Last Saturday, May 24th afternoon, my father Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o told me and my sister Ngĩna that he had come into enough mojo to pen a novel, and complete his last memoir, Horseman of the Sixties. Good news. Celebration. So, he asked to go to a jazz club. You see, inspiration and then memories for him were packed in rhythm and melody. “There is poetry in music Cikũ,” he often said.
Since he had moved to the north of Georgia, whose landscape reminded him of his birthplace in Rĩmuru, starkly different from California where he was Distinguished Professor of Comparative Literature, he and I, and later Kwame Rĩgĩi, his favorite musician spent a couple of hours, at least one Saturday every month, in pursuit of rhythms.