| MEJA MWANGI books |
- Down River Road
- Winds Whisper
- Dukuza - Place of Darkness
- The Bushtrackers
- The Return of Shaka
- Carcase for Hounds
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Novels
| The Big Chiefs hm books 2007 |
| Crossroads hm books 2008 |
| The Boy Gift hm books 2006 |
| The Cockroach Dance hm books 2008 |
| (c) Copyright 2007 by HM Inc. + Meja Mwangi |
| Jomo Kenyatta Award 2007 Runner Up |
| Novels |
| Gun Runner - Arrakan Express (screenplay) The rebels of Arrakan Liberation Front claim they are defending their territory against a regime that wants to kill its people and exploit its rumoured oil resources. The petrodollar claim is dismissed by the government as rebel propaganda. The government has decided to seal the wells, bomb the once fertile lands in rebel zones. This is the Weapon of Hunger. There remains a tired barren land of reckless sand. Hunger. |
| Baba Pesa - Striving for the Wind Mwangi... weaves a thread of humour through a fabric of tears. ... an instructive exploration of the true nature of the human condition in rural Kenya and a fascinating appreciation of the foibles and vibrancy of the human soul.’ The Weekly Review |
| Weapon of Hunger Weapon of Hunger is perhaps Meja Mwangi's best book yet. The picture he paints of the relentless quest for modern Africa is grim. What is most depressing, is that there seem to be no solutions. Western philanthropists, such as Jack Rivers, are portrayed in a favourable light as sincere people. All their energies, however, are expended on trying to understand Africa's problems and once they understand them they realise that the problems are beyond them. As for the Africans themselves, they could have provided solutions, but since they are lined up in warring factions, that is impossible. While the two sides fight on to the finish, will million of ordinary people continue to starve to dead? That is the questions which Meja Mwangi asks himself and which he asks the readers of weapon. Lyne Mansure, The Weekly Review |
| Mama Dudu - The Insect Woman Kimberley, an American scientist specialised in termites, has established a research station in the African bush. Although she does not want any children, she is about to have a baby. |
| The Boy Gift Toma Tomei wants to become chief of his clan. But the father of nine daughters has a chance to achieve his aim only if he has a son. So he has great hopes when his wife gives birth to their tenth child. The next morning he is shown his baby. The baby is a boy, but ... |
| The Cockroach Dance “The Cockroach Dance is the stunning story of one man’s resistance to a system of intimidation and corruption dominated by the ‘haves’ in a society of ‘have-nots’ and numerous ‘faceless ones’. Meja Mwangi spins a fascinating tale of one man’s revolt against exploitation”. The Daily Nation The ideological thread of the novel is spun between the poles of a consumer capitalistic ideology, governed by acquisitiveness, striving towards economic and political dominance and an anti- authoritarian attitude without aspirations to personal power. Between these extremes there is a play of conflicting forces, often governed by irony. |
| Kill Me Quick This young adult novel displays Mwangi’s talent for writing lively stories depicting rural youth and societal problems in Kenya. It narrates the experiences of Meja and Maina, two youths who have come to the city with the hope of bettering their lives, confident that their high school diplomas will lead to success. However, they are unable to compete for jobs in the city and, ultimately, they resort to petty theft and crime, and being exploited by employers. |
| Crossroads - The Last Plague "In his 449-page novel, THE LAST PLAGUE, Kenyan writer, Meja Mwangi, achieved two things: he wrote a restrained AIDS novel that was true to the apocalyptic character of the pandemic, and he wrote a classic of delirious humour. It is this combination of tragedy (that never quite loses its grasp on hope), deft satire, and unexpected humour that bushwhacks the reader at the most sombre moments, that makes this book compelling rereading, even seven years after its first publication." - Books Worth Reading, AFRICAN WRITING. |
| The Big Chiefs The Big Chiefs have plunged the country into political and economic mayhem to serve their own interests. Rumour has it that another genocide is imminent. One Old Man has seen it all before and tells this cautionary tale of misplaced trust in leadership to whoever cares to listen. Will history repeat itself? Is there no end to the power of the Big Chiefs? ... i find this novel a great piece of literature, impressive and despairingly reflecting the realities, despite its ending. I actually virtually saw it as a piece of theatre and could very well imagine it performed on stage. It has a power reminding me of Waiting for Godot. ruedi küng Schweizer Radio DRS |
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The Butcher
Before the militia finally climbed on the roof of the Holy Family church
and ripped off the roof, the Boy had looked out of the window one last
time. The church windows, like the doors, had impregnable, steel bars
on them. It heartened the victims a little and raised their hopes again,
to know that the militia could not easily get into the church to kill them.
But the attackers had only given up trying to break into the church with
hammers and mattocks and were waiting for a bulldozer from the army
to do the job for them.
Then, looking out of the window, the Boy saw hope run away from
them, as the parish priest, the man who had done such a good job of
keeping the militia at bay, and the man they had all placed their last
hopes on, sneaked away from behind the besieged church, dressed in
his fear-stained, white cassock and carrying only his Bible and a small
cardboard suitcase.
Feeling their eyes on his back, the white priest had stopped and
looked back. His grey hair was a mess, his face haggard and streaked
with dirt and fear. His shocked eyes had looked into the Boy’s eyes
and, in that brief moment, before the man who had baptised them all,
married most of them and buried their relatives, the man who had
worked so hard to keep their commune close to God, turned and
walked away, the Boy had suddenly understood why Father Clémént
had to abandon them to their fate. Then the militia had torn off the
roof and started raining bullets and grenades down on the terrified
people below.
“How much tobacco did you want?” the Boy asked the Thief.
“Just enough for one night,” said the Thief. “I never ask for more.”
“Take some then,” said the Boy.
The Thief came back, walking a little livelier, and, making use of the
last light of a dying moon, picked two of the largest, ripest leaves from
the old tree.
“I thank you,” he said, carefully rolling them up.
“Is that enough?”
“I’m not greedy,” said the Thief.
“Take more,” the Boy told him. “Take all you want, but do leave
some for the other thieves.”
The Thief took four more leaves, picking them delicately with the tips
of his fingers, and with the gentleness of one used to scarcity.
“These will last me a while,” he said.
“Go well then,” said the Boy.
“Stay well,” he said turning to leave. Then he stopped and
asked, “Is the Old Man really asleep?”
“He is.”
The man hesitated. He wanted to talk to the Old Man, he said, about
things that had happened long ago. Things he felt had been beyond
anyone’s control, but for which he had recently began to experience
great pangs of remorse and shame. He had discussed it with his wife,
who was very sick and about to die, and she had agreed with him that
all should seek forgiveness for their deeds and misdeeds, and though
no one, not even God, may pardon them, it was good that all should
seek peace with one another for the sake of the nation, and so that
they may find a little peace in their own hearts.
“What about the dead?” the Boy asked. “How do you make peace
with those you butchered? How can they ever forgive you?”
“Those too have their revenge,” he said. “In so many terrible ways,
they too have their revenge.”
They were silent again. He touched the bandage on his head and
winced.
“There are many policemen in the City,” he said. “Are you so brave
you will face guns with placards?”
“I’m not alone,” said the Boy.
“With whom will you be?”
“With the boys.”
“Just the boys?”
“Just the boys.”
“No one else?”
“They are enough.”
“What about the Student?” asked the Thief. “Does he come too?”
“He comes too,” said the Boy. “The Student has always been one of
us.”
“He is a good one, the Student,” said the Thief. “He would have
been a good doctor too, had they not chased him from university.”
Many were the good people whose lives and careers had been
derailed by brutality and terminated by genocide.
“Will there be soldiers?” the Thief asked.
“You can be sure of that.”
“Will they have guns?”
“Soldiers always have guns.”
The Thief was quiet, thinking.
“I shall come with you,” he decided.
The Boy was so startled he did not know what to say.
“There will be dying,” he reminded.
“Let there be."
“And you will still come?”
“I have decided.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think that people should suffer and die because they are
poor or different,” said the Thief. “It is not right and it is not just. I’m
tired of living in the Devil’s hole. Who knows when the Devil will decide
that I too don’t deserve to live?”
READ ON ...
Before the militia finally climbed on the roof of the Holy Family church
and ripped off the roof, the Boy had looked out of the window one last
time. The church windows, like the doors, had impregnable, steel bars
on them. It heartened the victims a little and raised their hopes again,
to know that the militia could not easily get into the church to kill them.
But the attackers had only given up trying to break into the church with
hammers and mattocks and were waiting for a bulldozer from the army
to do the job for them.
Then, looking out of the window, the Boy saw hope run away from
them, as the parish priest, the man who had done such a good job of
keeping the militia at bay, and the man they had all placed their last
hopes on, sneaked away from behind the besieged church, dressed in
his fear-stained, white cassock and carrying only his Bible and a small
cardboard suitcase.
Feeling their eyes on his back, the white priest had stopped and
looked back. His grey hair was a mess, his face haggard and streaked
with dirt and fear. His shocked eyes had looked into the Boy’s eyes
and, in that brief moment, before the man who had baptised them all,
married most of them and buried their relatives, the man who had
worked so hard to keep their commune close to God, turned and
walked away, the Boy had suddenly understood why Father Clémént
had to abandon them to their fate. Then the militia had torn off the
roof and started raining bullets and grenades down on the terrified
people below.
“How much tobacco did you want?” the Boy asked the Thief.
“Just enough for one night,” said the Thief. “I never ask for more.”
“Take some then,” said the Boy.
The Thief came back, walking a little livelier, and, making use of the
last light of a dying moon, picked two of the largest, ripest leaves from
the old tree.
“I thank you,” he said, carefully rolling them up.
“Is that enough?”
“I’m not greedy,” said the Thief.
“Take more,” the Boy told him. “Take all you want, but do leave
some for the other thieves.”
The Thief took four more leaves, picking them delicately with the tips
of his fingers, and with the gentleness of one used to scarcity.
“These will last me a while,” he said.
“Go well then,” said the Boy.
“Stay well,” he said turning to leave. Then he stopped and
asked, “Is the Old Man really asleep?”
“He is.”
The man hesitated. He wanted to talk to the Old Man, he said, about
things that had happened long ago. Things he felt had been beyond
anyone’s control, but for which he had recently began to experience
great pangs of remorse and shame. He had discussed it with his wife,
who was very sick and about to die, and she had agreed with him that
all should seek forgiveness for their deeds and misdeeds, and though
no one, not even God, may pardon them, it was good that all should
seek peace with one another for the sake of the nation, and so that
they may find a little peace in their own hearts.
“What about the dead?” the Boy asked. “How do you make peace
with those you butchered? How can they ever forgive you?”
“Those too have their revenge,” he said. “In so many terrible ways,
they too have their revenge.”
They were silent again. He touched the bandage on his head and
winced.
“There are many policemen in the City,” he said. “Are you so brave
you will face guns with placards?”
“I’m not alone,” said the Boy.
“With whom will you be?”
“With the boys.”
“Just the boys?”
“Just the boys.”
“No one else?”
“They are enough.”
“What about the Student?” asked the Thief. “Does he come too?”
“He comes too,” said the Boy. “The Student has always been one of
us.”
“He is a good one, the Student,” said the Thief. “He would have
been a good doctor too, had they not chased him from university.”
Many were the good people whose lives and careers had been
derailed by brutality and terminated by genocide.
“Will there be soldiers?” the Thief asked.
“You can be sure of that.”
“Will they have guns?”
“Soldiers always have guns.”
The Thief was quiet, thinking.
“I shall come with you,” he decided.
The Boy was so startled he did not know what to say.
“There will be dying,” he reminded.
“Let there be."
“And you will still come?”
“I have decided.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think that people should suffer and die because they are
poor or different,” said the Thief. “It is not right and it is not just. I’m
tired of living in the Devil’s hole. Who knows when the Devil will decide
that I too don’t deserve to live?”
READ ON ...
PASS THE WORD
"My predecessor was a most meticulous man. College educated,
like you. He believed in dealing fair with thugs and criminals, and
tried to understand people, to assign reasons for their evil deeds
and such like. But me, I didn't go to college, and I know different.
People do bad things because they are bad people. Like dogs bite
because they are dogs. So I handle them like dogs. I have a file on
you this thick. A most interesting dossier, I must say. It has details
in it you would not want you mother to know. You see, being
college-educated like you, he too had one great failing - he trusted
everyone and thought good of people. He tried to deal humanely
with lawbreakers, criminals and wild beasts. He tried to understand
things that are simply not there, to attribute cause to badness, to
explain unadulterated evil and things like that. Did you know he
was from your alma mater?”
Juda’s mouth dropped farther.
“He was,” nodded the OCS. “He believed he could understand
the criminal psyche and tried to prove it. He had files and files of
what he called his Kambi Case Book. A more detailed directory of
fools, crooks and madmen, I have never seen. But it all amounted
to nothing. You see, there are people and there are animals. Some
people are no better than animals. They are good when they are
good and bad when they are bad, and there’s nothing more to it.
How else do you explain the murder of a stranger by another,
simply to deprive him of the contents of his pocket? Can you explain
that?”
Juda could not explain anything anymore than he could
understand why he had been singled out for this lecture. He looked
about nervously, at the small groups of people watching from a
distance.
“Life is a battle between good and evil,” said the OCS. “And,
for there to be a proper equilibrium and harmony in the universe,
good must prevail. You must understand that, being a college man
and all. In my long career as a CID officer, I’ve found that there’s
only one way of dealing with violent criminals, and that is with
greater and uncompromising violence. If they shoot one innocent
man, I shoot three gangsters dead. If they chop up someone with
a machete, I chop ten of them with my AK 47. If they thump a drunk
with a beer bottle, my boys thump them with truncheons, jembe
sticks, or whatever is at hand. Why, you may ask? Because that’s
the only language that dogs understand. It works for me, and that’
s why I intend to apply it here also. You see, I don’t consider
human anyone who violates others because he can.”
He paused to let it all take hold, and Juda decided the man
was not as primitive or as uneducated as he made out to be, which
made him all the more dangerous.
“Don’t mistake me,” the OCS continued, “I’m a religious man, a
believer in the good book and the old laws. A labourer is worth his
wage? You reap what you sow? An eye for an eye? Have you ever
read the Bible? But of course, you are a well-read man. Woe to the
lawbreakers, for they shall eat the bread of sorrow?”
Juda shook his dazed head.
“Why are you telling me all this?” he asked.
“I want you to understand me completely,” said the OCS.
“What for?” asked Juda. “I don’t like you and I don’t even
know you.”
“You will,” said the man, “you will. I’m counting on everyone’s
co-operation in this, especially on people of high IQ and good
education like you.”
Juda finally closed his mouth. He had been flattered many
times before; come to think of it, the people who called him
Professor did nothing but flatter him; but a policeman had never
before flattered him.
“I can count on you, can’t I?” the OCS asked him.
For a fleeting moment, Juda wondered what would happen if
he said no. Would they dump him in the boot and cart him off to
Ngobit or simply conscript another collaborator.
READ ON ...
"My predecessor was a most meticulous man. College educated,
like you. He believed in dealing fair with thugs and criminals, and
tried to understand people, to assign reasons for their evil deeds
and such like. But me, I didn't go to college, and I know different.
People do bad things because they are bad people. Like dogs bite
because they are dogs. So I handle them like dogs. I have a file on
you this thick. A most interesting dossier, I must say. It has details
in it you would not want you mother to know. You see, being
college-educated like you, he too had one great failing - he trusted
everyone and thought good of people. He tried to deal humanely
with lawbreakers, criminals and wild beasts. He tried to understand
things that are simply not there, to attribute cause to badness, to
explain unadulterated evil and things like that. Did you know he
was from your alma mater?”
Juda’s mouth dropped farther.
“He was,” nodded the OCS. “He believed he could understand
the criminal psyche and tried to prove it. He had files and files of
what he called his Kambi Case Book. A more detailed directory of
fools, crooks and madmen, I have never seen. But it all amounted
to nothing. You see, there are people and there are animals. Some
people are no better than animals. They are good when they are
good and bad when they are bad, and there’s nothing more to it.
How else do you explain the murder of a stranger by another,
simply to deprive him of the contents of his pocket? Can you explain
that?”
Juda could not explain anything anymore than he could
understand why he had been singled out for this lecture. He looked
about nervously, at the small groups of people watching from a
distance.
“Life is a battle between good and evil,” said the OCS. “And,
for there to be a proper equilibrium and harmony in the universe,
good must prevail. You must understand that, being a college man
and all. In my long career as a CID officer, I’ve found that there’s
only one way of dealing with violent criminals, and that is with
greater and uncompromising violence. If they shoot one innocent
man, I shoot three gangsters dead. If they chop up someone with
a machete, I chop ten of them with my AK 47. If they thump a drunk
with a beer bottle, my boys thump them with truncheons, jembe
sticks, or whatever is at hand. Why, you may ask? Because that’s
the only language that dogs understand. It works for me, and that’
s why I intend to apply it here also. You see, I don’t consider
human anyone who violates others because he can.”
He paused to let it all take hold, and Juda decided the man
was not as primitive or as uneducated as he made out to be, which
made him all the more dangerous.
“Don’t mistake me,” the OCS continued, “I’m a religious man, a
believer in the good book and the old laws. A labourer is worth his
wage? You reap what you sow? An eye for an eye? Have you ever
read the Bible? But of course, you are a well-read man. Woe to the
lawbreakers, for they shall eat the bread of sorrow?”
Juda shook his dazed head.
“Why are you telling me all this?” he asked.
“I want you to understand me completely,” said the OCS.
“What for?” asked Juda. “I don’t like you and I don’t even
know you.”
“You will,” said the man, “you will. I’m counting on everyone’s
co-operation in this, especially on people of high IQ and good
education like you.”
Juda finally closed his mouth. He had been flattered many
times before; come to think of it, the people who called him
Professor did nothing but flatter him; but a policeman had never
before flattered him.
“I can count on you, can’t I?” the OCS asked him.
For a fleeting moment, Juda wondered what would happen if
he said no. Would they dump him in the boot and cart him off to
Ngobit or simply conscript another collaborator.
READ ON ...