"The voice of the people is the voice of God."
This line on a surface level reiterates the fact that both divine visitation and communal pleading has urged the narrator to tell the story of Warĩĩnga. On a deeper level, however, it sets the stage for a key dynamic that permeates the rest of the text—that a community of people united, with their hearts all pointed towards the same goal, has the power of God within them. This not only affirms Ngũgĩ's Marxist faith in the latent, redemptive potential of the masses, but it also reminds us of the urgency of the war between good and evil, constantly staged in each of our own hearts. We each have the power of God within us, and it is our responsibility to unite and banish evil/the Devil.
"To the Kareendis of modern Kenya, isn't each day exactly the same as all the others? For the day on which they are born is the very day on which every part of their body is buried except one—they are left with a single organ. So when will the Kareendis of modern Kenya wipe the tears from their faces? When will they ever discover laughter?"
In this quote, Warĩĩnga concludes her parable about the girl named Kareendi (who is immensely parallel to herself). She laments the fact that, in modern Kenya, all women seem to be good for to those in power is sex, and she wonders about the potential of the future—one where women are able to move past this exploitation, sorrow, and abuse at the hands of both foreigners and local, wealthy men. This quote is important because it underscores how widespread the issues of women's rights are in modern Kenya, and it also helps to illustrate why women in particular feel disempowered from taking revolutionary or dissident action. Each day seems the same to them, and their problems are shared between the entire community of women—with problems so constant and widespread, how can one not help but feel helpless?
“Our people, think: I, Wangarĩ, a Kenyan by birth—how can I be a vagrant in my own country as if I were a foreigner?"
In this quote, Wangarĩ highlights her sense of disbelief that, as a native of Kenya, she could pick up criminal charges from simply wandering around one of Kenya's own cities. This, on its face, strikes readers as unjust, but note that on a deeper level, what Wangarĩ is really pointing out is the way in which the Kenyan justice system—ostensibly free and independent, but still controlled and shaped by the money and influence of foreign puppeteers—has been constructed against her, a local peasant. Rather than treat her as a free and respected woman who fought for the freedom and independence of her country, the Kenyan legal system instead makes her feel marginalized and alienated, as a foreigner or immigrant might be in another country.
"This country, our country, is pregnant. What it will give birth to, only God knows...Imagine! the children of us workers are fated to stay out in the sun, thirsty, hungry, naked, gazing at fruit ripening on trees which they can't pick even to quieten a demanding belly! Fated to see food steaming in the pantry, but unable to dip a calabash in to the pot to scoop out even a tiny portion! Fated to lie awake all night telling each another stories about tears and sorrow, asking one another to guess the same riddle day after day: 'Oh, for a piece of one of those!'"
This quote highlights both the urgency of the Kenyan people's problems (which, if unresolved, will be delivered as a burden unto posterity) as well as the seeming unfairness of peasant life in modern Kenya (where so much seems readily available, but is kept from them by cruel businessmen and compradores). This is a theme consistent across many of Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o’s narratives: that, even in an independent nation ruled by one's own people, newly formed governments can be corrupted by money and shirk their responsibility to care for all the people. Here, too, it is important to note that Mũturi is questioning whether the "fate" that is assigned to the workers is truly a form of destiny. Though he speaks of these future matters as if they are already preordained, in his incredulousness he is really suggesting that there is some potential to shrug off the burdens of this "fate."
"[...] Gatuĩria was at least aware that the slavery of language is the slavery of the mind and nothing to be proud of."
In this quote, the trend of Kenyan elites who are uncomfortable speaking their native languages is highlighted, while setting off Gatuĩria as an exception to the rule, since he knows that such a condition is undesirable. On a deeper level, however, this quote is significant for the way in which it allows Ngũgĩ to frame language: language is not only a means of communicating with others, but it is also the means by which one makes the world around them intelligible and navigable. If one's language is shaped by foreign powers, it is likely that they will see the world mostly as these powers dictate or prescribe. If one has the courage to keep their native tongues alive, however, not only are they able to be a steward of their local communities and organize against encroaching foreign powers, but they are also able to keep their culture alive for themselves and maintain an authentic and traditional worldview.
"There is no difference between old and modern stories. Stories are stories. All stories are old. All stories are new. All stories belong to tomorrow. And stories are not about ogres or about animals or about men. All stories are about human beings."
In this quote, Gatuĩria is told that all stories convey urgent messages about the human spirit in a way that transcends concerns of species (in the case of fables), concerns of the supernatural, or even concerns of reality. On a surface level, this quote thus functions here to remind Gatuĩria that, even though he has trouble believing in the traditional tales of his people, they are every bit as real as any other story he has ever heard, all being rooted in the essential truth of the human condition. On a deeper level, however, this quote represents an apt way for Ngũgĩ to remind readers that the tales of tradition have morals and lessons that are still relevant and important to our lives in the present. Ngũgĩ does not only urge us to return to these stories, however. On a meta-textual level, he is also reminding us that his own text has an important lesson to teach about humanity, and he urges us here not to lose sight of it as we read.
"[...] You two are wrong. A thief is no worse than a witch, and a witch is no worse than a thief. A thief is a witch, and a witch is a thief. For when a thief steals your land, your house, your clothes, isn't he really killing you? And when a witch destroys your life, isn't he stealing everything you own?"
In this quote, Wangarĩ resolves the debate between Mwaũra and Mũturi about whether a thief or a witch is worse in their effect on one's life. On a surface level, Wangarĩ seems to mostly be suggesting that excessive theft is equivalent to killing, and vice versa. On a deeper level, however, note here that Wangarĩ, like Ngũgĩ himself, is vesting a significant value in the material aspects of one's life. It is the materials that surround one—the things that one works for, keeps, and passes on to their descendants—that remind us that a person even existed and had an effect in the world. When these things are taken from a person, they are completely disempowered and just as good as dead. This understanding of the importance of the material then lends itself heavily towards a Marxist worldview, exactly of the kind that Ngũgĩ advances in the text.
"I would even say that too much education can be a form of foolishness."
This line is meant to deprecate Mwĩreri wa Mũkiraaĩ and call out his extensive educational pedigree as far removed from the everyday conditions that define life and death, as well as wealth and poverty in Kenya. On a deeper level, however, note here that Nditika wa Ngũũnji seems to be affirming what the Devil will tell Warĩĩnga only a short bit later in the text: that education, when wielded incorrectly by the wrong parties, can become a tool of oppression against the people. In the case of what the Devil says, intentionally depriving the people of a quality education allows the powers that be to keep the populace docile and compliant. Here, too, then, Nditika wa Ngũũnji reminds us that education is better in small doses, to keep those who need to be kept in the dark ignorant and to allow those with the spirit of robbery inside them to exploit the ignorant. The message, however, is the same: education fundamentally affects one's station in life, as well as the tools at their disposal to change this station.
"As a worker, I know very well that the forces of law and order are on the side of those who rob the workers of the products of their sweat, of those who steal food and land from the peasants. The peace and the order and the stability they defend with armored cars is the peace and the order and the stability of the rich, who feast on bread and wine snatched from the mouths of the poor—yes, they protect the eaters from the wrath of the thirsty and the hungry. Have you ever seen employers being attacked by the armed forces for refusing to increase the salaries of their workers? What about when the workers go on strike? And they have the audacity to talk about violence!"
In this quote, Mũturi responds to the story of Wangarĩ being betrayed by the police and speaks about his personal experience of being oppressed and put down by law enforcement. On a surface level, Mũturi is here showing the ways in which the police seem to only work for the rich, working as an instrument of their oppression to keep the workers and peasant down. On a deeper level, however, note the ways in which Mũturi is really condemning the capitalist systems that allow the rich to monopolize and purchase police power, wielding it against the poor to maintain the laws and the order of such a capitalist system. The condemnation goes far above the level of the individuals involved and even goes above their employers, reaching more accurately towards a full critique of the violence of capitalism and towards an implicit advocacy of Ngũgĩ's Marxism.
"What is a blood relation? [...] What does it matter if people are alike or not? A child is a child. We all come from the same womb, the common womb one Kenya. The blood shed for our freedom has washed away the differences between that clan and this one, this nationality and that one. Today there is no Luo, Gĩkũyũ, Kamba, Giriama, Luhya, Maasai, Meru, Kallenjin or Turkana. We are all children of one another. Our mother is Kenya, the mother of all Kenyan people."
In this quote, Gatuĩria responds to the suspicion of Warĩĩnga's mother that he will react negatively to news of her child. On a surface level, Gatuĩria seems here to be rejecting these suspicions, saying that, as long as one is of the same country, no minor differences like parentage or even clan should drive a wedge between them and another countryman. On an intermediate level, Gatuĩria is really voicing a semi-Marxist, nationalist opinion that vests faith in the collective and reminds us of the urgent need for mutual aid, as well as cooperation against the manipulative powers that would seek to destroy kinship and other relationships between the people. On the deepest level, however, it is important to note that, in light of what ultimately happens to Gatuĩria, this quote is deeply ironic. Because Gatuĩria's failure to denounce the evil in his own background causes him to ultimately lose everything, when reflecting on this quote, it is important to understand that Ngũgĩ wants us to see this logic as faulty. Not all people that are from the same country or even race can be said to be on the same team—while this would be an ideal state of things, the reality is that there are people even within one's own home who may seek to destroy everything one stands for. If one is not on guard, looking for such impulses both within themselves and others, they can easily be taken advantage of.
