There's a way that laughter easily fills up the spaces in our house in Gĩtogothi. It is early evening, and I am just about to have tea when my father, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o, calls me. He is in the bedroom, his head on a pillow, leaning against the headboard. He is in brown corduroy pants, legs crossed at the ankles, his hands interlocked behind his head.
My mother, Nyambura wa Ngũgĩ, in a flowing dress with yellow flowers interwoven between, is beside him perusing the dailies.
They look like they are headed out on a date. "Ndũcũ," he starts, "there's this cartoon in the papers that reminded me of you…show him," he smiles.
My mother opens the pages and points to a cartoon character whose name escapes me.
