“Home is home,” I answered. How else could I explain it?
However, I had not returned to Kenya under happy circumstances. I had returned to attend the trial of those arrested for assaulting my father, Ngugi wa Thiong’o and my stepmother Njeeri wa Ngugi (or Maitu as we affectionately call her), when they returned to Kenya in August that year for a lecture tour.
My father was tortured and Maitu raped during that visit. It was the first time my father was in Kenya since he was forced into political exile by the Moi government in 1982 for his political writings. He had asked that all his children accompany them. Though not in exile ourselves, in a lot of ways, this return and celebration was partly ours. We had also been victims of the dictatorship’s terror.
For reasons that seemed important at that time, but would soon lose any significance after the assault, most of us could not accompany them except for two of the youngest, Mumbi and Thiong’o. The rest of us remained scattered in Zimbabwe, Namibia and various regions in the States, awaiting their return to the U.S. with news about the homecoming.
The distance between Kenya and the United States felt insurmountable in the days after we first got word of the attack. Details trickled in, as if deliberately increasing the level of anxiety. My sister Njooki, who first called me with the news, did not have any details about my parent’s condition. She just knew that they were badly injured and in a hospital.
Many phone calls and e-mails between us siblings produced no further details. I made numerous attempts to call my father’s cell phone and finally a gruff voice answered – “Unataka nini?” (What do you want?) I replied, “Napiga simu kutoka Amerika, naweza zungumuza na Ngugi?” (I’m calling from America. May I speak with Ngugi?) There was a brief silence and the person hung up. Later I learned that my father’s cell phone had been stolen and thought I had perhaps spoken to one of the attackers.
After what felt like months, my sister Ciku who is based in Zimbabwe, gave us a number where we could finally reach them. It was only when I heard my father’s voice, strained as it was that I believed they were alive. Even as he talked about the assault, he told me of the overwhelming reception and support they received in Kenya, Uganda and Tanzania. He said, “The people shall protect us. The attacks cannot unbalance the love we have received.”
Breaking the Silence
Maitu broke the silence about the rape. In a rush of e-mails between us, my siblings and I all expressed one common emotion – pride.
A few days later, in spite of the resulting trauma, they continued with their lecture tours of Kenya that had been interrupted by the assault. I understood then that those responsible for the attacks could not win because neither my parents nor the people would let them.
But I was worried about Maitu. How was she doing? She had been raped. Later, our father, who we call Baba, described how her scream from an adjacent room made him leap into action. The scream told him that they were going to be murdered unless they fought back.
Maitu explained her decision to go public with the rape, how she couldn’t feed the silence that accompanies rape. The silence becomes a second rape that festers and never heals. She told me about the numerous phone calls and visits of solidarity she had received from women from all over Kenya.
Women who had been sexually assaulted were finding their voice in hers. Others recognized the courage it took and encouraged her to stay strong, and some simply wanted to say thank you. Maitu opened a national debate on women’s oppression. She was going to be okay.