Why writing in your mother tongue is true labour of love

As a first-year student at Kenyatta University forty years ago, I encountered a book that unsettled me and ultimately redirected my intellectual journey. It was Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s Decolonising the Mind. Ngugi argued that language is not just a tool of communication. It is a carrier of culture, memory and worldview. To abandon one’s mother tongue, he insisted, is to participate unknowingly in the colonisation of one’s own mind.

When Ngugi wa Thiong’o declared that Gikuyu would be the vehicle of his creative work, it felt like a personal challenge. He was not merely theorising; he was acting. Fired by youthful zeal and perhaps a touch of arrogance, I began translating Betrayal in the City by Francis Imbuga into Maragoli. I had no publisher, no funding, only conviction. I wrote it out by hand. I did not own a typewriter, but I believed I was part of something greater than myself.

That was the beginning of my love affair with writing in the Maragoli language. One afternoon, clutching the rugged handwritten manuscript, I appeared in Prof Imbuga’s office. He was then the Chairman of the Department of Literature. I had titled my translation Amagerizu mu Rugulu. He examined the manuscript with keen interest. I remember the seriousness in his eyes. Then, unexpectedly, he said we should go out and celebrate the achievement.

I entered his Datsun SSS with pride. We drove to a modest “oasis” in Kahawa Wendani to share uji. In that simple act of recognition, a seed was watered. That afternoon marked the beginning of a friendship that lasted until his death. It also confirmed something deep within me, that writing in one’s mother tongue is not a hobby but a calling.

Years later, in 2002, I wrote a short story titled *Akanyonyi Kokogenyia*. I sold it at the Maragoli Cultural Festival. We printed 500 copies; they sold out.

That was my second awakening. I realised people wanted more in their own language — beyond the Bible. For generations, many African languages have been confined to oral tradition and sacred texts.

Readers long to see their experiences, humour, struggles and dreams reflected in the language they think in. I was soon consumed by the urge to write in my mother tongue. I embarked on what many called a mad venture: compiling an English–Maragoli Dictionary. It was painstaking — gathering words from elders, verifying meanings, debating spellings and standardising usage.

Two years ago, the dictionary was launched, the first of its kind in the language. It was not a commercial venture, but an act of preservation. Since then, I have contributed to Competency-Based Curriculum books in Maragoli under the Kenya Institute of Curriculum Development.
But the journey is far from over. I have now set my sights on a full-length novel in the language. I also believe the moment is right for a fresh Bible translation, beginning modestly with one Gospel and the Acts of the Apostles.

Why? Because English has countless Bible editions. Our languages deserve equal richness.This is a labour of love. There are no payments, no royalties to speak of. If you seek wealth, mother-tongue writing will disappoint you. If you seek purpose, it will reward you.

When Vuuka FM invited me on February 21, 2026, to mark Mother Tongue Day, I had one message: our languages will grow only if we commit to them. The Constitution calls on us to protect and promote indigenous languages, but constitutions do not write books. People do.
Let us not become a nation of professional complainers. Our languages will not thrive through WhatsApp debates alone. They will grow when we write books, newspapers, digital publications, academic journals and children’s stories in them.

They will flourish when we produce novels, poetry, plays, memoirs, dictionaries and grammar guides. They will endure when taught in Early Childhood Development centres, strengthened in lower primary and examined with confidence. Scholars across all language communities must rise to the task. We cannot keep mourning linguistic decline while failing to act. Technology, too, must become our ally. Our languages must appear in Google search systems.

We need digital dictionaries, mobile apps, AI tools, subtitled films, podcasts and vibrant online platforms. A language missing from digital spaces risks fading from younger generations.

But let me be provocative: the greatest threat to our languages is not English, it is shame. When parents switch to English at home to signal sophistication, they quietly uproot their children linguistically and culturally. It is misguided to claim mother tongues limit opportunity. Research shows that a strong foundation in one’s first language sharpens cognitive growth and strengthens the learning of others.

English is not the enemy. Self-erasure is. For me, writing in Maragoli has been a quiet rebellion and an enduring love. Languages rarely die dramatic deaths; they fade through neglect.

This is not activism for applause or nostalgia dressed as pride. It is gratitude to the language that carried my mother’s lullabies, my father’s counsel and my community’s wisdom.