Why do we bury our writers twice?

I was delighted to read that my fellow writer and friend Mutahi Miricho had visited the home of the late Wahome Mutahi and met his mother, Octavia Muthoni.

This is the woman who was affectionately known as Appep. She featured prominently in the popular column her son used to write. The visit appealed to me for two reasons.

First, it was an act of remembering one of Kenya's finest satirists. Secondly, it brought to mind the possibilities of cultural tourism and the preservation of literary memory.

I have been thinking of the place of artists in our society. As you are aware, I am currently in Bayreuth, Germany, serving as the fourth Cluster Chronicler of the Africa Multiple Cluster of Excellence at the University of Bayreuth.

My responsibility is to observe and reflect on the intellectual and cultural life of the Cluster. Being here has also allowed me to reflect on how societies treat those who create their cultural worlds.

One thing has struck me about Bayreuth. There is visible investment in preserving cultural memory. Just recently, I spent a day at the Richard Wagner Museum with my namesake, Kabaji Egara, who had travelled from London to visit me and experience the artistic heritage of this German university city.

I could not help thinking about the importance this society attaches to its cultural figures. Wagner's former residence has become a museum, with archives and research facilities. His life, work and influence are preserved for present and future generations. The city also prominently remembers Johann Paul Friedrich Richter.

Not far from the university is Iwalewahaus. This is an institution dedicated to the presentation and development of contemporary African art and culture. These institutions have made me think about the relationship between memory and cultural heritage. They demonstrate that cultural figures need not disappear into the obscurity of history when they die. Their lives and works can become part of a society's continuing conversation with itself.

But there is another contradiction. Does it not trouble us that some of the most prestigious places to study Africa, its cultures, societies and intellectual traditions are located outside Africa?

The University of Bayreuth is one such place. It is an important destination for scholars seeking advanced studies in African affairs. I find this particularly intriguing.

How did we arrive at a situation where one must travel to Europe or North America to access some of the most highly regarded institutional platforms for the study of Africa?

At the University of Bayreuth, the Africa Multiple Cluster of Excellence is, consolingly, a transcontinental research network involving institutions in Kenya, Nigeria, Burkina Faso and South Africa. This collaboration is important.

However, it makes the question of where intellectual authority resides even more compelling. Who studies Africa? Who produces authoritative knowledge about Africa? Who preserves its intellectual heritage? But these are questions for another day.

I am fascinated by literary tourism. Whenever I visit London, I rarely miss an opportunity to visit 221B Baker Street, the address of the Sherlock Holmes Museum. I am drawn to the literary world created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, even though Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character. Britain has understood how literature can become a cultural and economic resource. Visitors travel to Stratford-upon-Avon to encounter Shakespeare's birthplace and to places associated with Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy and others.

Let me get back home. I have been thinking about the late Mwangi Gicheru, the author who gave us memorable works such as Across the Bridge and The Mixers. I met him when he was running a bar in Mombasa. He told me something disturbing. It was the business he was running, rather than his literary works, that put food on his table.

A man whose books had entertained and influenced generations of readers was selling beer for a living. Today, he is gone. There are no physical or institutional reminders of his literary contribution. No monument, street, library corner or even village path bears his name. Nothing.

I have similar questions about Ngugi wa Thiong'o. A few years ago, I visited Kamirithu and I was almost scandalised. One expects to find a visible memorial to the writer whose work has helped transform the literary and theatrical imagination of Kenya and Africa. There is no museum, no monument or dedicated library space. Nothing.

 Then there is Meja Mwangi, born in Nanyuki, whose novels gave us unforgettable portraits of Kenyan society. What visible literary heritage can a visitor encounter in his birthplace? Nothing. I also think about Francis Imbuga, arguably one of Kenya's finest playwrights. What does his hometown have to show for the life and work of this remarkable dramatist? What about our universities, many of which teach his plays? Do they adequately preserve the memory of the people whose intellectual labour helped shape their literary traditions? No.

 Look. We have writers whose lives, homes and birthplaces could attract readers, researchers and tourists. Let us not wait until they die, then publish useless obituaries and move on. Sometimes even the tributes are forgotten before the burial flowers have wilted. Ha!

 I recently visited Moscow with an eagerness to see the museums associated with Leo Tolstoy and Fyodor Dostoevsky. My friend, Professor Ndi Shang of the Africa Cluster of Excellence, has made visiting the homes and places associated with writers such as V.S. Naipaul, George Lamming and Shakespeare something of a passion. He is confronting the imaginations that have shaped his understanding of the world.

 We need to ask ourselves an uncomfortable question. Why have we not invested more deliberately in preserving the lives and works of our writers? Why should African intellectual achievements often acquire greater institutional visibility abroad than at home? Writers create worlds and preserve memories. These are conversations we need to have as Africans.