Weep Not, Child

Summary

Njoroge lives with his family in central Kenya. When he is a young boy, his
mother, Nyokabi, tells him he will be the first person in the family to attend school.
Overwhelmed with happiness, Nyokabi runs to Kamau and tells him the good news, reveling
in the idea that he will receive an education. Kamau is Njoroge’s half-brother, since their
father, Ngotho, has another wife named Njeri. Upon hearing that Njoroge will be going to
school, Kamau congratulates his younger brother, and the two boys compare their futures,
discussing the fact that both an education and a carpentry apprenticeship (which is what
Kamau is pursuing) will benefit their family.

Shortly thereafter, Njoroge gathers with his family in the evening and listens to his father tells
stories about the past. Addressing several neighbors, Kamau, Njoroge, his wives, and his
eldest sons, Boro and Kori, Ngotho tells the story of how he and his fellow Kenyans lost
their land to white settlers. Explaining that he was enlisted by the British during World War
I, he says he was whisked away from home in order to build roads throughout Kenya that
would help the war effort. All the while, he says, he looked forward to returning home and
collecting whatever “reward” the white settlers would bestow upon him and his people for
contributing to a war that had nothing to do with the Kenyans themselves. However, when he
finally returned, he discovered that the white colonialists had kicked his family off their
ancestral land and taken over the farm that was their livelihood. Unable to do anything, he
and his father lived as Muhoi (serfs), working on land that used to belong to them and waiting
for the day that the white people would vacate Kenya. However, this day never came, and
Ngotho’s father died a Muhoi.
The one silver lining, Ngotho tells the people listening to his story, is that an old Gikuyu
prophet has foretold that the land will one day be returned to its rightful owners. When he
says this, though, Boro shows cynical disdain. Having fought and lost his brother in World
War II, Boro is a silent, brooding figure who resents not only the white settlers, but his
elders, who he believes failed to protect the land. Tired of waiting for this prophesy to come
true, Boro interrupts his father’s story, saying, “To hell with the prophecy. How can you
continue working for a man who has taken your land? How can you go on serving him?”
Amidst these tensions, Njoroge starts school. On his first day, several other boys pick on
him, but they’re warded off by Mwihaki, who is from the same village as Njoroge and whose
sister, Lucia, is a teacher. What’s more, Mwihaki’s father, Jacobo, is the richest black man in
the area because he is a landowner. After Mwihaki helps him fend off bullies, Njoroge takes
a liking to her, and the two children become close companions who both value the
opportunity to attend school. During this time, though, a bitter enmity grows between their
fathers, as Ngotho and Jacobo clash over how to respond to a workers’ strike. Ngotho, for
his part, feels compelled to join the strike as a way of responding to Boro’s critique that he
isn’t doing enough to win back their family’s land. However, he isn’t certain it’s a good idea
to simply stop working for the white settlers, since doing so will mean losing his job at the
white Mr. Howlands’s farm, which used to be Ngotho’s land. Indeed, Ngotho works for Mr.
Howlands because he wants to stay close to the earth he used to own. When talk about a
strike circulates, Mr. Howlands threatens to fire his employees if they join the movement.
Nevertheless, Ngotho can’t contain his rage when he discovers at a village meeting that
Jacobo has sided with the white settlers. As Jacobo walks to the front of the group with
several white police officers and urges his people to refrain from striking, Ngotho finds
himself so furious that he rises and advances upon Jacobo. Followed by his fellow villagers,
he beats Jacobo and flees, though not before a police officer strikes him in the face with a
baton.
In the aftermath of this event, people start talking about Jomo Kenyatta, a political leader
who they believe will help drive away white settlers. Unfortunately, though, Jomo has been
captured, and although everyone believes he will be freed once he has a hearing, this is not
the case. As such, the collective sense of hope suffers in Njoroge’s village. As for Njoroge’s
family, they are forced to move off Jacobo’s land, so they relocate to Nganga’s property
(Nganga is Kamau’s carpentry master). Meanwhile, Boro and Kori move to Nairobi, where
Boro becomes even more passionate about the oppressive practices of the white settlers. As
Njoroge continues to go to school, tensions between Kenyans and white settlers mount,
especially since the Mau Mau—a militant group opposing the colonialists—tries to recruit
new members.
As the years pass, Ngotho struggles to support his family. To make things worse, Jacobo is
made chief of the village, and Mr. Howlands becomes a Directing Officer of the
“homeguard” (the colonial police force). As such, Jacobo now goes from house to house
with armed guards, searching for people who have joined the Mau Mau. Around this time,
Boro and Kori become more and more politically active by joining the Mau Mau. Ever since
Ngotho attacked Jacobo, Boro has been harsh on his father, upholding that his rash decision
only escalated tensions. Because of this constant criticism, Ngotho has become meeker
around his son, allowing Boro to speak over him because he’s embarrassed. However, when
Boro tries to convince him to pledge an oath to the Mau Mau, he refuses.

Before long, Njoroge tests into a prestigious high school. Although he and Mwihaki no
longer attend the same school and rarely see one another—partly because Mwihaki goes to
a boarding school far away, and partly because their families are enemies—she asks him to
spend time with her one time when she’s home on break. During this meeting, she invites
him to her house, and though he’s hesitant, he accepts. When he arrives, he has a stilted
conversation with Jacobo, but the man treats him kindly enough, saying that he hopes
Njoroge does well in school so that he can “rebuild the country.” Afterwards, Mwihaki leads
him to a hill, where she admits that she’s afraid of all the turmoil surrounding them.
Njoroge, for his part, tries to console her by insisting that “sunshine always follows a dark
night.” Impressed by his optimism, Mwihaki invites him to run away with her, but he
refuses, saying that he couldn’t bear to leave his family when conditions are so bad.
As the Mau Mau continues to recruit new members, it grows more and more violent,
ultimately posing a threat to the very people it aims to protect. This pleases Mr. Howlands
immensely, as he delights in the fact that black Kenyans are “destroying” one another.
During this period, Jacobo uses his power as chief to take revenge on Ngotho’s family. To do
this, he tries to imprison Boro and Kori, though he only manages to catch Kori, picking him
up when he walks outside after curfew with Njeri, who is also detained (though unlike Kori,
she is quickly released).

One day, Njoroge is pulled out of his new European-style school by armed men who work
for Mr. Howlands. He is then brought to Mr. Howlands and tortured. After asking Njoroge
where Boro is and whether or not Njoroge himself has taken the Mau Mau oath, Mr.
Howlands asks him, “Who murdered Jacobo?” When Njoroge is unable to answer, Mr.
Howlands fetches a pair of pincers and puts them against the boy’s scrotum, saying, “You’ll
be castrated like your father.” As Njoroge screams, Mr. Howlands tells him that Ngotho has
already confessed to killing Jacobo, but before Njoroge can react, he passes out from pain.
Several days later, Njoroge recovers, and his two mothers—who were also detained—are
released along with him. Shortly thereafter, Njoroge sees his father in the family hut. He has
been beaten severely and can barely speak, but when he sees Njoroge, he assumes that his
son has come to laugh at him because he has failed as a father to protect his family.
Apparently, Boro snuck into the village from the woods and murdered Jacobo and then
disappeared once more. Knowing that Mr. Howlands would assume that Kamau was the one
who did the deed, Ngotho worked up the courage and turned himself in, claiming he was
the one who killed Jacobo. After beating and castrating Ngotho, though, Mr. Howlands
understood that the man was only trying to protect his son, and despite the fact that he has
wanted to murder Ngotho ever since the workers’ strike, he released him. Now, just as
Ngotho is about to die, Boro appears in the entrance of the hut. “Forgive me, Father—I
didn’t know—oh, I thought—” Boro says, stumbling. “I had to fight,” he says, asking his
father for forgiveness. “All right,” Ngotho says, straining to lift himself onto one arm. “Fight
well.” Telling his son to “turn his eyes” to God, he lies back and dies, and Boro runs off once
more. Sneaking into Mr. Howlands’s office, he tells the man that he was the one who killed
Jacobo, and then he shoots Howlands in the head. On his way out, Boro fires at as many
officers as possible before getting captured and taken away.

In the aftermath of this violence, police officers detain Kamau, so that now Kori, Boro, and
Kamau are all in custody. As such, Njoroge is the only brother left, meaning that he has no
monetary way to continue his education. Because of this, he spends his days working for an
Indian man in a market, constantly feeling ashamed because everyone who sees him knows
what has happened to him and his family. After getting fired one day, he decides he must
see Mwihaki, who he believes is his final source of “hope.” When they meet, he confesses
his love to her and insists that they should run away, but now it is Mwihaki’s turn to decline,
saying that Njoroge must maintain his hope for a better future. Although it’s clear that she
loves him back, she refuses to elope with him, ultimately leaving him distraught and
hopeless—so hopeless, in fact, that he leaves his house the next evening and makes his way
to a specific tree, where he fashions a noose and prepares to hang himself. Just as he’s
about to end his own life, though, he hears Nyokabi’s voice calling his name on the road,
and despite the fact that he feels ashamed for failing to finish his education and is hopeless
about the future, he walks out to meet her. On the way home, they encounter Njeri, and the
three of them walk home as Njoroge asks himself why he didn’t go through with his suicide
plan. “Because you are a coward,” a voice within him says. “Yes,” he whispers. “I am a
coward.” Saying this, he runs home and opens the door for his mothers.
Themes
1. Division and Conquest
Based on a turbulent period of Kenyan history that saw the slow upheaval of British colonial
rule, Weep Not, Child examines the impact of cultural division. More specifically, Ngũgĩ wa
Thiong’o illustrates how thoroughly British settlers were able to sow discord in Kenya as
recently as the 1950s, essentially pitting Kenyans against one another in order to better
conquer and rule the country. The ubiquity of this practice is made evident in Weep Not,
Child by the white Mr. Howlands’s satisfaction when he sees that the Kenyans he wants to
oppress are in fact “destroy[ing] themselves.” Pleased that his enemies are warring, he
prospers on the land he stole from black Kenyans like Ngotho. And though people like
Ngotho recognize that feuding with other Kenyans only keeps them from uniting against
their collective enemy (the white settlers), the conflicts they have with one another are too
pressing and immediate to ignore. Indeed, when Ngotho’s eldest son joins the Mau Mau (a
group of activists fighting for Kenyan independence), his family is torn between this militant
group and other Kenyan-born people who have pledged allegiance to white colonists. This is
significant, considering that Ngotho’s family has until this point always been closely
connected. As such, Ngũgĩ illustrates how easy it is to become disempowered by the kind of
division that takes place under oppressive colonial rule, ultimately suggesting that even the
most unified groups of people can fall prey to divisive tactics.

Early in Weep Not, Child, Ngũgĩ makes a point of establishing the close connection that runs
throughout Ngotho’s family. Like other men of the Kikuyu people, Ngotho has two wives—
Njeri and Nyokabi—with whom he has multiple sons. Despite what Western readers might
assume about the potential competitive nature of this arrangement, though, Ngũgĩ goes out
of his way to emphasize that Ngotho’s family members are closely connected. “The feeling
of oneness was a thing that most distinguished Ngotho’s household from many other
polyamorous families,” Ngũgĩ notes, suggesting that this sense of unity is “attributed to
Ngotho” himself, who keeps the family together because he acts as a “stable centre.”

Having established this feeling of “oneness,” Ngũgĩ goes on to show the adverse and divisive
effects of colonialization on Ngotho’s family. After World War I—when Kenyans were
enlisted to serve for the British—people like Ngotho returned to their homes to find that
white people had taken ownership of their land. Unfortunately, there was very little to do
about this, since the Kenyan government itself was ruled by English colonists. As such,
Ngotho and his fellow veterans were forced to take jobs working on farms that used to
belong to them. Then, after years of toiling for low wages, they organized a workers’ strike
and demanded better pay. This is what Ngotho faces in the first half of Weep Not, Child.
Working for Mr. Howlands on land that used to belong to his own family, he finds himself
torn between going on strike and keeping his job. “[Mr. Howlands] warned [his workers]
that if any man went on strike he would instantly lose his job,” Ngũgĩ writes, illustrating the
difficult decision Ngotho faces. Unfortunately, the tense indecision that arises as a result of
this dilemma eventually works its way into Ngotho’s family, as he argues with Nyokabi
about the pros and cons of uniting with the rest of the workers. “We shall starve,” Nyokabi
points out, to which Ngotho replies, “This strike is important for the black people.” In
response, Nyokabi says, “What’s black people to us when we starve?” This question gets at
the heart of the dilemma Ngotho’s family faces, as it highlights the ways in which the white
settlers and their monopoly of power have forced Kenyans to either turn against their
community members or sacrifice their own wellbeing.

While Nyokabi urges Ngotho not to go on strike, Boro—his eldest son who joins the Mau
Mau—criticizes Ngotho for failing to advocate for his fellow Kenyans. In keeping with this,
Boro’s friend Kiarie comes to Ngotho’s village for a meeting and urges everyone to join the
strike, saying, “Today, we, with one voice, must rise and shout: ‘The time has come. Let my
People go.’” However, not everyone agrees with this mentality, which is why Jacobo—a rich
black man who has sided with white settlers—stands and argues that his people should “go
back to work and not listen to” people like Kiarie. Suddenly impassioned and angry, Ngotho
sees Jacobo as a traitor and, as such, rises, advances, and attacks him, ultimately inciting a
feud between his and Jacobo’s family that culminates not only with his own death, but also
with Jacobo’s and Boro’s at the end of the novel. And as these two families antagonize one
another, readers come to understand that this kind of discord only keeps Kenyans from
confronting their true oppressors: the white colonists.

As the conflict between Kenyans and white colonists rages on, internal disputes only
become more pronounced. Although individuals like Boro join the Mau Mau to protect their
people through the practice of guerilla warfare (a form of warfare in which armed civilians
organize to resist traditional military forces), they ultimately wind up terrorizing their own
communities by violently coercing people to join them. Unsurprisingly, this is much to the
delight of people like Mr. Howlands, who relishes the discord he observes taking place
amongst the Kenyans he wants to disempower. “The machine he had set in motion was
working,” Ngũgĩ writes. “The blacks were destroying blacks. They would destroy themselves
to the end. What did it matter with him if the blacks in the forest destroyed a whole village?
[…] Let them destroy themselves. Let them fight against each other. The few who remained
would be satisfied with the reservation the white man had set aside for them.” The
“reservation” Ngũgĩ—and, in turn, Mr. Howlands—refers to in this moment is the
unappealing opportunity to work for low wages on Howlands’s farm, an existence that
might seem tolerable compared to the violent dealings of the Mau Mau. As such, it becomes
clear that the white settlers are all too eager to inspire division amongst the people they’re
trying to exploit, which Mr. Howlands does by encouraging Jacobo to exact revenge on
Ngotho, thereby adding fuel to the fire of their already tumultuous relationship. In this way,
Ngũgĩ showcases how harmful division can be to a community, especially when malicious
people use it to oppress and rule an otherwise cohesive, unified culture.

2. Violence and Revenge

In Weep Not, Child, Ngũgĩ frames violence as futile and self-perpetuating. Although characters
like Boro believe in taking revenge on the people who have oppressed them, readers see that
violent retribution is ineffective when it comes to bringing about positive change. Indeed, the true
result of Boro’s decision to murder Jacobo—who has wronged his family and community—is
that Njoroge (Boro’s little brother) is suddenly taken out of school, beaten, and interrogated by the
governmental powers affiliated with Jacobo. Unfortunately, this throws Njoroge’s life completely
off-course, effectively ruining his upwardly mobile trajectory by bringing his hard-earned
education to an abrupt end. And yet, Boro remains unable to accept that his violence has done
nothing but harm, as he goes forth and murders Mr. Howlands, too—an act that further imperils
his family by forcing one of his other brothers into jail and ensuring that Njoroge will never again
have the financial support necessary to continue his schoolwork. Considering that everything Boro
does to advocate for his family members only further disempowers them, then, it becomes obvious
that Ngũgĩ believes violence is self-defeating, a means of destruction that becomes an end in and of
itself without ever managing to effect meaningful change.
Because British colonizers have stolen land from the Kikuyu people, there’s no doubt that
retaliation is in order. Otherwise, people like Ngotho and his sons will never regain their
homeland. Kiarie (Boro’s friend from Nairobi) outlines this in his speech to Ngotho’s village,
but he stresses the importance of peaceful action, saying, “Remember, this must be a peaceful
strike. We must get more pay. Because right is on our side we shall triumph. If today, you’re
hit, don’t hit back…” However, Boro has trouble committing himself to peaceful resistance,
since he has been to war and experienced terrible violence. One night, he listens to his father
tell the story of how their family lost their land. “Boro thought of his father who had fought
in the war only to be dispossessed,” Ngũgĩ writes. “[Boro] too had gone to war, against
Hitler. He had gone to Egypt, Jerusalem, and Burma. He had seen things. He had often
escaped death narrowly. But the thing he could not forget was the death of his stepbrother,
Mwangi. For whom or for what had he died?” In this moment, Boro becomes angry about the
fact that he and his family members have been forced to fight—and, in some cases, die—for a
cause that has nothing to do with them. As a result, he wants to rectify this death and
destruction by rising up against the white settlers and embracing a form of resistance that has
nothing to do with peace. This, he hopes, will help him cope with the meaninglessness of his
brother’s death.

Simply put, Boro behaves violently because of the violence he has experienced. Having
fought in World War II and “seen things,”, he has been taught a lifestyle of hate and
aggression that is difficult to leave behind. This is why he joins the Mau Mau and takes
violent revenge on the British colonizers. As he does so, though, Boro discovers that
violence only brings about more violence, creating a never-ending cycle of brutality. In a
conversation with a Mau Mau lieutenant, he admits that he has lost sight of everything
except the idea of exacting revenge on his enemies. “Don’t you believe in anything?” the
lieutenant asks, to which Boro replies, “No. Nothing. Except revenge.” In turn, the
lieutenant asks if he cares about winning back the land, and Boro says, “The lost land will
come back to us maybe. But I’ve lost too many of those whom I loved for land to mean
much to me. It would be a cheap victory.” At this point, then, all Boro cares about is
inflicting pain onto the people who have wronged him. Taken aback, the lieutenant asks
Boro if he believes in “freedom,” and Boro tells him that freedom is merely an “illusion.”
“Why then do you fight?” asks the lieutenant. “To kill,” Boro answers. “Unless you kill,
you’ll be killed. So you go on killing and destroying. It’s a law of nature.” In this
 moment, readers see that Boro has stopped fighting for a cause. Instead of devoting
himself to the idea of regaining his land and freeing his people, he has become obsessed
with revenge, thinking that the only way to respond to the violence he has experienced is
by perpetuating it himself. In turn, Ngũgĩ suggests that violence is self-generating,
something that can come to seem like an end in and of itself rather than a means by which
a person might effect actual change.

Although he doesn’t alter his ways, it’s evident that Boro recognizes the futility of violence.
For example, when he’s finally about to kill Mr. Howlands, he feels nothing. With the gun
pointed at the white man, he explains why he also killed Jacobo: “He betrayed black people.
Together, you killed many sons of the land. You raped our women. And finally, you killed
my father. Have you anything to say in your defence?” Despite the fact that these words
sound impassioned, it’s worth noting that Boro is simply setting forth a narrative of revenge,
as if this is the only thing he can think about after living a life of violence. “Boro’s voice was
flat,” Ngũgĩ notes. “No colour of hatred, anger, or triumph. No sympathy.” In this moment,
readers see that Boro has gotten nowhere even though he’s finally about to exact the revenge
he has been dreaming about all this time. Unsurprisingly, this unfeeling, unsympathetic state
continues even after he shoots Mr. Howlands: “He felt nothing—no triumph.” By including
this, Ngũgĩ demonstrates the pointlessness of pursuing violent forms of revenge, which do
nothing to make a person feel better about what has happened to them. In fact, it isn’t until
Boro gives himself over to the police (thereby letting go of his dedication to violence and
vengeance) that he feels any kind of relief. “At last he gave up,” Ngũgĩ writes. “Now for the
first time he felt exultant.” In turn, it becomes clear that Boro’s compulsive violence hasn’t
helped him cope with his difficult life, failing to bring him any kind of satisfaction or relief.
And yet, he has continued to murder, perpetuating a cycle of ruthless revenge that is not only
ineffective when it comes to bringing about change, but also detrimental to his own well-
being. In this way, Ngũgĩ intimates that the only way to cope with violence and injustice is by
removing oneself from the self-perpetuating revolutions of hate.

3. Hope, Progress, and Disillusionment

Throughout Weep Not, Child, Njoroge clings to his hope that life will improve if only he
continues to work hard for the things he values and loves. First and foremost, this means
pursuing an education, which he believes will enable him to uplift his community. Indeed, his
desire to learn is admirable because it not only indicates his determination to improve himself,
but also his motivation to help the people he cares about. In turn, his commitment to upward
mobility signals his optimistic outlook, which enables him to envision a better future for his
people. Unfortunately, though, the senseless violence surrounding him eventually interferes
with his hope, ultimately discouraging him from having faith in the vision of a better
“tomorrow,” and forcing him to resign himself to the bleak reality of his life. In doing this, he
stops thinking about making progress, instead focusing only on the present as a way of coping
with the fact that he has no resources he might turn to in order to improve his life. As such,
Ngũgĩ illustrates the dispiriting reality of living in countries torn to pieces by violent conflict.
And though he doesn’t condemn Njoroge for slipping into cynicism—which he intimates is an
understandable response, given the circumstances—he also doesn’t fully condone Njoroge’s
newfound pessimism. In this way, Ngũgĩ simply draws attention to the tragedy of
disillusionment, which can so easily befall people living in the midst of political and cultural
turmoil.

The entirety of Njoroge’s family believes in his determination to receive an education. For
instance, his father’s obsession with regaining the family land factors into the boy’s desire to
become upwardly mobile, which he hopes will enable him to help his father. “Njoroge listened
to his father,” Ngũgĩ notes during a scene in which Ngotho talks to his son about their lost land.
“He instinctively knew that an indefinable demand was being made on him, even though he was
so young. He knew that for him education would be the fulfilment of a wider and more
significant vision—a vision that embraced the demand made on him, not only by his father, but
also by his mother, his brothers, and even the village. He saw himself destined for something
big, and this made his heart glow.” In this passage, it becomes clear that Njoroge sees his own
education as something that will empower not only himself, but his family, too. Indeed, he
believes there’s a “demand” for him to succeed. Thankfully, he sees himself as “destined for
something big,” so this “demand” doesn’t feel like a burden. In fact, Njoroge relishes the idea
of delivering his family from poverty and oppression, and this is a testament to his optimism.

Part of Njoroge’s hope has to do with his relationship with Mwihaki, with whom he bonds over
matters of education. Although Mwihaki is the daughter of Jacobo—a family enemy—she and
Njoroge manage to transcend the tension or animosity that might otherwise threaten their
connection. This is possible because they both thrive on the idea of improving themselves
through education, and they enjoy going through the school system together. In this way, the
progress Njoroge makes is wrapped up in his budding but unacknowledged love for Mwihaki.
In a passage about one of Njoroge’s first days of school, Ngũgĩ writes, “The two had shared
each other’s hopes and fears, and [Njoroge] felt akin to her.” It is this shared sense of “hope”
that enables their bond to persist even after their fathers become dangerously pitted against one
another.

Later, when Njoroge is admitted to a school Mwihaki didn’t get into, he consoles her by
emphasizing the importance of maintaining her commitment to education, which he upholds
will still enable her to improve her life. “Our country has great need of us,” he says, but she
expresses her doubt that they’ll be able to change anything. “You are always talking about
tomorrow, tomorrow,” she says after he tells her that the “sun will rise tomorrow.” “What is
tomorrow?” she presses. In response, Njoroge demonstrates his unwavering hope, saying, “You
and I can only put faith in hope. Just stop for a moment, Mwihaki, and imagine. If you knew
that all your days life will always be like this with blood flowing daily and men dying in the
forest, while others daily cry for mercy; if you knew even for one moment that this would go on
forever, then life would be meaningless unless bloodshed and death were a meaning. Surely this
darkness and terror will not go on forever.” This is an important moment because Njoroge
reveals that the only way he knows how to cope with his bleak reality is by investing himself in
the idea of a better future. This is why he has so wholeheartedly committed himself to
education. And because he feels strongly for Mwihaki, he urges her to embrace this optimism,
arguing that it’s her only option.

Unfortunately, Njoroge loses his “faith in hope” when governmental thugs pull him out of
school and torture him for information about a violent act he knows nothing about. After this,
he stops attending school, instead spending his time making money in the markets. “For the first
time Njoroge was faced to face with a problem to which ‘tomorrow’ was no answer,” Ngũgĩ
notes. After a while, Njoroge decides to visit Mwihaki—the only person or thing in his life that
still gives him a sense of hope for the future—and professes his love to her. “At last he had said
it. For now he knew that she was his last hope,” Ngũgĩ writes, revealing that Njoroge has
embraced a form of “hope” that isn’t forward-looking and idealistic, but rooted in that which
exists in the present: love and companionship. This, it seems, is the only thing he can control,
and so it’s what he focuses on. However, Mwihaki hasn’t given up her belief in a better future,
and so she declines his invitation to leave Kenya. When she tries to remind him that their
country needs them, Njoroge voices his disillusionment, saying, “All that was a dream. We can
only live today.” Unfortunately, though, even investing in the present becomes difficult for
Njoroge once Mwihaki makes clear that she won’t elope with him. “Njoroge had now lost faith
in all the things he had earlier believed in,” Ngũgĩ explains, “like wealth, power, education,
religion. Even love, his last hope, had fled from him.” Disenfranchised by his government and
dispirited about the idea of self-improvement, Njoroge finds that he has nothing to “hope” for—
not even love. In this way, Ngũgĩ traces the demise of the boy’s optimism, ultimately revealing
how thoroughly violence and oppression can thwart even the most motivated people and their
dreams of progress.

4. Pride and Honour vs. Guilt and Shame

In Weep Not, Child, Ngũgĩ considers how a person’s sense of honor informs the way he or she
behaves. Most notably, Ngotho spends a great deal of energy thinking about whether or not he’s
upholding his familial duties as the head of his household. However, because he’s unsure how
to respond to the various challenges that present themselves—including whether or not to rise
up against colonialists—he finds himself feeling guilty for failing to actively protect his family.
Indeed, the notions he takes to heart about what it means to be a patriarch ultimately lead to his
death, as he tries to make up for his failure to stand up to the people who have terrorized his
sons. By showcasing the ways in which guilt can steer a person to his or her own demise, then,
Ngũgĩ implies that shame isn’t necessarily something that should always motivate a person to
redeem him- or herself. In keeping with this, he presents Njoroge as someone who also feels
guilt and shame, but who learns to accept—or at least live with—these shortcomings. Of
course, this attitude doesn’t help Njoroge regain his sense of pride or honor, but rather enables
him to keep on living. In this manner, Ngũgĩ hints at the fact that it’s often necessary to
recognize guilt and shame as unavoidable realities, however difficult this is to accept.

When Ngotho first takes a stand against white settlers in Weep Not, Child, he does so because
Boro has made him feel ashamed for failing to take action. During an evening of storytelling,
Ngotho tells his family and friends about how the British stole their land by forcing him and his
fellow Kenyans away from home during World War I. When they returned, he explains, people
like Mr. Howlands had forced their families off the land. And though Ngotho believes in a
Kikuyu prophecy that Kenyans will soon regain their land, Boro remains unconvinced and
expresses his disappointment in the fact that his father has heretofore done nothing to win back
what belongs to him. “To hell with the prophecy,” Boro erupts. “How can you continue
working for a man who has taken your land? How can you go on serving him?” By saying this,
Boro shames his father, stripping the man of his authority and making him feel like a weak
leader. This is why Ngotho proceeds by beating Jacobo for siding with the white men.
Unfortunately, though, this attempt to establish his honor is hotheaded and ill-advised,
ultimately inciting a slew of violence between his and Jacobo’s people that harms his family
more than it protects them.

Unsurprisingly, Ngotho later regrets his impulsive decision to defend his honor. “Perhaps he
had blundered in going on strike. For he had now lost every contact with his ancestral land,”
Ngũgĩ writes, suggesting that Ngotho’s fragile ego has led him into an even worse situation.
However, even though Ngotho regrets what he has done, he still believes he was left with no
choice, since continuing to do nothing would have made him appear weak. “But what could he
have done? He had to go on strike,” Ngũgĩ notes. “He had not wanted to be accused by a son
anymore, because when a man was accused by the eyes of a son who had been to war and had
witnessed the death of a brother, he felt guilty.” In this moment, Ngũgĩ highlights Ngotho’s
discomfort with the idea that his son might “accuse” him of inaction. In turn, readers see that
Ngotho cares first and foremost about defending his honor—a vanity that leads him into
precarious situations.

Ngotho isn’t the only character in Weep Not, Child to whom honor is important. Like his father,
Njoroge fears letting down his loved ones. As he witnesses the degradation of his father’s sense
of pride, he himself works hard to ensure that his education will bestow honor onto him and his
family. “He knew that something had happened to Ngotho,” Ngũgĩ writes, “who no longer
looked anybody straight in the face; not even his wives. Njoroge was sure that if a child hit
Ngotho, he would probably submit.” Witnessing his father’s apparent shame, Njoroge commits
himself to education; “Through all this, Njoroge was still sustained by his love for and belief in
education and his own role when the time came. And the difficulties of home seemed to have
sharpened this appetite. Only education could make something out of this wreckage.” Going on,
Ngũgĩ explains that Njoroge sometimes sees himself as “a possible savior of the whole God’s
country.” In this way, readers intuit that Njoroge has idealized the idea of his own success,
reveling in his pride.

It is perhaps because Njoroge is so proud of his image as a “savior” that he is later so guilty
when he finds himself incapable of continuing his education. After finally testing into a
prestigious school, he is pulled out of the classroom for good by colonists who think he knows
something about Jacobo’s death. Considering that Boro killed Jacobo because of the bad blood
between their families—a dispute instigated by Ngotho in an attempt to prove his honor—it’s
easy to see that no good has come from this family’s obsession with pride. If Boro hadn’t
shamed his father for failing to stand up to the white man (and if Ngotho hadn’t been motivated
to act by this guilt), then no conflict would have arisen with Jacobo, and Njoroge would have
been able to continue his studies and “[made] something out of this wreckage.”

Unfortunately, the men in Njoroge’s family let macho notions of pride and honor guide their
actions, and this keeps Njoroge from completing his studies. As a result, he feels guilty for
failing to meet his goal—so guilty that he resolves to hang himself, though Nyokabi finds him
before he goes through with it. And though he walks home with her and Njeri, he feels no relief
at having decided to stay alive. “[Njoroge] felt only guilt, the guilt of a man who had avoided
his responsibility for which he had prepared himself since childhood,” Ngũgĩ writes,
emphasizing that Njoroge sees the interruption of his education as a personal failure.
Nonetheless, he decides to live. Just before reaching home, he asks himself why he didn’t kill
himself. “I am a coward,” he answers before “[running] home and open[ing] the door for his
two mothers.” This is an important line, as Ngũgĩ suggests that Njoroge has decided to focus
not on his shame, but on what he still has in life: his mothers. In doing so, he essentially accepts
his own shortcomings, refusing to let stubborn notions of pride and honor lead him—like his
father and brother—to death. As such, Ngũgĩ frames guilt and shame as inherent parts of life
that people must learn to withstand without behaving rashly.

5. Land Ownership and Power

The majority of the disputes and tensions that arise in Weep Not, Child have to do with land
ownership. Because white settlers like Mr. Howlands came to Kenya and took possession of
farms belonging to black families, it’s obvious they don’t have a true right to the land.
Unfortunately, though, this doesn’t mean they don’t benefit from their newly acquired property.
In keeping with this, Ngotho correctly believes that land ownership leads to power, since having
a farm is the only form of stability in a country that is at odds with itself. Mr. Howlands, for his
part, recognizes this connection between land ownership and power—so much so, in fact, that
his conception of what it means to have a farm is wrapped up in notions of dominion and
authority, as if by claiming a plot of earth he can assert his will and subjugate not only the
people who work for him, but the land itself. This stands in stark contrast to Ngotho’s ideas
about land ownership, since he approaches the matter with a spiritual kind of reverence,
understanding the instrumental role the earth has played in shaping his culture. As such, Ngũgĩ
presents readers with two ways of looking at land ownership, ultimately demonstrating that Mr.
Howlands’s notion of using the earth for his own benefit is a power-hungry and exploitative
way to engage with nature.

Ngũgĩ emphasizes the importance of land ownership early in Weep Not, Child. “Any man who
had land was considered rich,” he writes. “If a man had plenty of money, many motor cars, but
no land, he could never be counted as rich. A man who went with tattered clothes but had at
least an acre of red earth was better off than the man with money.” This is no doubt because the
Kenyan government is in such turmoil that only the ability to produce one’s own wealth is
valuable. Indeed, people like Jacobo plant pyrethrum (a plant that makes insecticide and
medicine), thereby creating a source of riches that they can sell on their own instead of working
for low wages on someone else’s farm. The problem, of course, is that many Kenyans are
unable to do this because white people like Mr. Howlands moved onto their land while they
were absent during World War I. “We came home worn-out but very ready for whatever the
British might give us as a reward,” Ngotho says, telling his family about what it was like to
return after the war. “But, more than this, we wanted to go back to the soil and court it to yield,
to create, not to destroy. But N’go! The land was gone. My father and many others had been
moved from our ancestral lands. He died lonely, a poor man waiting for the white man to go.
[…] The white man did not go and he died a Muhoi on this very land.” Not only have Ngotho
and his family been dispossessed of their land, they’re also forced to work on the very soil to
which they are entitled. When Ngotho says that his father “died a Muhoi” on his own land, he
means that the old man was essentially a serf, someone working for a place to live. By outlining
this injustice early in the novel, Ngũgĩ shows readers why Ngotho is so insistent upon
reclaiming his land. After all, it belongs to him and his family.

At the same time, Ngotho’s motivation to win back his land isn’t a simple matter of justice and
ownership. Rather, he wants to nurture the earth, using the “soil” “to create” instead of
“destroy.” As such, readers see that he has a profound respect for the land, one that transcends
selfish notions of proprietorship. This is why he works for Mr. Howlands. Simply put, he will
take any opportunity to interact with the land that belonged to him and his ancestors, as he feels
a responsibility to maintain this slice of earth. For example, when he walks alongside Mr.
Howlands and surveys the grounds, he is acutely aware of his connection to the land. “For
Ngotho felt responsible for whatever happened to this land. He owed it to the dead, the living,
and the unborn of his line, to keep guard over this shamba,” Ngũgĩ notes. The bond Ngotho has
with this farm goes beyond the superficial notion of ownership, especially because he feels
indebted to “the unborn of his line,” who he hopes will benefit and prosper because of his
commitment to the land.

Like Ngotho, Mr. Howlands also feels strongly about the farm. In fact, his connection to the
land is rather surprising, considering that he didn’t grow up in Kenya and could most likely buy
and operate a farm almost anywhere in the world. Nonetheless, he is devoted to what he sees as
his corner of the earth. Rather unexpectedly, he even conceives of his connection to this land in
spiritual terms. “There was only one god for him—and that was the farm he had created, the
land he had tamed,” Ngũgĩ writes. Strangely enough, this kind of spiritual bond to the earth is
similar to the way Ngotho approaches the notion of land ownership, especially considering the
fact that Ngotho thinks about losing the farm as a “spiritual loss.” However, there is a notable
difference between the way these two men conceive of the earth. Whereas Ngotho sees the land
as part of his cultural and familial heritage—part of a way of life that existed before him and
will go on existing after he’s dead—Mr. Howlands mistakenly thinks that he has “created” this
farm. In other words, he thinks he has total dominion and control over something that in reality
is much bigger and more significant than his temporary and arbitrary ownership. This, Ngũgĩ
insinuates, is a foolish and egocentric way of thinking, a worldview that springs from the false
belief that land ownership means anything other than treating and maintaining the earth with
respect.

Characters

1. Njoroge

Njoroge is the protagonist of Weep Not, Child. A boy living in central Kenya, Njoroge is the
first person in his family to receive an education—a fact that makes him deeply proud. When
Njoroge’s biological mother, Nyokabi, tells him he’ll be attending school, he’s beside himself
with excitement, quickly going to tell his half-brother, Kamau, the good news. In fact, everyone
in Njoroge’s family is invested in his education, believing it will bring honor to the family and
enable him to uplift the entire community. As such, Njoroge applies himself feverously to his
studies, often competing—in a friendly way—with Mwihaki, a girl he has known since
childhood and who is the daughter of Jacobo, a rich man who eventually becomes the enemy of
Njoroge’s father and older brothers. As Njoroge’s family descends into turmoil as a result of the
tensions between Kenya’s white settlers and the militant Mau Mau group fighting for freedom,
Njoroge tries to focus on his studies, ultimately believing his education is the only thing that
will ensure a better future. In keeping with this, he also turns to religion, insisting that he and
his people will be delivered from suffering. As he grows older, though, his brothers and father
are consumed by their rivalry with Jacobo, making it increasingly hard for him to pursue an
education. Eventually, he is taken out of school and tortured by Mr. Howlands, a white
landowner who believes his father killed Jacobo. In the aftermath of this traumatic event, which
leaves his family with nothing, Njoroge is unable to continue his education. Cut off from all
sense of hope, he turns to Mwihaki, but she refuses to run away with him. As a result, he
decides to commit suicide, but changes his mind when he hears his mother calling his name.

2. Ngotho

Njoroge’s father. Ngotho has two wives, Njeri and Nyokabi, and multiple children, but he
institutes a “stable” familial “centre,” thereby establishing a unity that not all polyamorous
families have. When he was a young man, he was forced into military service by the British
colonialists during World War I, a period in which he helped the settlers build roadways
throughout Kenya. When he returned, he expected to be rewarded for having contributed to the
war effort, but was surprised to find that the British had stolen his family’s land. Believing a
prophecy that white people will eventually be driven away, Ngotho stays close to his land by
working for Mr. Howlands, a white settler who now presides over the farm. Prone to indecision,
Ngotho finds himself torn when his fellow Kenyans organize a workers’ strike against the
settlers. Because Mr. Howlands has said that anyone who strikes will be fired, he isn’t sure
whether or not to keep working. Despite this indecision, he suddenly determines to join the
strike when he discovers that Jacobo has betrayed Kenyans by siding with the white settlers—in
a rage, Ngotho stands up at a village meeting and attacks the man, instigating a feud that lasts
the entire novel. To make things even more complicated, Ngotho’s son, Boro, constantly
shames him for failing to protect the family. In order to prove Boro wrong, Ngotho later takes
the blame for killing Jacobo (even though Boro is the one who committed the murder). This is
the old man’s last attempt to prove his honor, and he dies after Mr. Howlands castrates and
beats him.
 3. Jacobo

The richest man in the village, and the owner of the land upon which Njoroge and his family live on.
Jacobo is one of the only black farmers allowed by the white settlers to grow pyrethrum (a profitable
crop that can be used to make insecticide and medicine). Because of this, he eventually sides with
the colonialists when his fellow Kenyans try to resist them by organizing strikes and fighting back
using guerilla warfare. In fact, Jacobo’s allegiance with the white settlers is what inspires Ngotho to
action; when Jacobo tries to urge other villagers to refrain from striking, Ngotho attacks him because
he believes he’s a traitor. In turn, Jacobo and Ngotho’s families are pitted against one another,
though this doesn’t stop Njoroge from spending time with Mwihaki, Jacobo’s daughter.
Nonetheless, the feud between Jacobo and Ngotho is intense and long, as Jacobo becomes chief of
the village and joins forces with the white Mr. Howlands, ultimately using his power to take revenge
on Ngotho’s family. Unsurprisingly, then, Njoroge’s friendship with Mwihaki becomes untenable
after his older brother Boro kills Jacobo.

4. Mr. Howlands

A white settler in Kenya who has taken over the land that used to belong to Ngotho’s family. Originally
from England, Mr. Howlands fought in World War I but soon became disillusioned with the war and his
country. As such, he went to Kenya in the aftermath of the conflict, thinking of it as a place he could
“conquer.” Years later, his eldest son was sent to fight in World War II, where he died, effectively
solidifying Howlands’s resentment toward his home country. At the opening of Weep Not, Child,
Howlands employs Ngotho as a farmhand, and though his wife, Suzannah, often fires their employees, he
never lets her fire Ngotho because he knows Ngotho is a competent farmer. However, when news of a
workers’ strike begins to circulate, he warns Ngotho and his other employees that anyone who joins the
movement will be fired. Despite this, Ngotho does end up going on strike, making an enemy of Mr.
Howlands. Later, Howlands becomes the District Officer of the colonialist “homeguard,” a position he is
initially hesitant to accept because it realigns him with England. Nonetheless, he soon comes to love his
job as District Officer because it enables him to oppress people like Ngotho and the members of the Mau
Mau, all of whom Howlands resents because he knows they want to reclaim their land—land over which
he firmly believes he has dominion. In fact, he feels so strongly about defending his farm that he
eventually tortures Ngotho and Njoroge after Boro kills Jacobo. After having castrated Ngotho and
beaten him almost to death, though, Howlands releases him, realizing that Ngotho is only trying to
protect his family. Shortly thereafter, Boro sees what Howlands has done to his father, sneaks into
Howlands house, and kills him.

5. Boro

One of Njoroge’s older brothers. A brooding and traumatized young man, Boro has seen terrible violence in
World War II, in which he fought for the British without believing in the cause. Worse, Boro lost his half-
brother, Mwangi, with whom he was extremely close. Since then, he has remained uncommunicative and
angry, rarely speaking about the war except to curse the fact that the white settlers forced him and his
people to fight. Boro also chastises his father, Ngotho, for failing to stand up for his family when the white
settlers first took their ancestral lands. In turn, Ngotho ends up trying to prove himself by attacking Jacobo
—an act that leads his family into a feud with Jacobo that consumes them all. In fact, after Boro runs away
to join (and eventually become the leader of) the Mau Mau, he returns to his village and kills Jacobo,
feeling as if the only thing that matters in life is that he kill his enemies. Because of this, Mr. Howlands
arrests Boro’s entire family and tortures both Ngotho and Njoroge. After Boro sneaks back home to watch
his father die (since Howlands eventually releases Ngotho), he becomes so enraged that he runs to Mr.
Howlands’s house and murders him before finally getting captured himself.

6. Mwihaki

Jacobo’s daughter. Mwihaki has known Njoroge since they were both children. Because of this, she helps
him navigate his way through his first few days of school, since her sister Lucia is a teacher, and the other
students therefore respect her. In this way, Mwihaki and Njoroge become good friends, despite the fact that
their families are wary of their connection. After several years, Mwihaki goes to a boarding school outside
of town, but she still sees Njoroge when she’s home for break. While spending time together one day,
Mwihaki confesses to Njoroge that she is often scared about the future, saying that the country has become
so “dark.” Thankfully, though, Njoroge is able to buoy her spirits by insisting that things will improve if
only they both continue to focus on their studies and maintain their hope in the future. Mwihaki takes this
advice to heart so thoroughly that she manages to adopt this worldview even after Boro kills her father.
Indeed, it is this sense of hope, optimism, and resilience that ultimately encourages her to refuse Njoroge’s
plea that they run away together after all the violence that has passed between their families. Telling
Njoroge that they have a “duty” to their country to stay and help make things better, she urges him to go on
waiting for a new day, and though this disappoints him, she also admits that she is in love with him.

Symbols

Land

In Weep Not, Child, the earth itself—and especially land that white settlers stole from Ngotho’s family—
represents the difference between colonialist notions of ownership and the wholistic, spiritual bond many
Kenyans form with their farms. When Ngotho comes home from World War I to discover that white
settlers have kicked his family members off of their ancestral land, he puts his faith in a prophecy
upholding that the white people will one day vacate the country. Biding his time until this day, he works for
Mr. Howlands, who now owns the farm that used to belong to him. He does this simply because he wants
to remain close to the land, since he feels a responsibility to maintain this stretch of earth. “He owed it to
the dead, the living, and the unborn of his line to keep guard over this shamba,” Ngugi writes, indicating
that Ngotho’s connection to the land has to do with his emotional and ancestral investment in the soil itself.
In fact, he experiences the loss of his farm as a “spiritual loss,” whereas Mr. Howlands sees the farmland as
a “wild country” that he can “conquer.” By contrasting these two worldviews, Ngugi uses the land to
symbolize the vast cultural differences between Kenyans and the white settlers, ultimately showing readers
that colonialism’s obsession with land ownership arises out of a fundamental sense of greed and a total
disregard not only for other people, but also for the earth.