Introduction
The bilingual essay collection Guidance (uwongozi) by Sheikh Al-Amin Mazrui: Selections from the First Swahili Islamic Newspaper: A Swahili-English Edition (see Studies on Individual Writers) offers researchers a glance into the thought and discourse at the Swahili coast of Kenya in the 1930s as seen through the prism of cultural Islamic moralities interfaced with British colonial sensibilities at play in Kenya. The essays were first published in a local Swahili language newspaper and this collection makes the material available not only to Kiswahili studies scholars, but also to scholars of the East African littoral without command of the Kiswahili language. The collection will be of interest to scholars of print cultures in colonial Kenya as well as scholars working in the fast-growing field of Indian Ocean Studies which is yet to fully reckon with the Swahili language archive, in part owing to its largely Anglophone accent. On the same topic, Duncan Omanga and Kipkosgei Arap Buigutt’s essay “Marx in Campus: Print Cultures, Nationalism and Student Activism in the Late 1970s Kenya” is more than a biography of a student newspaper at the University of Nairobi in the 1970s. By carefully tracing the newspaper’s “life story” and its interface with an increasingly repressive political moment in Kenya, the authors paint a fascinating portrait of the role of print cultures and particularly The Anvil (a student newspaper at the University of Nairobi) in shaping public imaginaries at a time of deepening disillusionment with the trajectory of postcolonial Kenya. In important ways, the authors argue, the newspaper tapped into key debates at the time to mediate students’ social and political identities, which included the appropriation and endorsement of a symbolic Marxist discourse perceived to resonate with the challenges of the day. The paper’s insights are enriched by one of the authors’ (Kipkosgei Arap Buigutt’s) close involvement in the student newspaper as a former editor. To some extent, this legacy of attempts to appropriate a refashioned Marxist discourse was to die hard as the university remained an important political agent in Kenyan public discourse for decades afterwards, often much to the establishment’s rage but, in recent years, with increasing overtures towards courting “the university vote”.
Before the growth of digital platforms as sites of creative production in East Africa, print media was a major agent of literary production, with a good number of writers not only starting off their writing careers as journalists but, with some like Yussuf Dawood and Wahome Mutahi, enjoying long stints with regular short fiction by-lines in local newspapers. Wahome Mutahi’s long-running satirical column in the local newspapers, “Whispers” forms the core of George Ogola’s book Popular Media in Kenyan History: Fiction and Newspapers as Political Actors (see Studies on Individual Writers). While Mutahi is also a novelist with several novels to his name, his most widely known legacy throughout the country is the “Whispers” column. This astute satirical column weathered the storms of the repressive 1990s through a deceptively apolitical use of fictionalised accounts of the author’s satirised family sketch and a remarkable attentiveness to elements of the Kenyan quotidian. Ogola’s magisterial study goes beyond Mutahi’s short fiction to locate the celebrated novelist and columnist within a wider canvas of debates on popular fiction, with an attentive ear for the local textures of the debate in Kenya and the tensions and overlaps with wider academic debates on popular fiction in Africa. Like many other parts of the continent, popular fiction in Kenya has had mixed fortunes in the academy, despite its powerful resonance for readerships. This book’s assured reading of this complicated genre (whose unconventional modes of critique and strategies of escaping censure have sparked strongly-held views in different camps of the Kenyan academy over the years) is bound to become an important classic in African popular cultural studies broadly, and Eastern African literary debates specifically.
An unusual title in life writing this year is South African writer Sisonke Msimang’s memoir Always Another Country (see Letters and Auto/biography). The title, though strictly speaking an exile biography, is included here for its insights into the South African community in exile in East Africa, which makes for an interesting return to exile literature, ordinarily associated with a senior generation of South African writers such as E’skia Mphahlele and Keorapetse Kgositsile, both of whom spent time in exile in Kenya, roughly overlapping with Sisonke Msimang’s childhood in the region. Msimang’s memoir is listed for different reasons: while it is widely known that Tanzania was a major ally of the anti-apartheid movement and hosted a significant segment of the African National Congress in exile, Kenya’s foreign policy choices after independence largely precluded such allyship. In fact, in one instance cited by W.O. Maloba in his book The Anatomy of Neo-Colonialism in Kenya: British Imperialism and Kenyatta, 1973–1978 (2017), Kenya actively went against the majority position of the African member countries of the Commonwealth and supported British sale of arms to apartheid South Africa, despite a UN arms embargo being in place. In view of this dubious location on the wrong side of history, Msimang’s reflections on her family’s life in Nairobi in the early 1980s is a fascinating read that complicates these metahistories. Her reflections on life in Kenya draw our attention to the ways in which forms of expatriate professional mobilities complicated official state policy on the ANC as ANC cadres who happened to be professionals were able to access Kenya and, to some extent, facilitate the organisation’s activities, even as the state lived up to its “official policy”. At the same time, precisely because her family was part of the budding African elite, Msimang’s memoir offers important insights into class formation and upward mobility in Kenya in the 1980s as seen through South African eyes. That the country robustly embraced its neoliberal economic path producing untold precarity is represented in the memoir through the figure of a street urchin’s attempt to steal the pre-teen Msimang’s bicycle. As contemporary Kenyan public life illustrates, precarity remains a mass malaise still financed by neoliberal policies with little of the symbolic Marxist critique of the 1980s.
Harry Garuba and Okot Benge revisit the Ugandan classic epic poem Song of Lawino in their essay “Lateral Texts and Circuits of Value: Okot p’Bitek’s Song of Lawino and Wer pa Lawino” (see Studies on Individual Authors) with far-reaching implications for translation studies as well as ongoing debates about literary value. Building on Garuba’s concept of lateral textuality, the authors argue that some postcolonial texts resist conceptions of translation as a vertical transfer of value from a source text and propose that we should think of such texts in terms of a relationship of lateral textuality, where each text is defined by different circuits of value. This essay’s engagement with the complex biography of this classic – composed in Acholi as Wer pa Lawino, but first published as Song of Lawino, before the Acholi version saw print, effectively following in the footprints of the widely-circulated English version – raises riveting debates that stretch conventional assumptions about translation, circulation and literary value in important directions. This essay has interesting methodological implications in its implicit invitation for us to reframe foundational debates on African literary criticism, conceptions of literary value, the language debate and the place of translation. It would be interesting to see in what directions scholars of African literatures take the ground-breaking provocations ventured by Garuba and Okot.
One of the best-known texts about the Mau Mau resistance in Kiswahili is PM Kareithi’s Kaburi bila Msalaba: Hadithi ya Vita Vya Mau Mau (EAEP, 1969) has now been made available in English by Chege Githiora, translated as Unmarked Grave: A Story of the Mau Mau War (see Translations). This Mau Mau fiction classic should appeal to scholars interested in translation studies as well as Mau Mau literature alike. In a context where there is an older history of material being translated from English into Kiswahili, it is remarkable to see this reverse movement. More importantly, bilingual East Africanists might find it fascinating to explore reader interactions with this text at this temporal juncture, when new scholarship on Mau Mau draws our attention to the entanglements and complexities that played out during and after the resistance among different stakeholders. What does it mean to revisit these debates now? What will the encounter be like for readers who first read the novel in Kiswahili? The latter question is important for reasons that have not received full scholarly attention in Kenya. Swahili literary imaginaries and scholarship seems to tap into a different orbit from Anglophone imaginaries, even when they comment on the same concerns. In some respects, the two languages have evolved distinct literary histories, registers and grammars, both in their respective imaginative and scholarly realms. Translations from Kiswahili into English, particularly those separated by historical temporalities, offer unique opportunities to convene these conversations in potentially productive ways.
A regular subject of both fictional and autobiographical writing about Kenya in recent years have been the country’s refugee camps, Daadab and Kakuma. Owing to the desperate conditions at these camps and the ongoing crisis of displaced Somali citizens forced to survive in these camps, a growing body of life stories about this community’s experiences has become part of literary Kenya in recent years, most of it written by non-East Africans. Catherine-Lune Grayson’s Children of the Camp: The Lives of Somali Youth Raised in Kakuma Refugee Camp zooms in on the life stories of young people who have had to call home the Kakuma refugee camp in Northern Kenya (see Letters and Auto/biography: Kenya). The title’s nod to a documentary film that follows the lives of American children of Japanese descent who were placed in US camps during World War II appears to deliberately tap into the heart-breaking vulnerability shared by these children who bear the brunt of adult conflicts that mark them for life. Tracing the life-stories of young adults who have grown up at the Kakuma refugee camp, the book threads together these young people’s complicated relationships to their lost country, the senses of cultural and psychological displacement, the yearning for ever-receding futures and the hunger for stability, cruelly embodied by unfulfilled promises of emigration to the United States. That we now have refugee camp literature as a subcategory of East/African writing in the 21st century is a tragic indictment on our failure to resolve conflict and crises of fragile nationalisms.
Returning to the Mau Mau question and its biggest icons is the collection Dedan Kimathi on Trial: Colonial Justice and Popular Memory in Kenya’s Mau Mau Rebellion (see Criticism: General Studies: Kenya) and a biography of his wife, Mukami Kimathi: Mau Mau Freedom Fighter (see Letters and Auto/Biography). The two texts continue the debate about the brutalities of the British imperial project in Kenya and the contributions of two Mau Mau icons to the anti-colonial resistance. In her introduction to the Dedan Kimathi volume, Julie MacArthur poignantly writes: “Kimathi came to symbolize many of the contradictions that Mau Mau, and indeed Kenyan anticolonialism and nationalism writ large, represented: rebel statesman, educated peasant, modern traditionalist” (3). Featuring a rich collection of archival documents on the trial of Kimathi as well as critical essays by literary scholars and historians who have worked extensively on the histories and textual imaginaries of the Mau Mau movement, this is an important addition to the library of literary and cultural studies on the Mau Mau resistance, and more broadly, to debates on imperialism, memorialisation, life writing and social imaginaries, among other concerns.
The historical novel retains its place in the region’s imaginary, represented on the list by, among others, Kenyan Peter Kimani’s Dance of the Jakaranda (see Fiction: Kenya) and the award-winning Ugandan novel Kintu by Jennifer Nansumbuga Makumbi (see Fiction: Uganda). Dance of the Jakaranda intertwines the missionary project in Kenya with histories of Indian indentured labour in East Africa and the building of the railway through the three men linked to the railway: railway technician Babu Salim, Reverend Richard Turnbull and colonial administrator Ian MacDonald. The novel’s use of oral storytelling, particularly through the protagonist Rajan’s retellings of the stories told by his grandfather, resonates with a similar emphasis on storytelling as part of the cross-generational memory-work embodied in the work of East African Asian writers such as M.G. Vassanji and Bahadur Tejani. But what is unique is the manner in which Kimani interweaves these narratives with recognisably Black folklore and oral tropes regarding early encounters with modernity, broadly, and the railway in East Africa, more specifically.
Given current debates about literary value and circulation of African writing, two texts on this year’s list speak to this phenomenon through their initial publication in Africa and subsequent re-issuing, to much greater interest, by publishers in the global north. The two texts are Kenyan Stanley Gazemba’s Forbidden Fruit (see Fiction: Kenya) and award-winning Ugandan novelist Jennifer Nansumbuga Makumbi’s Kintu (see Fiction: Uganda). First published in 2002 by a small Kenyan publisher, Acacia Books, The Stone Hills of Maragoli won the prestigious Jomo Kenyatta Prize for Literature in 2003. The book was reissued under the same title with a different cover – still featuring the rocky landscape of Maragoli in Western Kenya, where the novel is set – in 2010 by Kwani Trust. The book has now been reissued under a new title and new cover, by New York based Mantle Books, who, according to Gazemba, felt the original title would not resonate with American readerships. The new title, Forbidden Fruit, is accompanied by a new cover designed by celebrated Kenyan artist Michael Soi in his signature gender iconography, featuring a stylish-looking woman donning a large afro, trendy sunglasses and striking red lipstick – a far cry from the countryside covers of the two earlier editions of the novel. The novel, which appears to go against the trend of the urban African novel (much of the action is set in a rural landscape in Western Kenya) has had an unusual life cycle for such a contemporary text, particularly its journey to US publication, given the place of Africa-based writers in the landscapes of global literary production and circulation. A similar story seems to be unfolding for Makumbi’s much-celebrated novel, Kintu, which was first published in 2014 by Kwani Trust as the inaugural winner of Kwani Manuscript Project. Soon, word got around about this riveting historical novel: it opens in 2004, then journeys back to the 18th-century Buganda kingdom, revisiting the mythical figure of the Buganda origin story Kintu, but assigning him and his descendants a richly current and textured narrative that meditates on what it means to be Ugandan in the 21st century. The novel was reissued in 2017 by UK-Based Transit Books and won the prestigious Windham Campbell Prize in March 2018. As in the case of Stanley Gazemba’s Forbidden Fruit/The Stonehills of Maragoli, the networks of circulation and literary value opened up by Northern-based publishers are remarkable; more so when preceded by a refusal by Northern publishers to be the first to invest in either of these titles. These are no doubt success stories for the authors. However, they also invite us to think about the marketing challenges confronted by local publishers who take the initial risk in investing in these manuscripts. This relationship produces a potentially predatory outsourcing of risk to small local publishers, turning them into risk-testing initiatives, before multinational publishers can invest in local writing, instead of a collaborative co-publishing arrangement from the start, which might be to all stakeholders’ advantage.
Several scholarly titles on Tanzania convene fascinating biographical dialogues on Tanzanian intellectual histories and the country’s complicated interactions with different sets of ideas, institutions and practices. Stuart Laing’s Tippu Tip: Ivory, Slavery and Discovery in the Scramble for Africa (see Letters and Auto/biography: Tanzania) revisits Hamad bin Muhammad bin Juma bin Said el Murgebi, popularly known as Tippu Tip, a historical figure whose exploits as an ivory and slave trader in Eastern Africa and a business and political figure in Zanzibar are central to our understanding of Indian Ocean Worlds and its interactions with the unfolding of European empire-building in the late 19th century. Emily Callaci’s Street Archives and City Life in Tanzania (see Criticism: General Studies: Tanzania) is a remarkable exploration of the formation of public discourse and ideas on everyday Dar es Salaam by young people who navigated their way between the ruling party’s politics and the attendant Ujamaa philosophy of the state through an eclectic consumption and exploration of a range of popular texts, including pulp fiction, newspaper columns, song lyrics and Christian literature, to fashion their own understandings of the world and their historical milieu. At a historical moment often associated with Ujamaa’s villagisation programme, which placed the limelight on the rural landscape, Callaci shows that the state’s and Ujamaa’s grip on the national psyche remained incomplete as young people articulated a different, urbane understanding of their worlds. Meantime, Seth Markle’s A Motorcycle on Hell Run: Tanzania, Black Power, and the Uncertain Future of Pan-Africanism, 1964-1974 (see General Studies: Tanzania) zooms in on a decade of intellectual, political and activist engagements between African American and Caribbean intellectuals and Nyerere’s Tanzania at a time when Tanzania was perceived as espousing an important model of African liberation in Africa and the world. A related study is Monique Bedasse’s Jah Kingdom: Rastafarians, Tanzania, and Pan-Africanism in the Age of Decolonization (see Letters and Auto/biography: Tanzania). It examines Tanzania’s collaborative engagement with a group of Rastarians led by Ras Bupe Karudi to facilitate the community’s return to Africa. While the initiative was unsuccessful, this biographical meditation is a rich portrait of that moment and the intellectual and cultural ideas that gave it impetus. Lastly, an exciting addition to this year’s list is Abdulrazak Gurnah’s latest addition to his celebrated oeuvre, Gravel Heart (see Fiction: Tanzania). Set in Zanzibar and Britain, the novel interweaves intimate familial narratives sketched against the backdrop of Zanzibar’s national history in the build up to and the aftermath of the revolution.
Overall, the region’s writing and scholarship continues the process of organically consolidating its particular flavours of narrative interests and insights, even as it interacts with broader continental and world trends.