I was delighted to read in the Daily Nation of 16th August 2025 that the family of the late Ngugi wa Thiong’o is establishing a Ngugi wa Thiong’o Cultural Arts Centre at their home in Limuru. It is a noble idea, a fitting way to honour a man who lifted Kenyan literature onto the global stage.
One of our great national tragedies is how easily we forget our legends. An even greater one is how quickly we honour foreign names while neglecting our own.
Think of Joseph Kamaru, whose music gave voice to a generation. Where is the living archive of his lyrical genius? Or Francis Imbuga, whose plays spoke truth with wit and wisdom. Where is the repository of his works? And when I learned that the writings of Gakaara wa Wanjau had been sold to a collector in Europe, my heart sank. Why must the keepers of our stories always be strangers? How do we explain such carelessness, such surrender of our soul to others?
Elsewhere, memory is treated as sacred. At the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, the office of Chinua Achebe remains preserved exactly as he left it in 2013 when he joined the ancestors. Thirteen years on, his desk, typewriter, and framed photographs still breathe his presence, the air heavy with the words of a man who shaped a continent’s literature.
In Idaho, USA, a quiet trail leads to a modest memorial for Ernest Hemingway-a place to sit, read, and reflect on the beauty and tragedy of his life. Even here at home, Safari Park Hotel boasts a Hemingway Lounge, carefully designed to capture the essence of Hemingway’s swashbuckling life and bold character. We build shrines for foreigners already honoured in their own lands, yet deny our own the same grace.
We owe our trailblazers more than fleeting mentions in newspapers or dusty shelves in forgotten libraries. To preserve their memory is to preserve our story, and to preserve our story is to preserve ourselves.
For a nation that does not remember its heroes will one day wake up to find it has forgotten itself.