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While he is a regular on the betting list of potential Nobel laureates and the syllabi of classes on postcolonial literature, Ngũgĩ is often overlooked by the West’s leftist literati in their discourse about politics and fiction. Why does the revolutionary cast to his work go unrecognized? Perhaps …

Vavra widened her eyes in affected compassion. In the year since she’d let me, an online stranger, move into her apartment in Wedding, her tireless overtures of care and my circumventions of them had come to form a texture of cohabitation that could almost be called a friendship. [...]

Outside the door of the bank a young man appeared in uniform.

“You see that boy?” My grandmother pointed her finger at the guard. “Your mother killed him.”

Then she tweaked it. “Your mother sat right where I’m sitting and waited while people killed him. Waited.” My grandmother repeated the…

'Oh, it's very hard,' Clare says, sitting down slowly and not too close. 'Oh, I miss him so much. I didn't know. I didn't know that I would be like this, that this is what happens when you love someone like that. I had no idea. No one says, there's no happy ending at all. No one says, if you could …

'So,' she said. 'You've been married thirty-five years. Well, look, Dr Langford -- '

[...]

'[...] It's like this. Unless your wife is doing crack cocaine or having sex with young girls and barnyard animals, what little you have will be split fifty/fifty.'