Prof. Chris Lukorito Wanjala: Walking, Working but Mourning – A Personal Tribute

Prologue: A Personal Loss

"When your father dies, say the Irish, you lose your umbrella against bad weather,
When your father dies, say the Russians, he takes away your childhood with him...
What matters at the moment of his death is that he was your father, your one and only" (Schmich, n.d.).
Chris Lukorito Wanjala (Prof.) died. I lost a father.

1. The Encounter: Meeting a "Walking Archive"

Meeting Prof. Wanjala was the best encounter of my life, only second to salvation. As a postgraduate student at the University of Nairobi in 2013, I met him in his "Critical Perspective of African Literature" course. He was a "walking archive"; he carried no textbooks, only a new notebook and a pen. His lectures were not recitations but live intellectual excavations, punctuated by names like Roscoe, Taban lo Liyong, and Okot p'Bitek (Wanjala, 1980). His teaching extended beyond the classroom, as he would often lead us across the street to attend art launches and literary festivals like Sanaa, where he was a guest speaker. We learned not just from texts, but from the living culture he embodied.

My most pivotal encounter was proposing to write his biography. His affirmative response began a transformation from a student to a collaborator and friend. Our relationship was cemented by the familiar greeting: "Hello Joseph. How are you? Eh…" That simple greeting, with its characteristic rising intonation, became the signature of our relationship—at once formal and affectionate, acknowledging both our roles as scholar and student while transcending them into something more familial.

2. Recruitment into the Literary Family: The "Lukorito" Legacy

After graduating in 2015, Prof. Wanjala formally recruited me into his "gang" of young literary scholars. My first task was to work on his unfinished autobiography, Memories Beyond Mt. Elgon. This work took me across the country, interviewing his classmates and teachers. It was during this research that I uncovered the etymology of his middle name, "Lukorito"—a corruption of the English word "recruit," referencing the forceful conscription into the King's African Rifles (Odhiambo, 2005). In a beautiful symmetry, I had been "lukoritoed" into his literary family, continuing a legacy born from a historical moment of mobilization. The name, which had always seemed merely musical to those who heard it, turned out to be a historical document in itself—a single word preserving the memory of colonial conscription and the resistance it generated.

3. Collaborative Labour: Walking and Working with the Professor

Working with Prof. Wanjala was an exercise in patience and immersion. He was a man of the people, constantly engaged, his phone always busy. As his research assistant, I collaborated on a range of projects that reflected his diverse interests:

• Editing his autobiography, Memories Beyond Mt. Elgon.
• Writing the biography of Mama Robai Navisino, a centenarian from Chwele.
• Compiling the poetry anthology Memories We Lost (Moran Publishers).
• Writing a study guide for Blossoms of the Savannah (Longhorn Publishers).

Our work was a continuous cultural engagement. I accompanied him to events that blended academia with community—from the Bukusu Council of Elders in Mabanga to a cultural week at Kibabii University, from a book launch at Sarit Centre to funerals and family visits. He seamlessly moved between the worlds of high theory and grounded, everyday life, demonstrating that literature was not separate from the people who created it. He could deliver a paper on postcolonial literary theory in the morning and sit with elders discussing clan histories in the afternoon, seeing no contradiction between these activities because he understood that both were forms of cultural work.

4. His Works and Unfinished Dream

Prof. Wanjala lived his life to the fullest, earning international acclaim as a vital voice in African literary criticism (Wangila, 2023). His novel, Drums of Death (2005), is told not with bombast but with what can be described as a "forceful eloquence." His greatest dream, which remains unfulfilled, was to see his autobiography published—a project that now stands as a testament to his relentless drive and a charge to those he left behind. That unfinished manuscript sits as both an inheritance and an obligation: a reminder that the work of documenting Kenyan intellectual history is never complete, and that each generation must take up the task from where the previous one left off.

Epilogue: A Heart in the Coffin

"Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears...
...My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me."
— William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar (Act 3, Scene 2)

I walked and worked with the good Prof., now I mourn. The hours of conversation, the patient explanations, the introductions to his network of scholars and artists, the shared meals, the laughter—all of it is now memory. What remains is the responsibility to continue the work. He recruited me, as he had been recruited, into the project of documenting and preserving Kenyan culture. That project did not die with him. It passes now to those of us he trained.

REST IN PEACE, THE THIGH OF AN ELEPHANT.

The epithet is not random. Among the Bukusu, the thigh of an elephant is a portion reserved for the most honored guests, a symbol of strength, generosity, and the ability to feed many. Prof. Wanjala fed many—not with food but with knowledge, with encouragement, with the conviction that Kenyan stories matter and deserve to be told. He was, indeed, the thigh of an elephant: sustaining, substantial, irreplaceable. His body is gone, but the nourishment he provided continues to sustain those who were lucky enough to sit at his table.