When Ngugi wa Thiongo was detained in 1977, his house in Limuru fell silent. Before then, it was a place where writers, musicians, progressive politicians, and ordinary folk from Kenya and beyond communed and, through songs, recitals, storytelling and dancing, reimagined Africa and the world.

At the house, you could find Ayi Kwei Armah or Nuruddin Farah just as easily as a peasant from Kamirithu. High school students from all over Kenya would come to show my father their ‘novels’ written in a single exercise book.

On the back of the exercise books were carefully crafted biographies: “So-and-So was born in Kenya in 19--. He studied at Such-and-Such High School. He/she has written several novels”.

PhD students from acclaimed universities came to discuss their projects. The visitors were an eclectic community of ethnicities, races and ideas. At the house in Limuru, there was no ethnicism, no hierarchy, no class, no race, and no sexism. To borrow a phrase from Micere Mugo, a regular visitor, the house was a “ liberated zone”.

In Ngugi’s home study were books by African writers, and by Dostoevsky and DH Lawrence. My personal favorites were books by V.S Naipaul, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Thomas Hardy.

On one wall of the study, hung a framed poem by Sonia Sanchez, a prized souvenir from his stint at North Western University in the 1970s. There was a painting of an African woman by a Nigerian artist. After release from Kamiti, a fellow detainee from Mandera gifted Ngugi an ornamental Somali knife, which sat quietly on a shelf. In the study, one read and saw the world.

After his detention and exile, death threats, whispered through the phone, animated the shadows on the walls. Neighbours and friends crossed to the other side of the street to avoid contamination from us. In those days, association with ‘enemies of the state’ was sedition.

The area chief and regional secret police kept a hawk’s eye on the house. Once, some brave souls came to celebrate New Year’s with us. The chief, accompanied by police, swooped on the compound and violently scuttled the small gathering. The house sank into an oppressive solitude.

On August 8 this year, the house broke its silence when the Ngugi wa Thiong’o Cultural and Arts Centre was launched. The guest of honour, Yusuf Hassan, recounted how Kenyan exiles in London tried to give hope to a country where citizens were required to “sing like parrots.”

Celebrated Kenyan author and scholar the late Ngugi wa Thiong’o.

Photo credit: File | Nation Media Group

Last year, at the celebration of Ngugi’s life at the University of Nairobi, Mr Hassan gave a heartfelt remembrance of his friend, compatriot and fellow revolutionary.

At the launch of the Centre, emceed by singer and writer Njoki wa Ngugi, Hassan’s message to the gathering of writers, scholars, musicians and other folk was buoyant and triumphant. Kwame Rigii moved the crowd with a call-and-response song. Jane Bosibori Obuchi, a writer and singer, had everyone stamping their feet to a celebratory Ekegusii song.

Nducu wa Ngugi told a skeptical audience about his father’s lesser known talent. He recounted how the author of Decolonizing the Mind and A Grain of Wheat would wake him up to listen to his latest composition. “I had to listen,” said Nducu, “to his belaboured singing accompanied by individual notes he poked on the piano”. Nducu led the crowd in singing one of Ngugi’s compositions, a monophonic, nursery-like rhyme. Clearly, Ngugi’s talent lay elsewhere.

Nducu’s wife, Grace, introduced Tiga Kurira, Mwana, a Kikuyu translation of Ngugi’s debut novel, Weep Not, Child. Nyambura, Ngugi’s youngest grandchild, introduced Ruui Rwa Muoyo, a translation of The River Between. Ngugi stoically toiled on these translations through pain in his last years. Hearing Nyambura introduce her grandfather’s last labours of love reminded us of the adage that the older generation does not die; it lives in their children and grandchildren.

At the launch, guests viewed old photos of activities at the house before it fell silent. They viewed artifacts and memorabilia. They were touched to see the small wooden desk where Ngugi wrote Homecoming, Secret Lives and parts of Petals of Blood.

The sight of the little desk evoked in me brief panoramic memories. I saw manuscripts of my father’s novels written by hand in the drawers of the little desk. I saw my mother, now also departed, leaving the compound with a basketful of foodstuff for a struggling neighbour. I saw my two grandmothers shuffling through the gate, bringing stories and memories. I heard strains of verses sung by musicians or recited by writers who were now dead.

The forces of tyranny had tried to impose silence on Ngugi’s house. But it had defiantly shaken off the shackles of silence. Ngugi’s house of songs and hope had, to borrow again from Micere, “exploded the silence” imposed on it. That night, lying in bed in a pensive mood, I listened in my mind to the buzz of conversations, laughter and songs at the launch. I went to sleep hopeful about the future.

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The writer is also a singer and columnist