By the time I finished secondary school, I had read a fair number of the so-called “Classics.”  Much of the literature I read back then is work that I will carry with me and cherish forever; it is work that nurtured my love of language and inspired me to pick up my own pen and put it to paper.

Still, it was pretty difficult to ignore the fact that for the most part, the authors of these books were white, male and dead.

One year, I decided I would only read the work of African writers.  My goal was to devour, one title after another, the entire Heinemann African Writers Series. I spent my nights with the works of Chinua Achebe, Ayi Kwei Armah, Ama Ata Aidoo, Bessie Head, Mariama Ba, Kojo Laing, Tayeb Salih.  It was a journey through a landscape and a history that was complex, sometimes tragic but most often beautiful, heartbreakingly so.

Last week I decided to re-read one of those African Writers Series books: Devil on the Cross by Ngugi wa Thiong’o.  My copy of the book is embarrassingly well worn; there are notes in the margins, whole paragraphs are underlined, and more than a few of the pages are stained with ketchup, proof of my long-ago addiction to McDonald’s fries.

I remember the day I bought the book.  I was making my way down a list of writers and Ngugi’s name was next.  The store had only two of his books in stock--Devil on the Cross and Weep Not, Child—and I could only afford to buy one.  I chose the one with the provocative title.  And I have to say, the novel lived up to the expectations its title had set.

It was timely and relevant when I first read it in the late 1980s, several years after it was published, and as corruption, greed, confusion, and disillusionment still exist in so many African countries, the book is just as timely and relevant now.

Devil on the Cross was the first book that Ngugi wrote in his native Gikuyu language after renouncing Christianity, the English language as his first and “default” mode of written communication, and the Western name with which he was baptised—James.

He wrote it entirely on toilet paper while he was in prison, his punishment for writing and staging a play that offended the political sensibilities of the then-president of Kenya.  After Ngugi was released from prison, the constant scrutiny and harassment forced him and his family into exile.  But Africa’s loss was America’s gain.

The reason for my trip down this memory lane of literature was that Ngugi wa Thiong’o was to receive an award, the Irvine medal, the highest honour given by the University of California (UC), Irvine, where he teaches as a Distinguished Professor.

If I were to go back in time and tell the girl I once was, the french-fry-eating bookworm, that Ngugi would one day be her friend, would she even believe me?

He and I met at a literature conference in Accra about eight years ago through an introduction made by another writer whose name I’d also once checked off that now-legendary reading list, the late Professor Kofi Awoonor.  I’d had the privilege of co-teaching a creative writing class at the University of Ghana with Professor Awoonor, and the two of us became good friends. Since then Ngugi and I have also become friends.

I’ve made the one-hour trek to the UC, Irvine campus from my Los Angeles home a few times to visit Ngugi and have what always turns out to be a very long, laughter-filled lunch.  My interactions with him have enriched me, challenged me to be a more courageous writer.

The night Ngugi received the Irvine Medal; I was in the audience, clapping so loudly the skin on my palms is still raw.  But everyone in that room, it seemed, was beaming.

I was utterly taken by how proud and honoured the university officials and faculty and students all were to have Ngugi on their team, how passionate they were about his writing.  It brought tears to my eyes.  But they were not just tears of joy; they were also tears of sadness.  Africa’s loss was indeed America’s gain.

The majority of African writers publishing today do not live on African soil. Though people pay tremendous lip service to the importance of education in the efforts to strengthen African societies, our most visionary and accomplished writers and thinkers are nurturing the minds and imaginations of young people in other lands.

For reasons both practical and political, they find it virtually impossible to work and live in Africa. I doubt the average person on the African continent even recognises this as a loss, which makes it all the more tragic.

Perhaps that old adage is true:  a prophet is never appreciated in his own hometown.  For our sake, I hope that’s not true.  But if it is, how do we reverse it?  When do we start recognising and respecting the enormous wealth of talent that was nurtured and grown right here on this African soil?  When do we start loving and valuing ourselves enough to allow ourselves to also reap the good that we have sown?

It’s my understanding that Ngugi will be in Ghana next week for the Institute of African Studies’ 50th Anniversary Celebration.  I’m not sure if conference registration is open to the general public.

But even if it’s not, maybe some of our loquacious television and radio hosts will take a break from the interminable and mind-numbing political chatter to feature Ngugi, or any one of the other powerhouse intellectuals we have in our midst, and have a thoughtful and inspired discussion about matters of real interest and urgency in our culture and on our continent.

That’s certainly one way to confront the devil that’s been clinging to our collective cross of worship!

This article was originally published in the October 18 edition of the Daily Graphic.