic significance. After all, Jomo Kenyatta was buried on Parliament grounds by Kenya’s conservative wing.

This act was a clear ideological statement about Kenya’s desired political path—"We are a nation of land-grabbers", among other neocolonial attributes. By burying Kenyatta at Parliament, his values were enshrined as national ideals. Every 20th August, the nation is summoned to emulate his leadership.

Contrast that with the grave of his ideological rival, Field Marshal Dedan Kimathi—unmarked in Kamiti Prison. Kimathi symbolised the people’s true liberation dream. His call for “Uhuru na mashamba” was challenged by Kenyatta’s “Uhuru na kazi”, as the elite began seizing land.

The ongoing campaign to exhume and give Kimathi a dignified burial dramatizes the clash between these two opposing visions.

Notably, both Prof Ngũgĩ and Prof Maathai supported this campaign. How they changed their minds about their own burial wishes is a central subject of this reflection.

If Prof Ngũgĩ supported the return of Kimathi’s remains, he certainly celebrated the repatriation of Patrice Lumumba’s tooth from Belgium.

The Congolese Prime Minister, assassinated by colonial forces, was dissolved in sulphuric acid. His tooth—kept by his killer—was eventually returned. Its burial testified to the importance of the physical presence of remains.

If Ngũgĩ had no attachment to geographical identity, he would never have returned from exile, kissed Kenyan soil at JKIA, shed tears of love, and toured the country giving lectures and interviews.

Yet, fully aware of his deteriorating health, he declared in his will that "home" was not Kenya.

Against this backdrop, it is not outrageous to presume Ngũgĩ answered the following questions:
Is Kenya truly my best home? Did my achievements benefit from my Kenyan citizenship? Do I have a decent home in Kenya? Can my children thrive there, or do they share only origins with its people? If my body is buried there, who will attend? Will the speakers be political descendants of Kenyatta and Moi? Will Ruto be the chief mourner? Just as Home Guard Michuki carried Kaggia’s coffin, will mine be borne by government officials instead of my comrades and kin? With Kenya’s ravenous land politics, will my grave be safe?

"Leke ngome haha." Let me sleep here.

Having once described Kenya as a “perfect neocolony in Africa”, Ngũgĩ clearly rejected it as his final resting place. Despite his global stature, Ruto’s government did not even fly the national flag at half-mast—let alone offer a state funeral.

I see his wish for cremation as an unspoken, perhaps irretrievable, curse upon those who betrayed his vision. Lumumba’s tooth gave Congolese a chance at redemption. Ngũgĩ left nothing for Kenya to reckon with.

And the story doesn’t end there. No one alive today symbolises betrayal more than Bishop Timothy Njoya. He gave his all to the struggle for change. Under Moi’s regime, he was transferred repeatedly, beaten, and had his limbs broken three times. He supported Jaramogi and Raila, the nationalists of their time, over Kikuyu elites. He did all a patriot could—save for taking up arms.

Yet, when the Truth, Justice and Reconciliation Commission (TJRC) was formed under Kibaki, he was denied his rightful leadership role. Desmond Tutu had led South Africa’s process. Kenya ignored Njoya.

He lives quietly now, preserving the bloodstained sweater he wore when Likhotio broke his arm during the “No Reforms, No Elections” demonstrations. He has said he would donate it to a national museum—if asked.

His life holds disappointments akin to Ngũgĩ’s—hopefully not a curse.

Koigi wa Wamwere, detained without trial as a youth, gave his life to the cause. He spent the longest cumulative period in custody post-independence. Now, he languishes in quiet irrelevance—forgotten by the country he served.

Prof Ngũgĩ, Prof Wangarĩ, Pheroze Nowrojee, Matiba, and Adungosi embody a collective disappointment, expressed through their burial wishes.

The next to deliver this silent protest may well be Bishop Timothy Njoya.
God help Kenya.