You’re sitting in a classroom in Nairobi or maybe London in the 1960s. You speak Gikuyu at home with your mother. It’s the language of your stories, your jokes, and your dreams. But the moment you step onto school grounds, that language becomes a "taboo." If you’re caught speaking it, you're forced to wear a plate around your neck that says "I am stupid" or "I am a donkey." You're beaten. You're shamed. Meanwhile, the student who masters English is praised as the intellectual elite. This isn't just a mean teacher having a bad day; it's what Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o calls a "linguistic bomb."
The goal of that bomb wasn't just to teach a new language. It was to annihilate a people's belief in their names, their languages, their environment, and ultimately, themselves.
When Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o published Decolonizing the Mind in 1986, it sent shockwaves through the literary world. It wasn't just a book of essays. It was a farewell letter to the English language. Ngũgĩ announced he would no longer write his novels or plays in English, the language of his colonizer, but would return to Gikuyu. People thought he was crazy. They thought he was committing "career suicide" by cutting himself off from the global market. But for Ngũgĩ, the real suicide was continuing to see the world through a borrowed lens.
The Mental Universe and the Language of Power
Language is a funny thing. We often think of it as just a tool for communication, like a hammer or a wrench. But Ngũgĩ argues it’s way deeper than that. Language carries culture. It’s a collective memory bank. When you take away a child's language and replace it with another, you aren't just giving them a new vocabulary; you are transplanting their "mental universe."
Think about how we describe the world. If you grow up learning that "The Alps" are the standard for beauty and "snow" is the standard for purity—even if you live in a tropical savannah—you start to view your own landscape as "other" or "lesser." You become a stranger in your own skin. This is the heart of Decolonizing the Mind. It’s about the psychological baggage that remains long after the colonial flags have been lowered and the foreign soldiers have gone home.
Ngũgĩ breaks language down into two categories: language as communication and language as culture. Communication is the basics—hey, pass the salt. Culture is the spicy stuff. It’s the songs, the riddles, and the specific way a community understands its history. Colonialism used language as a wedge. By elevating the colonial language (English, French, Portuguese) and denigrating the indigenous one, the "colonized" person begins to associate their own heritage with backwardness and poverty.
It’s effective. Honestly, it’s terrifyingly effective.
👉 See also: Black Red Wing Shoes: Why the Heritage Flex Still Wins in 2026
The Kamiriithu Incident: When Theater Becomes Dangerous
You can't talk about this book without talking about what happened at the Kamiriithu Community Educational and Cultural Centre. In 1977, Ngũgĩ worked with local peasants and workers to put on a play called Ngaahika Ndeenda (I Will Marry When I Want). Crucially, it was performed in Gikuyu.
The Kenyan government, then under Jomo Kenyatta and later Daniel arap Moi, didn't care much when Ngũgĩ wrote scholarly books in English. Those were for the elite. They didn't pose a threat. But a play in a local language? A play that ordinary people could understand, participate in, and use to critique the corruption of the post-colonial state? That was dangerous.
The authorities shut it down. They threw Ngũgĩ into Kamiti Maximum Security Prison for a year without charge. He wasn't even allowed pens or paper.
So, what did he do? He wrote a whole novel, Caitaani mũtharaba-inĩ (Devil on the Cross), on toilet paper.
This wasn't just bravado. It was proof of concept. In the cell, Ngũgĩ realized that writing in Gikuyu was the only way to truly reach the people he was writing about. It forced him to use the rhythms, the metaphors, and the logic of the Gikuyu people rather than trying to fit African life into a Shakespearean sonnet structure.
Why the "Language Question" Still Annoys Academics
Even today, Ngũgĩ’s stance in Decolonizing the Mind stirs up a lot of heat. Critics like Chinua Achebe—who is a legend in his own right—argued differently. Achebe famously said that he felt the English language could be "stretched" to carry the weight of his African experience. He felt that by using English, he could talk back to the empire in a language it understood.
✨ Don't miss: Finding the Right Word That Starts With AJ for Games and Everyday Writing
Ngũgĩ disagrees. Hard.
He argues that you can't use the master's tools to dismantle the master's house. To him, writing African literature in English is like a captive proudly showing off their polished chains. It contributes to what he calls "Afro-Saxon" literature—a hybrid that still centers the West.
You've probably noticed this in your own life. Think about the "prestige" we give to certain accents. Or how a "professional" email is expected to sound. We are still living in the shadow of these hierarchies. Ngũgĩ’s work isn't just about Kenya; it’s a template for anyone who has ever felt like their natural way of speaking or being wasn't "good enough" for the world stage.
The "Great Silence" and the Future of African Writing
One of the most moving parts of the book is when Ngũgĩ talks about the "great silence" that falls over a culture when it stops producing art in its own tongue. When a language dies, a way of seeing the world dies with it. There are nuances of emotion and specific botanical or spiritual knowledge that simply don't translate into English.
However, Ngũgĩ isn't a hater. He doesn't want to ban English. He just wants to see a world of "linguistic democracy." He envisions a "global dialogue" where languages meet on equal footing, rather than a hierarchy with English at the top and everything else as a "dialect."
Since 1986, he has stayed true to his word. He writes in Gikuyu first, then translates his own work into English. This preserves the "soul" of the story. It keeps the center of gravity in Africa.
🔗 Read more: Is there actually a legal age to stay home alone? What parents need to know
Myths vs. Reality: What Decolonization Isn't
There is a big misconception that decolonizing the mind means "going back to the stone age" or rejecting all modern technology. That's nonsense. Ngũgĩ is a fan of technology and global exchange. He just wants that exchange to happen on terms of mutual respect.
- Myth: You have to stop speaking English entirely.
- Reality: It's about breaking the hegemony of English. Use it as a tool, but don't let it be your master.
- Myth: Indigenous languages can't handle modern science or philosophy.
- Reality: Every language is capable of expansion. If English could evolve from old Germanic dialects to describe quantum physics, Gikuyu or Yoruba can do the same.
The real challenge Ngũgĩ poses is to the African middle class and intellectuals. He calls them out for being the most "colonized" of all, often priding themselves on their children not being able to speak their mother tongues. It’s a harsh mirror to hold up.
Taking the First Steps Toward Mental Decolonization
Decolonizing your mind isn't a weekend project. It’s a lifelong habit of questioning why you value what you value. If you've felt the weight of Ngũgĩ’s arguments, here is how you actually start applying this stuff without needing to move into a prison cell and find some toilet paper.
Audit your media diet. Look at your bookshelf or your Spotify wrapped. How much of it comes from your own local culture or other non-Western centers? If it's 90% US/UK exports, you're looking at the world through a very specific, narrow window. Seek out translated works. Read authors who write in their mother tongues.
Reclaim the "unpolished" parts of yourself. We all have a "code-switching" voice. We have the "interview voice" and the "home voice." Notice when you feel ashamed of your "home voice." Why is that? Start using your native metaphors and slang more intentionally. Stop apologizing for your accent. An accent is just a sign that you speak more than one language; it's a badge of intelligence, not a deficit.
Support indigenous language publishing. The reason more books aren't published in Gikuyu, Igbo, or Quechua is often economic. Publishers think there’s no market. Prove them wrong. Buy the dual-language editions. Support the artists who are taking the "risk" Ngũgĩ took decades ago.
Question the "Universal." Whenever someone says something is "universally true" or a "classic," ask: according to whom? Most "universal" standards are just European standards that got a better marketing budget.
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o’s work reminds us that the most important territory ever occupied wasn't a piece of land—it was the space between our ears. Reclaiming that space is the most radical act a person can perform. It’s uncomfortable, it’s messy, and it might make you the "annoying" person at the dinner party, but as Ngũgĩ proved, it’s the only way to truly be free.